A.W.O.L.

Story from Fessee 08.

A.W.O.L.
by Nick Fowler

The continuation of the story "Victim?"

IN THE DOORWAY OF HIS WIFE'S BEDROOM Marcus paused and sniffed the air, like a bloodhound seeking a scent, and as he selectively inhaled, a look of fanatical gratification illuminated his not unhandsome face. There it was, elusive as a waking dream, but present nonetheless. It was the unmistakable smell of imperfectly banished cigarette smoke!

'Father,' he said, 'Sally has been smoking!'

'Er, ah, what's that?' exclaimed Commander Fenwick in surprise. 'Are you sure? I carried out a thorough search of this room only this morning, as you suggested.'

'Did you search everywhere? Her underwear drawer, under the mattress?'

'Of course, my boy!' snapped the Commander, slightly miffed that his competence should be in question. 'I wasn't born yesterday.'

'Very well, Sally,' said Marcus, turning to the apprehensive, but very attractive young blonde who was standing between them. 'Where are they, and why was I disobeyed? You know that I will not be thwarted in my wishes, especially when they are in your best interests – and mine! If I send for you to come to my bed, I do not want you smelling like an overabused ashtray!'

Sally flushed. The accusation was so unjust that she decided to remain sullenly silent. She knew that she would be beaten anyway.

'Well, if they are not in your room,' said Marcus logically, 'they must be on you. Take your dress off!'

As Sally reluctantly obeyed, she reflected dismally on the events, graphically described in Fessee, No 4, that had led to the present situation. How she had foolishly engineered the circumstances which had placed her completely under her husband's disciplinary control. It had made her a virtual prisoner in her own home, with her father-in-law coming to live in as her 'warder', while Marcus, a university lecturer, twelve years her senior, was away, building a reputation as a brilliant academic, and a charismatic speaker. His students would have been astounded at "Don Marcus's" other face, which was that of a cold, calculating, tyrant. What made it worse in Sally's eyes was that he never punished her himself, preferring to watch dispassionately while his father, the retired Naval Commander, acted as his "executioner". Now she was incarcerated in a dungeon of her own making, fettered by her proclivities and desires as inexorably as if the links of her chains were of steel, rather than of the mind. The marriage contract was made only of paper, she could pack her things, and walk away whenever she liked, yet she knew that she was shackled to Marcus and the Commander as abjectly as any slave of an Eastern potentate. Like an 'old lag' who fears freedom more than the security of the cell, she was a victim to her upbringing and her desires!

Sally pulled the short black dress over her blonde curls, and stood, shivering and vulnerable, in her bra and nylon panties, stockings and suspender belt. She might just as well have been naked, as Marcus reached inside her bra and produced a packet of cigarettes from one cup, and a box of matches from the other, like a conjurer working 'magic'.

'It would seem, Dad, that you are becoming blasé to Sally's undoubted charms if you are failing to notice such changes in her delightful contours. I noticed immediately!'

'You would!' thought Sally resentfully. 'All you do is watch! What did I see in you, you cold fish? At least your father is human. He's stern, even brutal, but at least he fancies me!'

'Well,' said Marcus, turning to her. 'Now that you conveniently have your dress off you had better be punished. Will you fetch the hairbrush, Dad, and give Sally a thorough spanking for her deceit and disobedience! It is time that she learned that orders are made to be obeyed.'

The chastisement that followed, with Sally bare bottomed across the Commander's knee, and Marcus observing from the comfort of an armchair, was a particularly severe one, as Fenwick Senior felt that he had been let down by Sally, and had been made a fool of. He had begun to feel that there was a bond of trust and affection between them, and that although he needed to be strict for her own good, he was a father figure to her, as well as a relation by marriage.

So now his resentment showed in the severity of the punishment, as the ebony-backed hairbrush rose and fell stingingly on Sally's tender buttocks, and she yelled aloud her doleful remorse at being detected in transgression.

The Commander spanked hard and deliberately, letting each firm wristy impact sink in for its full effect. Sally howled from the very first stroke, not only because it stung dreadfully, but because she had learnt that to be vocal was better than stoic suffering. If you remained silent they just went on until you did yell, and only gave you more for being stubborn. She had learnt that lesson while still quite a small girl, and much painful spanking experience since had done nothing to change her views. Besides, there was an undoubted relief in being able to open your lungs and howl blue murder! It seemed to take some of the sting out of the proceedings! It was as if the burning smart of the hairbrush was soaking into your cheeks, up through your pussy, and into your guts, and needed to find an outlet through the larynx. Otherwise it built up intolerably.

After some six of these scalding collisions between tropical wood and soft flesh, Sally burst into tears. There was nothing feigned about this, and after about ten more she was crying so hard that she imagined that even the neighbours must hear – and the nearest house was two hundred yards away! She kicked her legs and squirmed furiously. She tried to plead, and promised to be good, to give up smoking, and never start again, but the face of Marcus remained coldly impassive, and the Commander took his cue from his son.

Sally began to wonder if he was ever going to stop. Long before he did, her bottom and thighs were beet red, and felt as if they were burning with incandescent heat. At one stage she tried to reach down to protect her ill-used posterior, but the Commander barked, 'Sally, do you want the cane too?' and hastily she jerked her hand away.

But at last it was over, and she sobbed her relief as Marcus nodded, and her mentor laid the wicked brush aside and replaced her panties over a hot, prickling bottom that felt twice the size of normal.

The Commander helped his daughter-in-law to her feet, and gave her a small, comforting hug. 'Right, naughty girl. Off you go and wash your face, and try not to do it again!'

Marcus said nothing but was pleased nevertheless. It was all highly satisfactory, this wife training. At the university functions he attended alone, he sometimes was tempted to tell others of the glowing success of his marriage. He did not, however, for that would have tarnished his image as a humane and kindly man, a liberal with a small 'l'.

* * *

During the weeks that followed, more 'good old fashioned spankings' came swishing home to roost in Sally's reorganised life with painful, and surprisingly satisfying regularity. The Commander scolded her often, while he forcefully reminded her of her many shortcomings. However she was quick to notice that when Marcus was not present to witness her bottom smackings, the hand that was then so firm with her could be amazingly gentle as it stroked and patted her outraged flesh. Then her crying soon subsided, and she discovered, with a sense of shock, that she no longer felt resentment towards him. In fact, at such times, she felt better than she had at any time during the life she had spent alone with Marcus.

May 20th, some three months later, was the Commander's sixty-first birthday, and Marcus was away, attending a seminar at Cambridge. Sally announced that she had a surprise for her father-in-law, he was to sit at the breakfast table and read his Telegraph, and not move until Sally returned. 'Right?'

'Right', agreed the Commander, always pleased, in his son's absence, to indulge her. Ten minutes later there was a tap at the dining room door.

'Enter!' barked the Commander.

The sight that entered took his breath away. There was Sally smartly dressed in WREN uniform, the blue serge immaculate, the seams of the black nylon stockings guardsman straight, the saucy little cap jauntily perched on her blonde curls. She saluted. 'WREN Sally reporting, sir. Er, the O.C WRENS said that I should come to you for corrective discipline, sir. She said that I needed a man's touch! Er, have you got a cane, sir, or should I get one?'

The look of delight on the old boy's face told Sally that her birthday present was an inspiration. She well knew the Commander's nostalgia for the distaff side of the Senior Service, and his joy in recounting his punishments of sundry naughty WRENS, who had fallen foul of him during his long and distinguished service, was quite tedious.

'Ah well,' Sally thought, 'It's all good fun. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.' That it was to her advantage to win the Commander as an ally was obvious, and should be well worth the expense of the uniform, plus a caning or two!

'Humph!' grunted the Commander, his eyes twinkling. 'Got a cane here, I think. Usually keep one to hand for occasions such as this.'

He crossed to a cupboard and produced the springy malacca. 'Right, young woman, pull up your skirt and bend over and touch your toes!'

Not without difficulty Sally hitched up the tight blue uniform skirt and bent herself over, presenting a pretty sight in seamed black stockings and suspenders, yet it appeared that the effect was not entirely to the Commander's satisfaction.

'And where,' he barked, 'are your regulation knickers?' It was a good question, because Sally's delightful bottom was attired in white frilly panties. Indeed, the Service outfitters, from whom she had purchased the uniform by phone and credit card, had said nothing about naval underwear.

'Er, sorry, sir! I forgot,' stuttered Sally, trying to make the best of the situation.

'Then two additional strokes to remind you!' said the Commander joyfully. 'Get up, while I find you some.'

He rummaged in a seachest and finally came up with a pair of navy blue Directoire knickers, perhaps the trophy from some long gone disciplinary encounter, and handed them to Sally. 'Put these on.'

Sally removed her own un-WREN-like frillies, and placed her high heels into the elasticated legs of the nylon bloomers, pulling them up snugly over her thighs and bottom. They felt constricting but quite comfortable, and would, she told herself, be some protection from the bite of the cane – if she was permitted to keep them in place over her rounded bottom.

'Now,' resumed the Commander, 'back down again for eight of the best. That's what delinquent ratings deserve!'

He had laid two well-placed strokes on Sally's knickered bottom, which stung despite its tight fitting and silky protection, when the phone rang. Signalling to Sally to stand up, the Commander picked up the receiver.

'Bramblehurst 7234. Fenwick...'

It was soon evident the call was going to be long and involved. The Commander placed a hand over the phone's mouthpiece and told Sally to return to her duties. 'I'll return to our unfinished business later, WREN Fenwick,' he told her absently.

'Permission to go outside, sir?' asked Sally impishly, an idea already hatching in her mischievous imagination. What fun it would be to go out in her uniform, and pretend to be a real WREN! Even to take the Commander's Cavalier for a spin. Of course, there would be a spanking when he found out, but he couldn't be too severe after the birthday present, and it would be worth it.

'Yes, carry on,' said the Commander, his mind on the phone conversation. Sally skipped out, picking up the car keys from the sideboard as she did so. Little did she know...

* * *

His call over, Commander Fenwick looked for Sally, his 'unfinished business' in mind. Where was she? He recalled her asking permission to go outside – into the garden, he had assumed – but she wasn't there.

Half an hour passed, and then an hour. It was then that he discovered the absence of his car. She was gone! Scarpered, deserted! Well, absent without leave, at the very least. God, what would Marcus say when he returned? Thank goodness that he wasn't expected back until later. But where was she?

* * *

At that moment Sally was in a layby, being questioned by two burly Naval policemen. The sight of a pretty young WREN rating proceeding in a leisurely fashion in a smart new Vauxhall Cavalier GL, had aroused their suspicions, and they had become even more suspicious when their jeep had flagged down the car and they discovered that the WREN driver had no identification, no license or insurance, or even a handbag. They came to the conclusion that the young woman was A.W.O.L., and the car stolen. Nor would she give the name of her unit. What she did do was to become increasingly angry and abusive and call them names, finally kicking the Master-at-Arms, Taffy Evans, painfully on the shin. After that they put handcuffs on her for their own protection.

Finally she calmed down enough to tell them some cock and bull story about being on a 'secret mission' for Commander Fenwick of Queen's Cottage, Bramblehurst!

'Right ho,' said Taffy to his assistant, 'Barnacle' Bates, 'we'll take her there. I served under a Commander Fenwick once, finally swallowed the anchor about three years ago, but it can't be him, or can it? He's hardly the James Bond type. You take the jeep, I'll drive the Vauxhall with Mata Hari in it.' And bundling Sally, her wrists still locked behind her, into the back seat of the car, they set off in convoy for Bramblehurst. They entered the gates at lunchtime, which was the identical time as Marcus's M.G. His university seminar had finished unexpectedly early!

* * *

In retrospect, Sally considered that the sight of Marcus's face, on seeing her marched in, in WREN uniform, between two matlows, her wrists locked behind her in bright, steel fetters, was almost worth what was to follow. She only wished that the neighbours had been on the look-out, but, disappointingly, they weren't. However, that was the rosy view of nostalgia, after the stripes had faded. At the time it was all quite horrendous.

There were redeeming features, but hardly from Sally's point of view. Bos'un Taffy Evans was an old shipmate of the Commander's, and that made things easier, especially when his old C.O. produced a bottle of Lamb's Navy Rum. As for A.B 'Barnacle' Bates, the other member of the patrol, he was happy to go along with anything, it was all better than touring the sodding Motorway, and so long as Petty Officer Evans was happy to carry the can...!

'It's my birthday today, lads,' said the Commander expansively. 'Would you like to come back here for a meal and a yarn tonight? If you are both off duty, of course.'

'That we are, sir,' said Taffy, always happy for wining, dining, and a pipe of shag. 'Er, what about the young lady, sir? Hadn't we better take the cuffs off her?'

'I suppose you'd better!' said the Commander offhandedly, glaring at Sally, 'Not that it would hurt her to be kept in irons for a few hours. She's due for a Court Martial after you leave, and without pre-empting the verdict of the Court, I'd guess that she was in for a flogging and a spot of jankers!'

'Tell you what,' broke in Marcus, who had said little until now, preferring to leave it all to the Senior Service, 'she owes you something for that kick on the shin, Bos'un Painful, is it?'

'Oh, very, sir!' grinned the Master-at-Arms, rubbing the offended spot, and trying to recall which leg had received the impact of Sally's small shoe.

'Well,' said Marcus, 'if you'd like to carry out the sentence of the Court, we'll hold over punishment for you to administer. I believe that traditionally it was the duty of the Master-at-Arms to give floggings!'

'Quite right, sir,' said Taffy. 'Er, will the sentence be carried out on the er – bare er posterior of the young lady, sir, like they used to do with Midshipmen?'

'Naturally, Bos'un, where else?' asked the Commander in surprise.

* * *

The Naval Police patrol having departed about its lawful business, taking the handcuffs with them, it took little time to decide Sally's fate. After all, she was guilty, and with no mitigating circumstances.

'Absent without leave. Taking a motor vehicle without the consent of the owner, and assaulting a Warrant Officer!'

She was told that she would be given a dozen strokes of the riding crop, at dinner that night, to be administered by the Master-at-Arms, and, what was more, Sally would wait upon them at table – both before and after her punishment, which would take place sandwiched between the sweet and coffee courses. Naturally, all her pleas for clemency were rejected. The Senior Service is a tough taskmaster!

'By the way,' asked Marcus, 'why the WREN uniform?'

The Commander explained.

'Well, since Sally so obviously enjoys dressing up, she can dress in a maid's costume to serve us dinner tonight. One of my girl students has just the outfit – won it as a bet in the last university Rag Week, I understand. I'll give her a ring, and go over and collect it. In the meantime, you, Sally, can get out of that ridiculous uniform and start preparing the dinner. Er, sorry, Dad, I didn't mean that the uniform was ridiculous, only on Sally!'

'Humph!' said the Commander. 'I thought she looked rather good in it. Which reminds me of unfinished business...!'

* * *

The maid's costume which Marcus borrowed from his student may have been ideal for Rag Week's Fancy Dress Ball, but would have given any self-respecting 'nippy' in Lyons' a blue fit.

It consisted of a sexy little dress in black satin, cut so low at the bust as to be positively indecent, and so high at the skirt hem that it scarcely covered Sally's bottom – and didn't when she bent forward. It was worn with a frilly petticoat, which pushed out the short skirt even more, and black seamed nylon stockings held up by a black suspender belt. The miniscule panties were decorated with lace ruffles across the seat, and there was also a dainty frill of lace where they fitted snugly to the thighs. This travesty of traditional servitude was worn with a small white apron and a starched little cap which perched cheekily upon Sally's golden curls. She looked delicious! The Commander said so, secretly Sally thought so, and Marcus – well, Marcus kept his own counsel! Sally would have enjoyed the charade if she had not been so apprehensive about her coming whipping. However often it happened to her, she told herself glumly, it didn't get any better, or hurt any the less! She hoped that Taffy Evans was a kind man. He was far too powerfully built if he wasn't!

Furthermore it was the first time that she had had her bottom bared and whacked before anyone other than family! She tried to tell herself that it was all utterly shameful – but had to admit that the idea sent little thrills of secret pleasure through her pussy-parts. She hoped that she wouldn't be too much of a baby when the riding crop began smoking down on her tender situpon!

* * *

The Commander's birthday dinner was a great success – mainly because Sally hadn't cooked much of it! It had been delivered by a restaurant. Taffy and 'Barnacle' Bates could scarcely keep their eyes off Sally, as she moved around the table, serving from a hostess trolley, and it must be admitted that Taffy's preoccupation with the disciplinary task ahead of him quite blunted a usually excellent appetite. He hoped that no one could sense his 'hard on' under the table.

After the sherry trifle had been appreciated, demolished, and cleared away, the Commander excused himself and returned dragging a large, pony sized, Victorian rocking horse which had long been in the attics of the old cottage. It was a beautiful beast, grey and mottled, benign and handsome, still polished in its varnished paint. How it must have delighted some long dead child. What a price it would bring in the sale rooms! But now Marcus and the Commander had another use for it.

The Commander led Sally across it. He held the horse's reigns to keep it still, and indicated that Sally should mount. The stirrups were short, suitable for a child, but not a grown girl, and Sally had to bend her knees. Her bottom slid back over the rear of the saddle and projected beyond the smooth grey haunches, the skirt of the ridiculous maid's costume riding up. Sally's plump cheeks were like full moons upon which the ruched knickers strained alarmingly. Marcus moved forward and with some difficulty peeled them down over the out thrust, pouting globes. 'Barnacle' Bates, whose erection was as rampant as Taffy's, hoped that he was not about to disgrace himself beneath the linen table cloth!

Now knickerless, the twin cheeks, framed between straining suspender elastics and stocking tops, were of a tantalising, healthy fullness.

'I think,' said Marcus, 'that the chastisement will be more salutory if her buttocks are lightly treated with olive oil. The riding crop will, I am told, sting more!'

'Oh no,' pleaded Sally, 'It's going to be bad enough as it is!'

The reply to this presumptuous comment was a warm up spanking from the Commander that lasted almost ten minutes, and brought a hot stinging glow in its wake. It was almost a relief when Marcus returned with the olive oil and quite impersonally coated the hot, scarlet flesh with it. He could almost be dressing a salad, Sally thought indignantly. How could she have ever thought that she loved such an unfeeling block of marble!

In the meantime, to complete his victim's utter subjection to the prescribed punishment, the Commander slapped the deep, wide cleft of her buttocks, while Sally howled in protest, but to no avail.

The preliminaries over, the Commander produced a leather-bound riding switch and handed it to Taffy Evans, saying in judicial tones, 'Right, Master-at-Arms, a dozen strokes, and lay on well!' Then he jerked on the reins of the rocking horse, causing it to rear up and present Sally's rump as target for the first biting stroke. Grimly she hung to the animal's wooden neck, grasping its real horse-hair mane for scant comfort, and yelped as the plaited leather cut into her plump flesh.

Taffy took his time. Between strokes Sally looked over her shoulder, taking in the stern expression of the Commander, the gloating elation on Marcus's face, and the pop-eyed disbelief of 'Barnacle' Bates. There could be no mercy expected there! Fortunately she sensed that Taffy Evans was not using his full strength, which was as well, or he would have cut her bottom into ribbons! As it was each stroke burned and stung abominably!

What a team the Bos'un and the Commander made! As each stroke fell the Commander would let the horse, and Sally's whipped buttocks, down, only to rise again into the trajectory of the next downward stroke of the riding switch.

At the eighth stroke, Sally, who had tried to keep a count of the punishment, gave up, and just hung on waiting for it to end. If only, she thought between wails and gasps of pain, and pleas to be a better girl in future, if only she had never told Marcus that she had been brought up on smack bottoms! If only, just for once, she could be a distributor of punishment, instead of a victim! She owned to being a silly, reckless, little fool, but...

Taffy brought down the switch on an already tender spot and Sally howled, just howled. It was a combination of pain, misery, and a realisation of her ignominious position, dressed in a ludicrously sexy costume, and bent, half naked, over a rocking horse, having her bare buttocks soundly whipped for the gratification of four men, two of whom had been strangers until a few hours earlier.

Marcus watched the whipping with cold interest. That afternoon he had toyed with the notion of summoning her to his bed for an hour, as he had hardly seen her for several days, but he had decided that it might not be prudent. It might give his wife the wrong idea. Comforting her wasn't in his interests. In his opinion any punishment to Sally's deserving bottom should be painful, both during and after its application, and for as long as possible. His marriage was benefitting beautifully from these attentions to the defects in his irresponsible wife's demeanour. What a good idea of his father's to bring in an expert!

'Last three!' said the Commander to Taffy. 'Excellent work so far!'

"Crack! Crack! CRACK!" As the horse rocked and reared in its final disciplinary canter, and Sally bawled to the full extent of her lungs, all others present enjoyed this finale, the salute to her welted behind of a skilled disciplinarian.

It was the most expertly delivered beating that Sally had ever endured, and was certainly far more than she had bargained for when she had set out, so full of mischief, in the Commander's car that morning. Somehow she slithered off the rocking horse and stood swaying on her feet, moaning and sobbing as she clutched her palpitating, cringing hemispheres, the tears streaming down her face.

'Alright,' said Marcus unsympathetically, 'You can make the coffee, just as soon as you are ready!'

'That,' he thought smugly, as he saw his wife painfully pull up her panties and head for the kitchen, 'is how married life should be!' He was 'Don Marcus', university lecturer, master of his own life and family, in the most scorching and primitive way. And the lessons would go painfully on, for as long as he chose, and until he was satisfied. It certainly beat being a liberal with a small 'l'!

The Bottom Drawer

Story from Privilege Plus 12.

The Bottom Drawer
by Sarah Veitch

Ryka smiled as she selected the nightgown she would wear on her impending honeymoon. It was three long days till she married Thomas. Three days until her traditional English wedding took place! Again the Russian girl looked at the book on marriage customs which she'd bought, and read of lucky horseshoes and rice and confetti. It was all very different to the Russian village where she'd been raised.

"What are you thinking, dear?" Thomas asked her now. He was a mature, intelligent man who, at thirty five, was fifteen years her senior. He'd been her boss at the translations publisher where she'd worked since coming to Britain two years before. Now she hoped he'd also be her boss in the master bedroom, for that was what she suspected she would most enjoy. Her mother had told her little of such intimate matters. So far Thomas had kissed and caressed her but he hadn't presumed...

"I'm wondering which of your English customs you'll want to adopt on Saturday, and thinking of Russian wedding customs," she said, loving the strict smart lines of his formal suit. She so wanted to please.

"I've heard of one old Russian custom," Thomas said slowly. His gaze seemed to become more assessing. "On her wedding night, the Russian bride would be told to choose from a pair of shoes which her bridegroom had left peeking out from under the marital bed. One of them was empty, the other contained a coiled whip." He smiled, then kissed the top of her head in an avuncular gesture. "If she chose the shoe with the whip, she got a taste of it right away."

"And have you bought the shoes?" Ryka murmured, aware of a slight blush colouring her usually pale strong features.

"I have," her fiancé murmured. "So now you must buy the whip." The next day Ryka shyly set off with a very special shopping list. Thomas had written down all the details. He walked determinedly by her side. "I will blush all the time that I'm doing this," she said.

"But it will also excite you," Thomas answered. He took her hand and pressed it lightly. "I'll consider it an act of pure love."

The first two words on the list read 'Riding Shop'. Thomas drove Ryka there and they entered the premises.

"My mare's being skittish. I need a whip to calm her down," he said.

The man behind the counter raised an eyebrow. "Obviously we're not in favour of excessive punishment."

"Nor am I, sir," Thomas replied.

The man brought a selection of whips and placed them in turn in Thomas's hands. He flicked each through the air, then handed them to Ryka. She fingered the knotted cords of nylon braid and new-cut leather. Finally she chose a fibre-glass dressage whip.

"Shall I wrap it?" the assistant asked softly.

Thomas ran the riding crop through his fingers. "No, I'll be using it very soon," he said with an anticipatory wink.

The next item on the list read 'Cook's Store'.

"At least they'll just think I'm going to be baking!" Ryka murmured. "Your bum will be baking if you're naughty," Thomas replied. Ryka blushed and dipped her head for a moment, then gave him a loving little kiss. She knew that men sometimes lovingly chastened their women as part of a consensual erotic arrangement. But hearing him talk like that – and imagining such discipline – still made her go red.

The Cook's Store held everything an amateur chef might need. It also contained the implements which Ryka had been ordered to buy for her own small bottom. Nervously she selected a long wooden spatula and a paddle-sized wooden spoon. Again, Thomas said that there was no need to wrap the thick smooth punishers. "This gives a whole new meaning," he said, "to a girl setting up her bottom drawer!"

Thirdly, Thomas drove her to the maths department of a large scholastic store. There Ryka examined wooden and plastic rulers. When no one was watching, Thomas swished first the plastic and then the wooden one against her skirt-clad cheeks.

"Which hurt the most, love?" he asked consideringly.

"The second one, I think!" Ryka stammered, thrown by the public nature of the lash. Her soft high bottom tingled and the curve between her legs gave an answering lurch. She put the plastic measurer back on the shelf then turned towards the counter.

"Remember," he added, "that when you next feel the ruler you won't be wearing a skirt or underslip or pants."

Finally they made their way to a very adult shop. The two men serving there obviously recognised Thomas.

"Not got Liz with you?" one of them asked.

"We broke up last year," Thomas said.

"So what can we do for you?" the man continued.

"Liz took all our equipment with her. Ryka's here to buy new stuff," Ryka's fiancé replied.

And buy new stuff she did! Ryka dipped her head prettily as the men brought out long whippy canes and Scottish tawses and razor strops and laid them out on the long glass counter. The assistants whisked the thin rattans through the air to show her how they'd sound before they made contact with her completely bare bum. "This one leaves a thin red line, whereas this type creates a wide pink band which glows for longer," the oldest man said with relish. No wonder they called discipline the English vice!

"I think we'd like this rattan," Ryka said nervously at last. She noticed Thomas looking longingly at the leather instruments. "And a four-tailed tawse," she added haltingly, glad to see lust and gratitude entering his eyes. Thomas put his arms around her waist and pulled her back against him.

"I'll be firm with you," he whispered, "but I'll also be scrupulously fair."

The wedding went well, and at last Ryka's honeymoon night began in earnest. She walked to the hotel's large bridal suite, wondering what awaited her therein. She'd never had full intimacy or even undressed before the opposite gender! And she'd no idea if she could bear the whip or ruler or the tawse.

Thomas was already in the room, putting his suit jacket on a hanger. He rolled up his sleeves then smiled at her expectantly. "Ryka, would you like to choose a shoe?" he asked, indicating his new bride's side of the bed. Ryka looked down. Two black glossy toes peeped out at her. There was no way of telling which was empty and which was full.

"I'll take the right one," she murmured, drawing it out.

She saw immediately that it contained a small coiled whip, a sort of lightweight riding crop. Taking it from its lair, she handed it to Thomas then stepped back.

"You can taste the whip or choose whichever implement you prefer," he offered. Remembering how he'd obviously liked the leather goods, Ryka opted for the four-tailed tawse.

"Fetch it from the suitcase now, and bring it to me," Thomas ordered. He smiled more gently. "When we get home we'll keep such implements in your bottom drawer."

"And will we use them often?" Ryka whispered, her trepidation increasing as the moment of her punishment drew nearer.

"We'll use them whenever the situation warrants it," Thomas said. Then he smiled. "For now you're to be disciplined to maintain the old Russian custom. That is, because you chose the shoe with the disciplinary implement in it you'll get a taste of the tawse." He looked thoughtful, as if remembering her transgressions. "And I'm also going to chasten you for hesitating when it came to buying these self-same punishment tools."

"I was shy about approaching the shopkeepers," Ryka murmured, with an apologetic wince. "I was uncertain."

"Perhaps you'll be more certain when you've a hot sore bottom to sit on," her new husband said.

Ryka looked nervously at him. Next, she looked down at the leather tawse she was still holding.

"Hand me the implement and then lie on your tummy on the bed," Thomas bade. The Russian bride did so, her movements jerky. She wondered how she'd feel about what came next.

"Lift your dress up above your waist," her spouse continued. Ryka reached her small ringed hands back and pulled at her hem until the ankle-length brocade skirt moved away from her haunches. She knew that her equally long petticoat still remained in place.

"Now raise your underskirt," Thomas said. Ryka did so, then felt her husband adjusting the material so that it would stay folded over her back. "Which garment do you think comes off now, Ryka?" he murmured exultantly.

"My panties, sir," Ryka said.

There was a pause. Ryka reminded herself that she was married now, that such acts were allowable. Still she felt very vulnerable and a little scared. "Oh dear, I requested a bare bum and I'm still looking at a fully clothed bum," Thomas said softly. "I'll have to redden it more fully for failing to obey."

"Please don't! It's not that I don't want to... It's just..." After a few more moments of internal struggle, Ryka slowly pulled down her lace-trimmed pants. She lay there on her tummy, knowing that her new husband was staring down at her newly-bared bottom. A bottom that had never before been tawsed or paddled or whipped.

"Good girl," Thomas murmured. She felt the mattress give as he knelt on one side of the bed and pulled back one arm. Ryka knew without looking that that arm contained the tawse. "Would you like to count each stroke out loud and thank me for it?" he asked softly. Ryka nodded into the pillow, but didn't speak. "I'll have a verbal answer, if you please," her new spouse continued. "Good communication is vital between husband and wife."

"Yes, sir," Ryka answered, her feelings of desire and degradation increasing. She pushed her legs more tightly together and waited for the lash to fall. Suddenly heat sizzled across both twitching buttocks. This was a veritable brand! This was lightning in the form of leather! Ryka gasped loudly and started to scramble up from the bed.

"Going someplace?" Thomas asked.

She looked at his face. It showed both sadness and disappointment. "N...no, sir," she gasped out.

Slowly the girl flattened herself to the mattress again. Her hands fluttered by her waist, half wanting to cover her bare bottom.

"Perhaps it would be easier if you gripped the lower rung of the headrest," her thoughtful spouse said. The Russian bride did. The tactile certainty of the wood somehow helped her to control herself. Still, she sucked in her breath as she waited for the second searing stroke.

When it fell, it went lower than lash one. It licked the tender crease at the top of her thighs, and seemed to reverberate through to her belly. Ryka groaned and shook her hips from side to side.

"Only four more to go," Thomas said, "then we'll move on to the second stage of your punishment."

Registering his words, Ryka groaned again. She tried to avoid her next sore taste of the tawse.

"I've accepted the tawse to please you, sir. Can't we go on to the Russian whipping custom?" She hoped that the whip would sting much less.

"We probably could have," Thomas replied. "If you hadn't failed to obey me when I told you to take down your panties. That's why you're due six hard strokes of the tawse."

Ryka nodded into the pillows. She knew that this thrashing would ultimately make her less coy, would help bring her womanly urges to the surface. Her fantasies had always been of dominant older men. That said, it still took lots of willpower for her to ask her spouse nicely for the third tawse lash. When it came, it scorched across the centre of her naked globes. All four leather tongues seemed to flicker out their smarting impact.

"Aaah! Aaah! Aaah!" the Russian girl whimpered. She rolled wildly on to her back, both palms cupping her reddened bum.

After rubbing her tender flesh for a few moments, she recovered herself and peeked curiously over at her man. He was still holding the tawse and was looking down at her impassively.

"It hurts," Ryka said in a plaintive little voice.

"Of course it hurts. It's punishment," her beloved answered.

"But it's our wedding night. We should have... we should have pleasure," Ryka cut in.

"And the pleasure will be all the more strong due to this bum-based stimulus," Thomas replied knowingly. He touched her in her most intimate place till she almost swooned with yearning. Desperate once more to please him she rolled back on to her tummy, presenting him with her hot red arse.

Her husband fondled that same arse for a moan-making moment whilst she forced herself to grip on to the bed's wooden headboard. Then he picked up the tawse and brought it down across her tendensed underswell. Before Ryka could cry out, he'd raised the punisher again and whacked it further up her jerking bottom. Then he placed the final stroke nearer the top of her heated bum.

"Aaah!" Ryka gasped out. Her hands flew back to massage her rump cheeks, but her husband caught her wrists and held them away.

"No, no, my dear. I want you to contemplate how vulnerable your bum is after it's felt the lash. You mustn't protect it."

"Couldn't I just hold it for a second, sir?" Ryka whispered throatily.

"No, but you can come and look at it in the mirror before it receives its whipping," Thomas said.

Curious, Ryka started to rise up from the bed, obediently keeping her hands away from her bare buttocks. As she moved, her skirt and petticoats started to fall down. Helpfully, Thomas took hold of the hems and put them between her nervous fingers. "Keep them up above your waist, sweetheart. We want to be able to see the bottom that we're still chastising," he said.

"Yes, sir," Ryka murmured hesitantly. Part of her wanted to see how crimson her virgin haunches were, to admire her own courage. The other part felt flustered and ashamed.

With Thomas's hand on her upper arm, she marched towards the full-length mirror. There she turned so that her bare bottom faced the glass. Then Ryka took a deep breath and peeked over her shoulder at the chastened orbs.

"They're really red, aren't they?" she whispered, feeling a sense of pride and self-discovery as she surveyed both scarlet hemispheres.

"These little cheeks are about to get even redder," Thomas said.

He walked over to where the whip lay coiled on the floor. Its clean dark lines looked sleek and almost pretty. "Would you like to kiss it, my dear?"

Ryka nodded and pressed her lips slackly against the slender braid. "Shall I hold on to the bedrail again?" she muttered huskily.

"I think so. But we'll put a pillow under your tummy first to make your bottom a more obvious target," her husband said.

Ryka held her breath as he pushed a pillow in place. It tilted her body slightly so that her bum felt even more vulnerable. "Let's see how this works out," Thomas said. The Russian girl felt the bed move and the air currents change and knew that the first whip-stroke was imminent. She wondered how it would feel on already sensitised buttock-flesh.

A moment later she knew that it felt incisively sore! She yelled and rubbed at her cheeks and shoved her belly into the bolster.

"Oh dear. You touched your sore bum without permission; now I'll have to use another pillow," Thomas told her, voice holding a frown. Again the mattress moved, then the girl felt a second pillow being added to the first, raising her globes still further. A moment later she felt the whip connect with her tenderised rump again.

"Aah! How many more?" she gasped out plaintively.

"You mean, 'How many more, sir?'," Thomas corrected. "Respect goes so quickly from a marriage nowadays!"

As if in answer, he applied the riding crop for the third sore time. Ryka howled and drummed her feet against the bed and puckered up the main muscles in her bottom. "Untense that bare arse! I like to whip a nice smooth canvas," her husband said.

Pleasing him would ultimately mean more pleasure for herself so, with difficulty, Ryka obeyed him. She forced her bum to lie still, if not exactly relaxed. God, it was hot! She wanted to smooth cool body lotion into her twin rotundities. She wanted her man to kiss the pain away.

But the kisses would come after the olde worlde Russian whipping. Ryka reminded herself that she'd agreed to this chastisement for their marriage's greater good.

"Please use the whip on my haunches again, sir," she said raggedly.

"Haunches is too coy a word for a married woman," Thomas said.

Ryka twisted her head back to look at him. "I don't understand. What words do you... which words are proper?"

"Say 'I've been a disobedient young wench, sir, and I deserve to get a red hot arse for causing trouble'," Thomas bade.

Eyes downcast, Ryka repeated the words. They set up a fluttering in the secret core below her belly. She so wanted the initiation into womanhood to begin!

"Yes, you're a naughty girl who won't escape whipping," Thomas continued, raising the riding crop. He flicked it against the crease where bum meets thigh. "Where do you think you should get the next lash?" he continued in a conversational voice.

"Anywhere but there, sir!" Ryka replied fervently, still feeling the newest line of erotic anguish. Obligingly, Thomas applied the lash further up. At last he set down the whip and fondled her glowing small buttocks.

"What should I use on you," he whispered, "the next time that you fail to please?"

Ryka thought of the implements they'd bought so far and imagined their effect on her bare bottom. "The wooden spoon which doubles as a paddle, sir," she said excitedly.

"And how will you be displayed for your punishment?" Thomas continued.

"With a..." Ryka writhed about on her tummy, still loath to say the words. "With a completely bare arse."

She felt Thomas's lips brush her hair. "That's not what I meant," he said. "I meant will you lie on the bed or bend over the dressing table or...?"

Ryka envisaged various punitive options which all involved pulling down her pants. "Over the kitchen stool, sir," she said a little breathlessly, remembering the whipping-stools they'd seen in the adult shop.

"And will you count each swish of the paddle out loud after you've received it?" her man continued.

"Yes, sir. And I'll ask nicely for the next!" Ryka said.

"Good girl," Thomas murmured. He turned her over and took her into his arms, his fingers caressing. And Ryka knew that she wouldn't have to ask for anything else.

Domestic Harmony

Story from Roue 14.

Domestic Harmony

Julia Maitland and the shy, nervous Charles Carey had a strange but contented relationship. Widow and widower, to the outside world their friendship was probably platonic but the villagers, without exception, liked them so much that they were not overly curious what went on within the stone, ivy-covered walls of Charles' small isolated house. Had they known, some of the details would have set the tongues a-wagging.

This afternoon, the diffident 52 years-old man watched, stomach churning, from behind a curtain as Julia's little car stopped before the house. She saw him, so when she opened the door and extended her silken-clad leg, her left hand held the hem of her skirt back so that, before Charles' eyes, it rode up above mid-thigh where a frilly suspender stretched tautly from the stocking-top, and up under the brief leg of her shadowed knickers above.

A thrill of excitement ran through her as she closed the car door and shook her skirt down. Charles' presence behind the curtain meant that, once the coming charade was over, her skirt would be lifted, her knickers lowered, and her bare bottom soundly and satisfyingly spanked.

Until three months ago her clothes had never been lifted by a man in that house. Besides a couple of afternoon visits, three days a week they would share lunch and dinner – in between, the thirty five year-old woman tidied Charles' house and cooked their meals while he wrote sporadic newspaper pieces on West Africa, where he was an administrator before retirement. He paid Julia handsomely for her work – she accepted because, as he said, his pension had increased so much by its index-linking that he had far more money than he wanted for his simple needs.

But one evening after dinner their conversation, encouraged by several drinks, reached a more intimate level than ever before. Julia talked of her husband, killed in a hunting accident eleven years earlier.

"Really he was only interested in gambling and the animals on the estate," she said. "He died leaving massive debts."

"You were neglected then?"

"As a woman, yes – as an animal, no."

"What do you mean, my dear?"

"Well, we had separate bedrooms, and he slept alone – except for the first night of our honeymoon, when he deigned to join me."

"How strange!"

"It was, but he wasn't sexless. When he... er... wanted me... always in the day or early evening, he would simply bend me over, wherever we were in the house."

"Not even a kiss or caress?"

"No. He would put his left hand on the nape of my neck and push my head down, as his right hand dragged my dress up and roughly pulled my... er... panties to my knees. I had to stay in that position, my hands against the wall or on a chair, my bottom and... you know... my... er... private parts... exposed to his eyes."

"You poor dear."

"He then talked to me as he slowly undid the front of his trousers and..."

Charles' eyes gleamed behind his glasses.

"What sort of things did he say, Julia?"

"Oh, I don't think I could tell you, Charles!"

"Please!"

"Well, that I had a lovely round, aristocratic... oh no, Charles!"

"Yes... please go on!"

"A lovely round, aristocratic.... arse... and that he liked a woman to wait for his... thing... with her knickers round her knees. Then he would crudely describe what he was going to do to me, and... my legs would be nuged as far apart as my stretched... er... knickers would allow, his hands would grip my hips and... he would thrust away savagely until he... he had finished!"

"Good God!"

"Then he would humiliate me in the harshest way. As he zipped himself up, he would ring for a servant. Quickly I had to pull my knickers up, feeling messy and unclean, drop my dress and appear unruffled as he ordered drinks. He said he liked the servants to see me blush."

Charles was breathing heavily, which surprised Julia. She had always considered him to be... somehow... unrousable.

She smiled. "I'm sure your married life was very happy before the car accident."

He nodded, but looked thoughtful.

"What is the matter, Charles?"

"Well, as you have been so honest, it is only right that I tell you that Brenda liked having her bottom spanked before we made love – and I'm afraid that I enjoyed smacking her."

Julia put her hand to his cheek.

"You silly old thing! Don't look so much like a naughty boy – I like it too!"

And she told him of her first orgasm. Of how she noticed when she was seventeen at home in the vicarage, that perhaps once or twice a week, her father's attitude in the late evening would abruptly change towards her mother. With minor criticisms – her hair was untidy – perhaps dinner was not to his satisfaction. Then he always said, "Go upstairs and wait for me, madame!", and Julia's mother obediently mounted the stairs, her shapely hips swaying, so it seemed, more than usual.

Consumed with a teenager's curiosity, Julia slipped upstairs one night to the balcony outside her parents' bedroom. She saw her mother enter and hasten to the mirror, undo the top buttons of her dress then stand, hands behind her back, facing the door.

When her father came in, he opened a drawer, took out a cane, and laid it on the dressing table. Then he walked over to her mother and undid some more dress buttons; his hands went into the dress, slowly turned, and drew out her big, rounded breasts, their nipples standing out stiff and proud. His hands stroked them for a while before he picked up the cane.

Then loudly he shouted, "Come in from the balcony, Julia, you'll catch your death of cold there!" Red-faced, the teenager came through the french windows, her head hanging.

Her green school knickers were pulled down, her pleated skirt flipped up her back and, face down across the bed, her father briskly spanked her bare bottom before she was sent to her room.

And as she heard the swish of the cane from the bedroom, and her mother's subsequent groans and cries that were certainly not of pain, for the first time Julia's hand satisfactorily quieted the strange hunger she had felt between her legs as her father's hand had stung her young bottom.

When she finished her story, Charles was visibly excited, his lips and hands were trembling, and their new-found intimacy, although fragile, had given rise regularly to the game they were about to play three months later.

-o-O-o-

Charles greeted her at the door. Julia pecked his cheek and swirled past him in a cloud of musky perfume into his comfortable living room. His writing had obviously gone well – his desk at the window was tidy. Thus was his – she would make hers presently.

He studied her as a desultory conversation drifted between them. Her hair, cascading over her shoulders, glinted in the sunlight slanting through the window. The silk blouse, tucked over – tightly into her straight skirt, emphasised the downward curve of her full womanly breasts, and a small scarf knotted at her neck gave her a careless elegance. The man's eyes slowly swept over the fullish hips, the shapely sheer-stockinged legs, and her simple half-heel court shoes.

"Shall I make some coffee, Charles?"

The words snapped him away from his lascivious thoughts.

"Yes, I would like that."

Shortly after she had gone to the kitchen he heard the crash of breaking crockery.

"Don't worry," she called, "It's only a cup and saucer!"

"What do you mean," he shouted angrily, " 'Don't worry, Charles'. Come here, woman!"

Julia walked slowly into the living room and stood before him, eyes defiant.

"Really, Julia, you are as clumsy as a schoolgirl!"

"Don't be insulting!"

"Lower your voice, or I'll treat you like a teenager and give you a pink, smarting bottom!"

"You wouldn't dare!"

Charles rose, locked the door, and pocketed the key.

"I would, and now I definitely will! Your knickers are coming down, Julia. If you have any on, that is! I can see your nipples through your blouse, so obviously you are not wearing a bra!"

"For your information I am wearing knickers, but their sight is not for the pleasure of an ageing voyeur," she snapped.

"We'll see," he said as he moved close to her and started to undo her blouse.

"Am I to be felt first?"

Without answering his fingers busied themselves until the blouse gaped open. With infinite gentleness his hands lifted her round satiny breasts clear, then his fingertips, touching light as a butterfly, stroked over the firm globes, pausing only to rotate lovingly the nipples that stood blunt, roused and rigid on their tiny pink-brown mounds.

"Having a good feel?" she gritted, but her belligerence was melting as her eyes softened and her full red lips parted.

"Yes," he said simply.

His hands left her hungry breasts. He sat down.

"Come here, Julia." She stood before him.

"Raise your skirt!"

Her fingers plucked a fold on each side of her hips that wriggled slightly as the hem lifted – to above mid-thigh,

"Like what you see, Charles?" she whispered.

He nodded. Suspenders of pink lace were tautly clamped to the tan stocking tops. The heavenly scent of roused woman reached his nostrils.

"Skirt up to your waist, Julia!"

It slid upwards. She tucked part of the hem into her waistband, clasped her hands behind her back and stood exposed; the few secrets left to her were not to remain so for long.

"Your knickers are a pretty shade of pink, and the lace is nice and sexy. I have always approved of open-legged knickers."

"Why, Charles?"

"Well, it is easy..." the back of his hand slid teasingly up her inner thigh, one finger probed up under the knicker leg and stroked along the wet, pouting parts therein... "to do that."

She gasped. Her thighs started to open. He withdrew his hand.

"But you are here for spanking, not stroking, aren't you!"

And matching his deeds to his words he hooked his fingers into the waist elastic and drew her knickers down. They hung, half inside-out, at her knees. There was nothing left to be modest about.

From under the cushion he drew a leather-covered object.

"At school we were punished with one of these on hands and bottom. It is whalebone, sheathed in leather, called a 'ferrula'. Used viciously it can bruise badly, even split the skin. I stole it from the school's resident sadist when I left."

"But you can't use that on...."

"Your tender white bum, Julia? Don't worry, I won't bruise those lovely round buttocks of yours, just make them all red, stinging and hot. Bend over the back of the armchair!"

Knees trapped by knickers she shuffled across and arched over, hands on the arms.

"Further, woman, I want your bare bum sticking up, begging for the ferrula!"

She obeyed, until her legs were rigid, and only her toes touched the carpet. Her bottom curves arched up; the hair-covered fleshiness, squeezed heart-shape by the closed thighs, glistened wetly.

Charles stroked his left hand over the rounded flesh, then his right brought the ferrula about a foot above one cringing buttock, and with wrist alone made the springy whalebone beat a tattoo on Julia's silky bum-cheek – tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat. It was like machine-gun fire.

Julia howled.

He stopped.

"Part of your buttock, about five inches by three, is turning gloriously pink. You spanking will be at an end when both your bottom-cheeks are glowing bright red. So there's a lot more spanking to do – tat-tat-tat-tat.

Julia's frantic "oows" and "oooohs" and yelps died to a growling groan when he started on her other bum-cheek because his left hand moved from the small of her back and, palm upwards, slid under her body to move from one hanging breast to another, the ridges on his hand manipulating the stiffened nipples this way and that.

When her round bottom was all pink, smarting and slowly writhing, he dropped the ferrula to the floor. As his left hand continued the fondling, his other smoothed over and between Julia's hot cheeks, down to that which was no longer heart-shaped, for the legs had parted, but even warmer and wetter... and wanting. His finger gave.

The writhing of the young woman's bottom increased. Then it stopped. Her body trembled, then jerked to and fro; her bottom thrust violently back. And from her lips came a long "Aaaaaaahhhh!!" as she slumped like a broken doll over the chair back.

Her hand reached for Charles' trouser zip, but as always before, he firmly grasped the wrist, steered it away, then quietly left the room.

Hung over the chair, Julia dozed in her afterglow for 5 or 6 minutes before, in a leisurely fashion, she pulled her knickers up, dropped her skirt, wriggled her breasts back into her blouse – and put the ferrula into a drawer.

There was no hurry. Charles would be back in 30 minutes, no more, no less. It was his estimate of the time she needed to put herself back together again without any embarrassment.

As she patted her hair into place, she realised that she loved the dear sweet Charles Carey. But his shyness prevented a greater intimacy. Oh yes, spanking her was intimacy, but her conversation had excited him irresistibly into it the first time, and three months later he still needed a sign to prompt a repetition.

On his return, no mention would be made of the spanking again. He would be his usual courteous, withdrawn self, and they would pass a quiet evening together. Unless she stirred him with her words again!

-o-O-o-

They sat pensively sipping coffee after dinner. Julia took a deep breath and said softly, "My little bottom is still glowing from your spanking, Charles. It's lovely."

He coloured. "Julia, shall we go down to the garden centre tomorrow and..."

"You do like seeing my knickers, don't you, Charles?", she interrupted.

Blushingly he nodded.

"And lowering them to leave Julia's fat little bum all bare and defenceless?"

"It isn't fat," he blurted, "It's perfect! I never know whether to spank or stroke....." – his voice, trembling, tailed away.

"Would you like to hold me close, gather up the back of my dress, slip your hands inside my panties, and grip the cheeks of my arse?", she teased.

"Not your panties," he murmured softly, licking his dry lips, "Your knickers."

She smiled. "Alright. Julia's KNICKERS!"

She crossed her legs. Her dress rode up, and the stretched frilly suspenders were in his sight again.

"Ann is coming home for her 18th birthday in a month's time. Will you come over for tea?"

"I'd love to."

"What a little minx I have for a daughter! Perhaps it is just as well that her school disciplines them so strictly."

"I didn't know that." Charles was breathing easier now.

"Heavens, yes. She regularly has her bare bottom caned, but its effect is doubtful, because she actually enjoys it with the right master. There is one that she really fancies. She told me she often deliberately misbehaves in his class just for the pleasure of lifting her skirt for him. Sometimes I think she gets the same from him as I get from you after a spanking, maybe more."

Charles clasped his hands to stop them shaking.

She pressed on. "Strange – after we all went out to lunch at Christmas she said you had lovely hands."

He closed his eyes.

"And that she'd go over your knee anytime."

"Oh, Julia!"

"It's true! And her bottom is like a peach, rounded, firm, and often has a pale pink bloom. Imagine, Charles, lifting her pleated skirt and seeing her knickered bottom!"

"Aaaaargh!"

"She wears tight skimpy briefs that only cover part of her bum. Think of dragging those to her knees and laying your hand across those naughty schoolgirl buttocks! You'd make them twitch, wouldn't you!"

Charles' head lowered and swayed from side to side. His hands gripped the chair arms tightly.

"I can see her young nubile body squirming on your lap. And as you spanked her you could savour the thought of laying the ferrula across her mother's bare bottom later, couldn't you!"

Charles was fast losing control.

"Oh, Julia..... darling!"

"What will you do, Charles, when I next misbehave in your house?"

"I'll... I'll... I'll..."

"Yes?"

"I'll... I'll... I'll tan your bottom, woman! I'll make you squeal and writhe!!"

"Over my dress?"

"Dress up, woman!"

"Knickers on?"

"Knickers down!"

"Oh, Julia's poor bottom! Will you also spank Ann's bare bottom?"

At the mention of the schoolgirl his usual quiet courtesy returned a little.

"If she is naughty in my house, and I have your permission to do so – yes."

She saw his shyness drifting over him once more.

"You know, Charles," she breathed gently, "beneath your kind exterior there is a strong, forceful man. And I'm a woman who likes that. We're lucky that basically we are close friends – and I don't mean this "just good friends" nonsense. Charles, darling, I feel at ease and peace with you."

His eyes, warm and a little damp, searched hers. He swallowed hard, and blushed once again. Drawing a key from his pocket he offered it to Julia.

"P...p...please, Julia, go and open the small despatch case in my room."

Puzzled, she did as she was asked. In the quietness of his room she put the case on his bed, unlocked it and lifted the lid. It was empty but for a note, dated four months earlier.

I want you to marry me, Julia. If you accept, come back and tell me. Otherwise, please go out of the door and drive away. I can't bring myself to ask you to your face – you are so beautiful, I am so ordinary.

If your answer is no, think of me sometime – for I love you, Charles.

-o-O-o-

He sat in the quietness of the living room, brow wet with perspiration, face creased with anxiety, hands clasping and unclasping. The thudding of his heart was almost painful as his ears strained for the sound of her return to him or........

The snarl of her car starting shattered the oppressive silence, and as she drove away he slumped in his chair, and a blanket of lonely sadness enveloped his like a shroud.

For ten minutes nothing moved in the room but the hands of the clock.... then the living room door slowly opened...

Julia entered and fixed her eyes on his. Sinuously, she wriggled her skirt to her waist, then bent forward and lowered her knickers to a lacy heap at her ankles. Daintily she stepped out of them, took the ferrula from the drawer, and walked over to him with swaying hips. With both hands she offered the ferrula to him.

"I've taken my knickers off for you, darling. Now spank your future wife's bare arse really hard, then take her to your bed and give her what she is longing for!"

"B...b...but Julia, I... I... I heard the car!"

"Well, you don't think I am leaving it outside the front of your house all night, do you? I've a reputation to consider!" And she smiled gently.

He stood up, put his arms round her, and laughed.

The Colonel

Story from Februs 34.

The Colonel
A Short Story by Matthew Silk

Steve and Avril stood in awe looking at the impressive Queen Anne style mansion before them. It could have come straight out of the pages of Country Life. Avril felt the breeze blow through her blonde permed hair. It really was a beautiful English summer afternoon, just perfect for naturists.

They stood for a moment listening to the quiet of the countryside. In the far distance they could just hear the sound of shouting and splashing round a swimming pool.

'Sounds like they're having fun. Come on,' Steve said.

Avril held Steve's hand. He was ten years older than her, a tall, strong bronzed man, with a fit athletic body he kept toned in the gym.

The house was surrounded by a high old brick wall covered with climbing roses. They walked through a large cast iron gateway with two carved stone lions on either side. A brass nameplate announced: Eden House.

On both sides of them were formal lawns with statues of naked women with neat polished buttocks, but the rest of the grounds were hidden by high trimmed yew hedges.

They crunched across the gravel to the white front door. Steve squeezed Avril's hand encouragingly then rang the brass bell.

It was opened by a small wiry woman in her fifties with her greying hair tied tightly in schoolmarm fashion. She was completely nude. Avril recognised her immediately from the statues on the lawn behind her.

'Come in,' she said in a clipped upper class accent closing the door behind them. 'The Colonel is expecting you. I'm his wife, Barbara.'

She held out her hand. They both shook it feeling a little awkward being clothed while she was naked.

They followed her neat buttocks down the polished wooden corridor. The house had the atmosphere of faded riches. Portraits of landscapes and military men hung on the walls in gilt frames and the rooms were furnished with antiques, mostly in need of restoration.

They stopped in front of an oak door and Barbara knocked. There was a muffled sound from within. She opened the door and ushered them in.

'Charles, this is Steve and Avril.'

The Colonel rose from his desk in a thick cloud of acrid cigar smoke. He was a squat portly bear of a man with a wide moustache tinged with nicotine. Grey arid ginger hairs covered his flabby chest and large belly. He was also completely nude.

'Come in,' he boomed, 'take a seat.'

His wife withdrew while the Colonel sat his ample bottom down heavily on his leather chair and opened their file on his desk shrouding them both in smoke.

Avril looked round the study. It had a shabby, lived in feel, like the Colonel. The floor was covered in a thread-bare turkish carpet. Bookcases lined the walls.

There were also dozens of photographs. In one above the mantelpiece she saw the Colonel, much younger and slimmer, standing with an African tribal chief who was holding a long bullwhip. Next to him were a line of village girls, their hands on their bottoms, all grinning. Below the picture the same whip, frayed and tatty, was draped across two brass hooks.

'So you're both naturists,' the Colonel said examining them.

'Yes,' said Steve. 'Avril has been a naturist most of her life and introduced me to it.'

'And how did you find us?'

'I saw your advert in a naturist magazine.'

Steve could remember it now: 'CP NATURISTS. For those who believe in tile freedom and equality of naturism backed by the discipline of corporal punishment. For obvious reasons adults only.'

'Good,' puffed the Colonel. 'What about the CP?'

'Ah. I introduced Avril to that.'

'Is that right m'dear?' the Colonel looked straight at Avril for the first time. His sharp blue eyes were friendly but seemed to pierce through her.

She nodded nervously. She had never told a living soul before what she allowed Steve to do to her.

'Ever been spanked in front of other people?'

She shook her head firmly. 'No.'

'Pity,' the Colonel growled contemptuously. 'You would not think yourself a naturist if you only ever took your clothes off at home by yourself would you? Why should you think CP is any different?'

Avril felt rebuked and blushed under his glare.

'When was the last time you were spanked m'dear?' The Colonel's eyes were kind again.

'Er, about a week ago.' She fiddled nervously with her fingers on her lap embarrassed by having to confess her secrets. 'And when were you last caned?' he persisted.

'Er, longer, about a month, I think.' She looked at Steve for confirmation and he nodded.

'Hmm,' the Colonel snorted disapproving again. 'You should know exactly. "Six strokes across my bare bottom. June 17. Sir!" Like that. And sit up straight. I don't like slouchers in my study.'

Avril straightened her back while the Colonel closed the file and took another puff on his cigar.

'Right, let me tell you about us. Naturism and CP have always been my twin passions. It seems to me they are quite closely related. Both believe in truth, openness, being honest with ourselves, overcoming our inhibitions and being treated equally. It doesn't matter if you're a duchess or a dustman everyone is treated the same here.'

He leaned back expansively. 'We are a community. We believe naturism and discipline are not just pastimes but a way of life.

'Outside in textileland you are taught to conceal everything, keep yourself separate, distrust others. Every day brings a confusing debate on how much you should expose of yourself. Here, it's different.

'Here, because everyone is equal, everything is shared, nothing is hidden. When you break the rules you will be whipped in front of everybody with the beestinger.'

He swivelled round and directed Avril's eyes toward the whip above the mantelpiece. 'That's the beestinger m'dear,' he said proudly. 'Let me introduce you.'

He walked over to the wall and reverantly took down the heavy leather whip from its hooks and brought it over to Avril.

She took it and held it while he stood over her. It was thick but soft to hold. The leather was brown and frayed and had been stitched and patched in places. Tufts of hair protruded from the end rather like the hair in the colonel's nostrils.

'The beestinger's been leaving his mark on bottoms for more than 50 years m'dear. He may look old and soft like me but don't be deceived, there's still life in the old dog yet!'

He winked as he took it off her and returned it reverantly to the hooks on the wall.

'Right, let's get you undressed. I'll explain the rules as I show you round.'

'I was going to ask you about the rules. Have you got a copy?' Avril asked.

'No m'dear.'

'Then how do we know if we have broken them?'

'When you are bent over in front of the whole camp and the beestinger's thrashing that pretty little backside of yours m'dear. That should provide you with a jolly big clue.' The Colonel guffawed loudly leaving Avril feeling foolish.

He led them to changing rooms where they put their clothes in lockers. As they emerged the Colonel looked Avril up and down, inspecting her before giving a grunt of approval.

'Hmm, trim little thing aren't you? A bit like the wife. I like that. Rather sexy.'

Avril didn't know what to say.

* * *

He led them outside into the bright sunshine. The Colonel stomped across the lawns, his stubby legs pounding the ground. Avril imagined he would have sex in the same short, vigorous manner.

He led them to the swimming pool where there was much shrieking and laughing. About a dozen people were standing in a circle throwing a large ball to each other. A petite older woman with short dark hair dropped it and everyone shouted: 'Third time, third time.'

Blushing and grinning she waded into the centre of the circle and picked up a floating flip flop.

As the crowd cheered she swam over to the steps and climbed naked and dripping out of the pool. She walked up to the colonel and curtsied. She was about Steve's age.

'Colonel do you want to spank me?' she asked smiling.

He beamed at her. 'On this occasion m'dear I shall reluctantly decline. However I am sure my friend here will oblige.' He pointed toward Steve.

'Certainly,' Steve said eagerly taking the flip flop from her offered hand.

She led him down the side of the pool and climbed up to the top diving board. She placed her feet on the edge as if she was going to dive. Then she bent over, confidently stretching to clasp the back of her ankles with her hands keeping her legs straight.

'She has to take 12 without falling into the pool,' the Colonel explained to Avril.

She looked up at Steve. Avril had never seen another woman bending over for him before. He looked impressively fit and masterful standing over the woman.

He raised his arm high and spanked her hard. The flip flop made a solid whapp sound as it connected with her behind and her head bobbed up in surprise. Her fellow swimmers were delighted at the effect on her and chanted 'one.'

Steve took careful aim and spanked her again. The woman's knees bent slightly in response, the slap of the flip flop on her rear reporting like a pistol shot across the water.

Steve now found his range and she began to shift uncomfortably with each fresh smack. Her face coloured and her grin began to look forced. The swimmers cheered Steve on as they sensed her growing unease. Steve, invigorated by their support, took deliberate aim and spanked her even harder. She wobbled, her hands slipping slightly on her legs as her toes scrabbled for balance on the edge of the board.

Steve swung his arm swiftly down again, spanking her where her cheeks were already red. She swayed forward almost toppling. It was desperately close but she clung on.

But Steve sensed his victory and quickly spanked her again, allowing her no respite. This time he got her. Her hands broke free from her ankles and skimmed up the back of her legs tipping her forward off balance. She let out a despairing cry as she toppled over the edge and plunged ignominiously into the water with a loud splash. The crowd erupted with whooping shouts of triumph.

The woman surfaced, swam to the side and climbed back up to Steve dripping wet and blushing with the humiliation of her failure. He ordered her curtly to bend over again.

'Give her six extra this time,' the Colonel shouted. 'And if you fall this time m'dear it's the birch.'

The threat concentrated her mind. Despite a number of wobbles, she managed to take all 18 with impressive resilience. When it was over she gratefully grabbed the flip flop and dived into the pool rejoining the others who applauded her all the way back.

The Colonel gave a shuddering sigh of pleasure and gave Avril a lecherous look. 'Nothing like a spanking for stirring the loins eh? Pity she didn't fall though. I was looking forward to giving her a good birching. Come on. I'll show you our birching tree.'

* * *

He led them across the lawns and down woodland paths until they came to a large oak tree in a clearing. It had spikes driven all round its trunk and a wooden board around the base. Four well worn paths ran away from the tree and at the end of each was a barrel containing birches.

'We have barbecues down here sometimes on summer evenings. But you can come down and stand by the tree anytime m'dear if you want your bottom warmed, there'll always be someone along to oblige. And there's plenty of hollows and bushes around where you can have a jolly good rogering after you've had your backside tanned.' He winked at her outrageously.

'Right, time to split up I think. We like new couples to separate, it helps them to mix in. Come on Steve, I'll show you the rest of the woods.'

They walked off and suddenly Avril was left alone. She moved away from the tree in case anyone thought she was wanted to be birched and 'rogered' and made her way back to the lawns.

There she watched a game of mini-ten, the naturist tennis game for half an hour. No-one asked her to join in so she moved away to a large group of male and female wrestlers on mats. She began to relax, happy to be left alone so she could just observe.

She left the wrestlers and saw Steve by the swimming pool so she moved away to watch a group of gymnasts unselfconsciously performing handstands, stretching and pirouetting on bars and mats.

Eventually she made her way round the back of the house and came across a volleyball game. The ball bounced toward her across a vegetable patch and nestled against a hedge. A tall Scandinavian girl called out to her: 'Can we have our ball back please?'

The other players giggled.

'Oh certainly,' said Avril, glad to be joining in at last. She stepped across the vegetable patch and picked up the ball. It was only after she threw it back she knew something was terribly wrong. The players were staring at her in astonishment.

At that moment the Colonel's wife flung open an upstairs window. 'Just what the HELL do you think you are doing,' she shouted.

'Those are my prize vegetables you have just trampled on you wretched girl. Didn't you see the sign?'

Avril felt a terrible gaping emptiness in her stomach and saw with horror a small sign in the corner of the plot with KEEP OFF clearly written on it.

'Report to the study at once.' She slammed the window shut.

Avril looked appealingly at the volleyball players but they shrugged and turned away. She began to walk towards the study feeling more naked and alone than she had ever felt in her life. She wished Steve were there to protect her.

She stood trembling in front of the oak study door, her heart pounding in her chest and knocked. The Colonel summoned her.

He was standing by the mantelpiece. 'Well, m'dear that didn't take long,' he beamed.

He sat down on a straight-backed chair facing her with open legs.

'You will be whipped at the tea rooms at 4pm. Barbara, you tell everybody. In the meantime, until they are ready for us I'm afraid I can't resist spanking that trim little backside of yours m'dear. Come here.' He slapped his thighs with his hands.

He was like a powerful magnet drawing her toward him. She edged forward until she was standing between his open legs his balls hanging down loose like two bells. He grasped her hand firmly and pulled her onto his plump hairy thigh, almost winding her. Instantly his other leg clamped her heavily across the back of her legs, rendering her helpless. His belly bulged out so far there was barely room for her to lie. She put her hand out on the carpet to steady herself but his hand slapped the back of her neck forcing her head down so low her nose was almost touching the floor.

He pulled her in toward him so his flabby stomach was pressing into her side. He rested his large podgy hand on her raised buttocks, his thumb pressed into the crevice between her cheeks.

He lifted his hand and spanked her with a stinging clap. She yelped at the sharp impact and tried to lift her head but his fingers dug into her scalp forcing her head down. She tried to kick her legs but she couldn't budge an inch, so tightly was she clamped.

'You're a real wriggler, like a little fish aren't you?' the Colonel said. He seemed to be enjoying wrestling with her as she struggled over his lap, rubbing her belly on his rough thigh.

The Colonel's hand clapped her again on the other cheek and then again and again, repeating the smacks with exuberance, building the heat. She squirmed and twisted but only succeeded in rubbing herself against him even more which made him grunt with pleasure. Nothing she did could prevent the heavy smacks of his hand stinging her burning bottom as she bounced and jiggled on his big hairy thighs.

The Colonel began to wheeze and puff like an old boiler, his stomach heaving against her, as his arm rose and fell relentlessly like a piston stoking up the fires hotter and hotter across her firm bouncing cheeks while she jerked and gasped and cried under the onslaught.

The ringing claps on her behind, his shouted orders to her to keep still and her begging pleas were loud enough to be heard across the lawns where people were already beginning to gather for her whipping.

He carried on, working up a head of steam until her bottom felt like a furnace his hand pumping and pounding faster and faster until at last he stopped and all was quiet apart from her shocked whimpering as she squirmed uncomfortably on his thigh, her behind ablaze.

His leg released her and she stretched with relief, but made no attempt to get off, content to lie where she was.

'Well you've obviously been spanked before m'dear. Good. That'll stand you in good stead for the beestinger.' He patted her bottom and grunted with pleasure.

He let her lie over his thigh while she recovered and then lifted her off and collected the beestinger from the wall.

'I'll make sure they are ready. Follow me in five minutes.'

He left her alone in the study, her bottom tingling from the spanking he had given her. Strangely, she felt less intimidated by him now he had spanked her than she did before. She spent the time looking at the pictures of the tribal girls grinning at the bullwhip. Why were they grinning?

* * *

She left the study and walked out of the back door and across the lawns. The grounds were eerily deserted and silent.

And then she saw them.

They were standing three and four deep in a wide circle outside the tea pavilion their buttocks of all shapes and sizes facing her. The excited buzz of their conversation hummed across the lawns becoming louder the closer she got to them.

They were tightly packed, too animated to notice her as she approached. She tried to find a gap but couldn't. She had to prise them against their combined weight. Eventually she reached the front and the bodies instantly closed behind her.

Inside the circle it was a cauldron of heat and loud expectancy. The picnic tables had been cleared aside except for one in the centre where the Colonel was standing with the beestinger in his hands.

He did not see her at first. She walked slowly toward him, feeling her perspiration pricking her skin, while behind her the crowd hushed as they realised this frail and vulnerable looking blonde girl was the one they had come to see whipped.

She stopped, wiping the sweat from her face. The Colonel turned round. 'Ah m'dear, you are here. Now before we begin I'd like everyone to have a good look at you as this is your first day. Walk slowly around the circle if you will.'

She just wanted to get the whipping over but, of course, he knew that. She turned, blushing self-consciously, and walked close to the crowd. She'd never faced such public humiliation before. Everywhere she looked someone was staring back at some part of her. The swimming pool gang were the worst. They smirked and rubbed their bottoms teasingly as she passed.

She looked in vain for Steve. Where on earth was he? He must be somewhere in the sea of faces but she could not pick him out. She desperately needed his support.

After two full circles of almost unbearable embarrassment under the intense examination of the crowd, the Colonel called her to him.

'The punishment you are about to receive m'dear is the same one anyone else here would get for the same breach of the rules. The property and grounds must be respected at all times. The fact that this is your first day should not lead you to expect any kind of leniency. Now get yourself over the table, legs inside the bench and feet nice and wide apart please.'

She scrambled awkwardly over the seat and rested her forearms on the hot table top, her bottom facing out, her cheeks drawn open. Her legs were pinned between the table and seat the rough edges of both pressed into her thighs and the back of her legs.

The colonel walked round in front of her and picked up a cigar from the table top.

'We have a tradition here m'dear. A whipping lasts as long as it takes for me to smoke one of my special cigars here.'

The crowd smiled knowingly as he lit the long fat cigar over her with great ceremony. He puffed it a couple of times to get it going and walked slowly behind her unfurling the beestinger with relish.

The spectators settled, her nervousness increasing as they quietened. They seemed to have edged closer in their eagerness to miss nothing. Wisps of aromatic smoke from the Colonel's cigar drifted over her as the hot afternoon sun beat down on her back. Even the breeze seemed to have stilled, creating a quiet intense calm.

She was aware of him steadying himself, unfurling and flicking the beestinger behind her. She tried to remain as motionless as she could but it wasn't easy.

There was a terrible pause in which nothing happened at all, then she heard the beestinger being flipped back and the fearful buzz of its descent as it hummed through the air. She was up on her toes, body taut even before it ripped across her rear, almost lifting her off her feet. She was bolted forward, her body thumping against the table only her trapped legs holding her back.

A thousand stings swarmed across her behind in deafening harmony, rising beyond her wildest expectations.

The swimming pool gang directly behind her whooped with delight as the beestinger's army of demons poured through her, invading every part of her, dancing through her in triumph.

She screamed and bucked helplessly in the vice like grip of the table while the Colonel stood calmly behind her, taking the occasional puff on his cigar, observing her.

When he judged she was ready he gathered the beestinger again. The crowd murmured in excited anticipation.

The whip hurtled down, streaking across her buttocks a second time taking her beyond her own control as she tried in vain to twist her torso away from its agony.

The Colonel strode around the crowd puffing on his cigar a gleam in his eye as he watched her tossing and turning on the table top struggling to free herself from the beestinger's vicious grip.

He took his time, knowing the weals were doing their work, discussing her with members of the crowd before taking up station behind her again. She braced herself grasping the table edge with her outstretched arms.

The heavy leather swooped down like some giant beast and slammed into her, whipping around her flanks, exposing everything within her to the outside. She heard people spontaneously applauding as she struggled to meet its demands.

Sweat trickled down her face and neck. The table was wet where her damp belly had slithered over it. Three thick welts, raw and swollen, clawed at her behind.

The beestinger lashed her again, spreadeagling her over the table, laying another band of agony across her rear. She cried out, opening her lungs, her arms, her legs... laying herself bare before them.

As she looked up she saw the Colonel's cigar was barely a quarter smoked.

Steve emerged from the wood with the woman from the swimming pool. Fresh birch marks were swathed across her buttocks and thighs.

He saw the crowd packed around the tea pavilion and heard the strike of the whip followed instantly by a woman's unrestrained soaring high into the trees. He climbed onto a bench and was amazed at the sight which greeted him.

Avril lay sprawled over the table, at least a dozen raw stripes slanted across her slim buttocks and thighs.

'Avvy,' he cried out.

An elderly gentleman in front of him turned round. 'Do you know her? I say you're a lucky chap. No-one knew who she was. She's a real little Peach. She's really showing us what she's made of now she's got the hang of it. She's certainly brought a twinkle back to the Colonel's eye. I haven't seen the old boy in such good form for ages.'

The Colonel was striding around the circle like a ringmaster, Avril's eyes following him as if mesmerised, totally absorbed by him. As he walked behind her, her bottom lifted in invitation.

The Colonel raised an eyebrow, smiled and stopped.

'Is that another invitation m'dear? There's no stopping you now is there? Very well.' He clamped the cigar between his teeth and swung the beestinger high behind her whipping it down in a looping arc across her backside. It seemed to cling to her for several moments before dancing back to its master, leaving her stretched and prostrate over the table, another thick band added to the others already covering her buttocks and thighs.

The old gentleman turned back to Steve. 'You've got to hand it to the Colonel. He's got an uncanny knack of bringing a girl out of herself. I thought he'd got it wrong when I saw this one; we all did. But look at her now, a real poppet. He knows more about these girls than they know about themselves.'

They watched the Colonel, the stub of the cigar in his mouth, parading around the circle until he was behind Avril again. He didn't wait for an invitation this time but whipped her again full square across her presented rear.

She arched round and saw Steve for the first time and grinned. She had nothing left to hide, nothing to conceal, nothing to be ashamed of anymore.

Back to the Institute

Story from Februs 31.

Back to the Institute
Colin Weaver's Sequel to 'The Institute Girl'


The stretch of pavement in front of the Birley Institute is about fifty yards long. Lucinda Horton had walked along it twice, and was in the middle of her third preoccupied perambulation when she became aware that someone had fallen into step beside her.

She turned her head and looked into the pale, plump, bespectacled face of a fiftyish man with the general appearance of an undertaker's chief clerk.

'I was wondering',' said the man, with a grimace meant for a smile, 'if you were – er – looking for business, love?'

After a moment's stunned surprise, understanding came to her, and the expression on her face was obviously an adequate answer. The man backed away hastily 'Sorry!' he said. 'My mistake! No offence meant!' He was almost running as he turned away and crossed the road.

Staring after him, Lucinda uttered two explicit words which would have horrified her fellow teachers at St. Jude's. Then she marched up the steps of the Institute and rapped sharply on the door. It was long after closing time but the door opened almost at once.

'Come in, lass,' said Jim Mytton, placidly. 'I thought you were going to wear a groove in that pavement. And you gave Sam Earnshaw a bit of excitement, didn't you? He won't have decided yet whether he's disappointed or relieved.'

Lucinda remembered, blushing, that the window office overlooked the street. I said I'd come,' she retorted defensively, 'and here I am.'

'I knew you'd keep your word,' he said quietly. 'You're an honest girl, and a brave one.'

Lucinda felt a comforting glow at the approval in his voice. This sardonic, middle-aged man had been the closest approach to a friend she had made in the month since she had moved to Birley. A tall, attractive woman of twenty-seven, something in her speech and her dress and her manner had seemed just a little exotic for that rugged Northern town, and people had been a trifle wary of her, taking their time to offer acceptance. She had become a regular visitor to the Institute, and it was there, thanks to sophisticated surveillance equipment, that Mytton had watched her acting out an absurd charade, lying across the marble thighs of a statue in Gallery Three and pretending to take a spanking.

Mytton had not been shocked, he had not reacted with derision or unwelcome lust, and he had made it clear, thank God! that he would not gossip. What he had done was to order her across his knee, take her knickers down and give her an exemplary, uncompromising spanking which surpassed any she had experienced in the eight years she had been submitting her shapely bare bottom to various disciplinary hands.

Afterwards he had taken her to the Reserve Room, which housed the equipment of the old Birley Reformatory. It was there that he had told her about SPOC, the Society for the Purpose of Correction, a group of local CP enthusiasts with room for another member.

She had used his mobile phone to speak to Helen the secretary of SPOC, and when she was accepted as a member she had endured the initiation of six scorching cane strokes fig across her tender rump from Jim Mytton. And now, she about to attend her first meeting.

'Jim,' she said as they walked towards the Reserve Room, 'Do I look all right? I wasn't sure what to wear.'

He looked at her thoughtfully. She was wearing a sleeveless, dark blue dress, snug at the waist, with a modest scoop neckline and a full, knee-length skirt. Her legs were bare and she wore cream peep-toe shoes with a medium heel.

'Just right,' he said. 'We don't go in for black leather or St. Trinians stuff. You look fine, Lucinda.'

They reached the door with the sign: RESERVE ROOM. STRICTLY PRIVATE.

'You can still turn round and walk away,' he said. 'We'll be disappointed, but we'll understand.'

Lucinda took a deep breath. 'I made my decision outside,' she said. 'Let's go in.'

* * *

The room was as she remembered it; in effect, a workshop equipped for every variety of corporal punishment. There was the sturdy wooden trestle with the padded leather top at waist level, bolted to the floor. An equally sturdy oak table with a long, faded cushion along one side. Several chairs. On one wall, about six feet up, were two substantial steel rings, bolted into the brickwork. And in racks on the walls, lying on the table, hanging on hooks and pegs, were canes, straps, whips, paddles, every kind of punishment implement.

Three days ago she and Jim Mytton had had the room to themselves. Now it seemed full of people, all looking towards her as she entered. A woman came forward, smiling. Slim, blonde, elegant, fortyish. 'Lucinda!' she said. 'Welcome to SPOC. I'm Helen Withington.'

'Hello, Helen,' said Lucinda, blushing a little as she remembered the last time Helen had heard her voice, when she was yelping under the cane.

'This is my husband, Robert.' A burly man with a broad grin beneath a bristling, sandy moustache.

'And this is my daughter, Kelly.' A line from a song came into Lucinda's head. "Tall and tanned and young and lovely," Kelly, at twenty, was all of that; her shining fair hair was plaited into a thick pigtail and tied with a red ribbon. She wore a tight white top and a red miniskirt.

'As you see,' said Helen, affectionately, 'Kelly is rather too big to go across Mummy's knee now. In fact, she sometimes threatens to put me across hers! Do you think I should let her, Lucinda? I read a letter in a magazine once, from a woman whose daughter gives her a good smack-bottom when she misbehaves. It made me wonder.' Kelly smiled at Lucinda. 'I don't really think I'd spank Mum,' she said. 'But I've taken an awful lot of punishment since I joined SPOC – it's about time I had a chance to spank someone!'

'Perhaps that can be arranged,' said Mytton, enigmatically.

A handsome, athletic-looking woman wearing a burgundy coloured shirt and white jeans stepped forward. 'I'm Marjorie Taverner,' she said. 'I gather Helen's described me in rather unflattering terms, a real she-devil with the tawse, in fact.'

Lucinda recalled her phone conversation with Helen. 'Something like that,' she admitted.

Marjorie shook her black curls. 'I shall discuss that with Helen later. Yes, I can be severe, but I object such an ogress of me!'

'Rubbish!' said Helen, unrepentantly. 'You know you enjoy using that strap, Marjorie.'

'I shall certainly enjoy using it on you later, Helen!'

There was obviously no malice in the exchange, and the friendly bickering made Lucinda feel more at ease. 'Do you take punishment as well as giving it, Marjorie?' she asked.

'Oh yes. The others would never let me play the stern dominatrix all the time, even if I wanted to.'

'Let me introduce you to the others,' said Helen, 'and then we can make a start.'

So Lucinda exchanged greetings with Frank Kay and Jane Morris and the elderly Miss Foster, who smiled grimly when Helen described her as, 'Our expert with the birch'.

'And now,' said Helen, briskly, 'let's start with someone giving my darling daughter the thrashing she deserves! Kelly has not been a good girl since we last met here.'

'I'm always first!' pouted Kelly. 'And anyway, Jim said I'd have a chance to spank someone else.'

'Did I?' said Mytton.

'Well, you sort of hinted.'

'In that case,' said Mytton, 'you'd better put Lucinda across your knee and spank her.'

Overcoming the sensation of a sudden drop in a fast lift, Lucinda said, 'Rather Kelly than you, Jim! But have I done anything to deserve a spanking?'

'Of course you have!' said Mytton. He turned to the others. 'You should have seen Lucinda a little earlier, trying to kid Sam Earnshaw that she was on the game!'

'I did not!' protested Lucinda, red-faced.

'I can't blame Sam,' said Mytton, solemnly. 'There she was, strolling along, wiggling her hips, oozing sex appeal!'

'Jim, please!'

'I think he expected her to produce a price list,' went on Mytton. 'You know, so much for straight sex, a bit more for the kinky stuff.'

'Please!' begged Lucinda, squirming, 'can I have my spanking and get it over with?'

'Oh, how I am going to enjoy this!' said Kelly, gleefully. 'Lucinda, come here!' She sat down and beckoned imperiously. 'You have been a very naughty girl and I am going to take your knickers down and smack your bare bum in front of everyone.'

'Yes, miss,' said Lucinda, meekly.

If Lucinda had been embarrassed by Mytton's teasing, that was nothing compared to her feelings as she lay bare-bottomed across Kelly's lap. She had only once before been spanked in front of an audience, and that had been at a party when she had been pulled across someone's knee and given a dozen quick smacks on the seat of her skirt. The same thing had happened to some of the other girls and it was all in fun anyway, so it hadn't been too shaming, but this was very different.

Kelly began to spank. Although she smacked with vigour and enthusiasm it was by no means as painful as the spanking Lucinda had taken from Mytton three days earlier, and her first reaction was to lie quietly, showing little response. Then she realised that she must be disappointing Kelly and the spectators by her impassivity, and when Kelly paused, as though wondering whether to continue, Lucinda quickly began to squirm and moan. 'Please, Kelly!' she gasped, 'That really hurts! I didn't think you'd spank so hard!'

'A half-hearted spanking is no use at all,' said Kelly. 'You have to learn your lesson, Lucinda.' It sounded like something Kelly had heard many times when her own bottom was suffering. She started to spank again and Lucinda wriggled and yelped and kicked to everybody's great satisfaction. It wasn't all acting. Kelly's spanking technique might have been inexperienced but her slaps still stung, and by the time she said breathlessly, 'That's it, you can get up now,' Lucinda's shapely rump was very sore.

'I thought you took that very well,' said a quiet voice beside her. It was the man who had been named to her as Frank Kay. During the introductions he had just been a hand to shake, a face to glance at before passing on to the next. Now she saw him as an individual, a stocky man a few years older than herself with a square, pleasant face and an air of good-humoured self confidence. His smile did not seem to be mocking her, but rather inviting her to share his amusement at the unlikely, bizarre, often downright ludicrous antics of the human race in search of pleasure.

'Thank you,' she said. 'Of course I've had plenty of experience – and I expect you'd be delighted to give me more!'

She became embarrassingly aware that her knickers were a forlorn little tangle of fabric around her ankles. 'There doesn't really seem much point in putting these on again for a while,' she said, and stepped out of them.

Frank stooped and picked them up. 'I'll take care of them for you,' he said.

'Somehow,' said Lucinda, 'I don't think this is the first time you've pocketed a warm pair of panties from a girl with a well-smacked bottom!'

Frank grinned. 'It isn't. Although I'm usually the one who's been doing the smacking.'

'The girls you spank,' said Lucinda. 'Is there... are they...'

'If you mean, is there a deep, meaningful relationship,' said Frank, 'the answer is no. Brief, casual encounters, that's all, great fun but nothing serious. And anyway they usually come to an end after the first spanking.'

'You find the girls resent it?'

'Usually they're more startled than resentful,' said Frank. 'But even the ones who seem to enjoy it don't generally stay around for a repeat performance.'

Lucinda shook her head. 'You'll get into trouble one day, Frank. It only needs one girl to turn nasty.'

'You're right,' he said. 'What I need is a steady relationship with a nice girl who understands what it's all about and enjoys her part in it as much as I enjoy mine.'

'Anyone special in mind?' asked Lucinda, casually.

'Lucinda,' he said, 'when I saw you across Kelly's lap and your knickers came down, I thought, that's a bottom I would he happy to tan frequently and thoroughly.'

'Oh Frank,' she said teasingly, 'you say the most romantic things. Ow!' The concluding yelp came as a vigorous bottom-slap stung through the thin material of her dress.

She glared at him indignantly, but then his hand returned to her bottom, not punishing this time but stroking, caressing, gently squeezing. She became aware of the most delightful sensations, glowing, throbbing, spreading. 'Oh Frank!' she sighed. 'Oh, that's nice.'

'Can you two leave the lovey-dovey stuff till later?' enquired Jim Mytton, drily. 'There are more bottoms to be tanned at this meeting.'

Blushing vividly Lucinda moved away from Frank, trying not to catch anyone's eye.

'You enjoyed spanking Lucinda, did you, Kelly?' asked Marjorie. 'Well now it's your turn. Weren't you among that crowd of young rowdies who filled the car park of the Birley Arms with broken glass?'

Kelly looked crestfallen. 'I don't know how you found out about that,' she blurted. 'It was just a bit of fun that got out of hand.'

'Really? Well, tonight, Kelly, your elders and betters are going to take you firmly in hand. To begin with, you can take off your skirt.'

Kelly quickly obeyed, displaying diminutive black bikini pants beneath her white top. Marjorie picked up a leather paddle from the table. 'Touch your toes, Kelly.'

Again, Kelly obeyed immediately. Little muscles were jumping in her long, shapely bare legs. Her firm, apple-round buttocks were the focus of every eye.


Marjorie swung the paddle and tough leather cracked resoundingly upon bare feminine flesh. Kelly gasped but stayed in position. Crack! The paddle landed again. A louder gasp, and Kelly's outstretched fingers turned into clenched fists.

Marjorie missed nothing. 'I told you to touch your toes, Kelly!' The fingers uncurled again, touched Kelly's trainers. 'You are going to learn obedience before I've finished with you girl, indeed you are!' Crack!

A fourth impact of the paddle across Kelly's shapely seat and then Marjorie commanded, 'Stand up!'

Kelly did so, looking puzzled rather than relieved. Marjorie handed her the paddle. 'Now go to every person in the room in turn, Kelly, hand them the paddle and ask them to give you four stingers.'

Kelly looked around at the assembled, expectant members, hesitated for a moment and the approached Jim Mytton. 'Please, sir,' she said, 'will you whack my bottom four times with this?'

'Certainly Kelly.' Mytton took the paddle and waited for her to touch her toes again. 'Your cheeks are looking nice and rosy already. I'll warm them up a bit more for you.'

Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Four thwacking impacts of the paddle upon Kelly's near-naked bottom, each bringing a shrill yelp from the unfortunate culprit.

'Stand up, Kelly. Now, what do you say?'

'Th-thank you, sir,' mumbled Kelly, head downcast.

'That's right. Here's the paddle. Who's going to be next?'

Kelly stood in front of Lucinda. Somehow she managed a wobbly smile. 'Here's where you get your own back, Lucinda. Please lay on really hard, or Marjorie will say they don't count.'

She bent over, hands downstretched. Lucinda looked at the leather-scorched curves, obviously very hot and sore already, and remembered the delight with which Kelly had welcomed the chance to spank her. 'You'll have to excuse my inexperience, Kelly,' she murmured, 'but I'll do my best for you.'

She gave Kelly four hard, deliberate strokes of the paddle, pausing after each to let the fiery sting reach its peak before whacking the next one across Kelly's squirming bottom. When Kelly stood up there were big tears rolling down her face and it was an obvious effort for her to whimper, 'Thank you, Lucinda.'

Lucinda watched as the girl went from one to another, offering the paddle, dutifully bending over to present her delightful posterior for punishment, howling, weeping and pleading as the paddle did its disciplinary work but always, somehow, managing to miserably stammer out her thanks for the punishment. When she finally returned the paddle to Marjorie she looked extremely sorry for herself.

'So far so good, Kelly,' said Marjorie, approvingly. 'Now I shall just put you across my knee and take those absurd little panties down.'

'Oh no!' wailed Kelly. 'Oh please, Marjorie, don't smack my bum, not yet! Let me cool off for a few minutes, please, just a few minutes, that's all!'

'Come here, you silly girl!' said Marjorie, impatiently, and sitting down she pulled the weeping girl across her broad thighs and peeled her briefs down. 'Making such a fuss about a sore bottom at your age! I've half a mind to take the back of a hairbrush to you – and I will, later! For now, five minutes under my hand will teach you to respect other people's property.'

'I'm sorry, Miss!' blubbered Kelly, squirming under Marjorie's firm grasp. 'I won't do it again, I promise I won't! Waaaah!'

Five noisy minutes later, Kelly was sobbing her heart out in a corner, hands on head. 'Now,' said Marjorie, cheerfully, 'who's next?'

'I want to smack Helen!' announced Jane Morris. 'It's about time – I haven't punished her for two meetings.'

Lucinda looked at Mrs Morris in some surprise. She was a plump, bespectacled, amiable little woman who looked like the winner of the home-made jam contest at the village fete. Anyone less like a strict disciplinarian was hard to imagine.

'How do you want me, Jane?' asked Helen.

'Stand on that low stool,' replied Mrs Morris. 'Now lift your skirts. Right up, dear, let's all see your knickers!'

Blushing and reluctant, Helen displayed very shapely legs in tautly suspendered stockings, topped by bare white thighs and pale green French knickers. Mrs Morris calmly unclipped the suspenders and rolled the stockings to Helen's ankles. 'And now, Helen,' she said, 'I am going to smack your legs.'


It did not, at first, sound a formidable threat, but as Lucinda watched the tender flesh of thighs and calves redden under Mrs Morris's methodical slapping, saw Helen wince and heard her gasp, she realised that it was more of an ordeal than she had supposed. Soon Helen was squirming and hopping on the stool, performing an odd little dance of shame and pain, while the smacking went inexorably on. When Mrs Morris stopped smacking, it was only to pick up a martinet, and soon Helen was weeping bitterly as the biting thongs lashed her crimson thighs and calves.

When the whipping was over, Mrs Morris noticed Lucinda's fascinated stare and nodded pleasantly to her. 'People do seem to concentrate on the bottom when they're punishing,' she said calmly. 'That's all very well, but other parts of the anatomy should not be neglected. Remember that when you come to correct someone.'

'Usually,' said Lucinda, ruefully, 'I'm the one who's corrected!'

'Speaking of which,' said Frank, 'has your bottom cooled down after Kelly's spanking?'

'A little,' said Lucinda, warily.

'Have you ever been walloped with one of these?' said Frank. He held out an eighteen-inch plastic ruler.

'As it happens,' said Lucinda, as calmly as possible, 'I haven't.'

'Then this is a good time to try it,' said Frank. He took her by the wrist and led her to the padded trestle.

'Over you go, Lucinda,' he said. Very aware of the watching, amused faces, she obeyed.

'You'll find a bar low down on the other side,' he said. 'Keep hold of it. It will help you to stay in position. Jumping up without permission automatically means six strokes of the Lochgelly tawse across your bottom, and the original punishment starts again from the beginning.'

'Thanks for telling me!' said Lucinda. Her face burned as she felt her dress turned up to expose her naked bottom and legs. She had already suffered the indignity of a spanking before people she had only just met. This would be worse; she would be making a squirming, pleading, weeping exhibition of herself without even having deserved punishment.

'I won't decide on a specific number of strokes,' said Frank's voice behind her. 'I'll just whack that lovely rear end of yours until it's hot enough to make toast on. Your thighs too, remembering Jane's advice. I've a feeling we're going to have a long and interesting relationship, Lucinda, and I'd like to have some idea of what you can take.'

'And when you've got her nicely roasting, Frank,' said Helen's voice, 'I will take over. Jim says her bottom wriggles very nicely under the cane and I want to see for myself.'

Lucinda grasped the bar firmly and took a deep breath. By coming here she had invited punishment, offered herself as a willing victim. Now it only remained to endure and, in that incredible, inexplicable way, to enjoy her ordeal.

First the plastic ruler, smacking and stinging her wincing buttocks and her quivering thighs, again and again and again to the very borders of endurance, while she yelled and implored and wept. Then a brief pause, sobbing, gasping, half convinced that she must, after all, have done something wrong and desperately trying to remember what it might be, 'I'm sorry!' she moaned. 'I'm truly, truly sorry!'

'That's what I like to hear,' said Helen's voice. 'The genuine sound of true repentance which only a well-tanned bottom can inspire. And now, Lucinda, I am holding a brand new rattan cane, which I am going to apply to those rosy checks of yours with considerable severity. Jim gave you six of the best, didn't he? Well I'm going to cane your legs as well, so I think we'll say ten this time.'

'Please, Helen,' moaned Lucinda. 'I'm not a very naughty girl, really I'm not!'


And then the cane slashed across her naked, ruler-roasted buttocks. Helen took her time and the torment seemed never ending, but despite the anguish of her exquisitely hot and sore bottom and the incredible pain of a wickedly wielded cane biting into the tender flesh of plump, bare thighs, Lucinda managed to hold onto the bar until she was told she could get up.

They made her stand facing the wall afterwards with her hands on her head and her dress pinned up to expose her punished bottom and legs, they warned her that she would go back across the trestle if she spoke or moved without permission, but even in that position of disgrace Lucinda felt a secret pride. She had endured to the end, she had proved a worthy member of SPOC. She thought that Frank would be pleased with her. That seemed very important.

Behind her she heard Kelly taking the second stage of her punishment, howling across Marjorie's lap, naked from the waist down, receiving the hairbrush spanking she had been promised. She heard Frank say, 'Hold your hands out, Kelly,' and then the crack and the yelp as Kelly took the first of six scorching strap strokes upon her palms and fingers. And finally Kelly pleading, 'Not the birch! Please, please, don't birch me!'

'You shall be birched, Kelly,' said Miss Foster's voice.

'Most soundly birched! And Helen shall go across the table at your side for an equal dose. A dozen apiece to begin with, I think, and then I shall decide how many more you need.'

The heartfelt soprano duet of birch-inspired eloquence seemed to go on for a long time, but when it was over Lucinda was allowed to turn around, in time to hear Jim Mytton say 'Marjorie, you've been getting away scot free so far. I reckon you're overdue for a damn good hiding!'

Marjorie smiled. 'What have you in mind, Jim? Knickers down and a good smack-bottom? I'm rather in the mood for that.'

'That's not a punishment for you!' said Mytton, good-humouredly. 'It's just fun and games. No, I think we'll try something different. Strip, Marjorie. Everything off.'

She hesitated for only a moment before starting to unbutton her shirt. 'This is something new,' she said. 'I don't think we've had anyone punished completely naked before.'

She took off the shirt, kicked off her shoes, unzipped her jeans and removed them.

'You can keep your socks on,' said Mytton.

'That would seem more indecent somehow,' she said. She took them off, reached back and unhooked her bra. At least my tits are in reasonable shape,' she said, as her full breasts swung free.

'Fancy your blush going that far down,' said Mytton. 'Get your drawers off, Marjorie.'

'You bastard!' she said, and threw her knickers at him.

He caught them, grinning, and handed them to Frank. 'Add those to your collection, lad.' He picked up two narrow leather straps. 'Hold your wrists out, Marjorie.'

'You want me on the rings?' she said. 'All right – but I won't be fastened. Put the straps away, Jim.'

Mytton stepped to a wall rack and looked round at the watching group. 'You've heard of women being whipped at the cart's tail back in Tudor times?' he said. 'Most people think it was done with a kind of cat o' nine tails. Usually it was with one of these.' He showed them a wooden handle with a long, heavy leather strap attached. 'It didn't cut the back to pieces like a cat would,' he said. 'Though it sometimes drew blood because they did the entire whipping on the back. I'm going to spread it out a bit. That's why I didn't just have Marjorie strip to the waist.'

'And bloody chilly it is standing here without a stitch on!' she said. 'If I'd known this was coming I'd have asked you to turn the heating up.'

'You'll soon be a damn sight warmer,' he said. 'On the rings, Marjorie.'

She walked to the wall and stood facing it, one hand grasping each steel ring. They all looked at the white, unblemished flesh of arms and back and buttocks and legs.

'Ready, Marjorie?' said Mytton. 'Here we go, then.'

He swung the whip and the leather thong cracked across her back at shoulder level. She jerked and cried out sharply. The whip left another weal, just below the first. This time she choked the cry down to a gasp, but she writhed where she stood with her nipples pressed against the brickwork. He gave her four more strokes, working downwards, and by the time the last one landed she was moaning loudly and her forearm muscles stood out as she gripped the rings. Then he started again, from the top. As the whip landed on flesh already swollen and throbbing she shrieked. By the time the second set of six lashes was over Marjorie was howling out sobbing entreaties, but she still clung desperately to the rings.


Mytton stepped back. 'Now someone else can warm her backside,' he said. 'How about you, Lucinda? You've taken a lot more punishment than you've given so far. Anyway, it used to be the job of schoolteachers to make sure naughty girls couldn't sit down in comfort.'

'Before my time, I'm glad to say,' said Lucinda. 'The idea of beating children never appealed to me. Having a grown woman offering her arse for punishment is another matter. Twelve of the very best on the way, Marjorie.' She swung the whip hard to crack solidly across the meatiest part of Marjorie's generously curved buttocks.

* * *

'Frank,' said Lucinda, some time later, 'I hope my fidgeting doesn't annoy you, but to tell the truth I can hardly bear to sit down!'

Frank smiled at her as she sat, or rather wriggled beside him in the car. 'That's the usual effect of a girl's first visit to SPOC. I hope you haven't found it too – er – exciting.'

'It won't put me off coming to the next meeting, if that's what you mean. Three weeks between meetings will be just the right interval for the marks on my bum to fade and for me to anticipate the next time. Anyway, I couldn't abandon the friends I've made – and one in particular. Why are you stopping the car?'

'It's a road junction,' pointed out Frank. 'If we turn left it leads to your flat, where I escort you to your door, shake hands and drive away. If we turn right, it leads to my home, where other things may happen.'

'Do you usually invite girls home on the first meeting, Frank?'

'Only very special girls.'

Lucinda smiled. 'You mean pretty girls with good figures who've shown they don't mind having their bottoms tanned?'

'Such girls,' said Frank, sadly, 'are all too rare.'

'And when such a girl visits you, is there a good chance she'll be soundly spanked and sent to bed, no matter how sore she may be already?'

'Not sent to bed,' said Frank. 'Taken.'

'Frank,' said Lucinda, 'I already know you're a good man with a plastic ruler. It would be very interesting to discover what you can do with your open hand when you've got a girl comfortably settled down bare-bottomed across your lap, and plenty of time to make a good job of it.'

'Even if her bottom is very sore already?'

'Especially since her bottom is very sore already. Drive on, Frank. Turn right!'