Jennifer's Confessions

Story from London Life Vol.1 No.3.

Jennifer's Confessions
By Christopher James

No one needn't think I was in love with Mr. James. I like boys naturally but I like best to be with my best friend Molly that don't mean I'm one of them though. It's just that we get well affectionate. By the way I'm Jennifer and I'm sixteen and one month.

Mummy said I'd got to take these lessons and it wasn't fair well I ain't illiterate am I? Someone at work asked me well being bitchy but there's this story about the bird what was so dumb she thought grub-screw was a lunchtime fuck. Well I don't know what a bloody grub-screw is why should I? Anyhow mummy said I was getting wild because I'd got no father she even told Mr. James to see I kept at it me a working girl he did too by golly!

I got to admit I played him up not doing homework being late and so on it was a bit of a shock when he made me work extra time bloody nerve if you ask me only he didn't. Told him straight I did wasn't going to be treated like a kid I says and got put well and truly in my place. He made me feel a bit bad mum being a widow and not well anyway I couldn't really refuse but I didn't like it.

One evening when I was late and got told off I said he could well he couldnt've but golly wasn't he cross don't like girls using filthy language Mr. James don't. He went in the other room and come back with of all things a cane. A supple one the end bent in a handle it quivered like a spring. Shook me a bit I just stared he said if I was a real schoolmaster you'd feel it. I said Well you ain't and didn't no one tell you bum-bruising is out at girl schools these days? He just grinned and took it away.

That ought to've been that but well there's something I've never told before it's like as if there's two Jenny's in me one is a right coward scared of pain the others often thought of punishment specially on the bum yet I'd not been whacked on it much. We'd got a cane at home hanging behind a picture till I was grown up I just got a tap sometimes when I was little but I certainly never wanted it for real and I'd always been thankful girls wasn't caned much at school. They was a bit though I got the stick on the hand and on the bottom just a few times only one stroke or two but enough to know I didn't like it it's not right caning girls is it well everyone knows that well I mean boys is different aren't they? Yet well it's jolly funny this secret feeling I'd imagine things like I'd been terrible bad at school and I was stripped bent over and thrashed in front of all the girls from a man though it was a girls school. Sometimes it was a whip like I'm being flogged on my bare backside with a riding-crop and I'm howling and sobbing or I'd be naked and whipped by my Master a Sultan or whatever they have and I'd be screaming and blood running down. (TOO MUCH EASTERN PROMISE PERHAPS? ED.)

Anyway after Mr. James showed me that supple cane I just couldn't stop thinking of it the way the end seemed to wriggle gave me a funny tickly feeling somewhere near my navel and all tingly in my soppy behind. I'd forgot what it felt like tried to imagine him caning me well only thinking not really getting it oh no golly no I certainly never wanted it!

I started getting this dream thing at night giving my pussy a treat you know just suppose I was in court and there's this judge all dressed up in robes and whigs being terrible stern he says Jennifer you was caught offering your body to men for money and being drunk is no excuse I sentence you to twenty strokes of the birch on your bare buttocks in public. Then me and some other girls what got to be flogged get taken to our local park and its full of people watching and it turns out to be Mr. James is doing the punishing. There's this bench what I'm tied over and Mr James takes my knicks down and my poor mum's there crying and saying thats my child being whipped for horing and oh my goodness don't he bring it down but I can't imagine no more cause I don't know what it'd be like do I but its lovely dreaming and masticating knowing it couldn't happen well men can't go walloping girls behinds even if they are teaching them. But of course when the real thing happened it wasn't nothing like my dreams not one bit!

Half-past-eight come and I grumbled about working another dreary bloody half-hour and said You didn't ought to keep me in like a kid it ain't right. He looked at me with a sort of grim smile and said Well you know what I have in the other room if you prefer.

Of all the bloody cheek I told him I ain't a schoolkid and what the hell do you think my mum'd say? He said Your mother wanted me to be firm with you Jenny but don't worry don't you know when I'm joking? What came over me then well I don't know honest I don't! Well I mean thinking these silly things trying to imagine the sting what of course I couldn't and I got funny feelings in my belly and thighs and slit I was wondering if I could say I wanted to go to the loo so I could masticate. I never meant to say a word I swear. I heard myself mumbling all right Mr. James you can punish me instead of extra work. My face was burning couldn't look at him.

He didn't think I was serious. Course I am I says and you needn't worry you don't think a girl my age'd want people to know I've had the cane do you? Nor I certainly wouldn't want mummy to know and I'd much rather you give me the stick than stay extra time I was thinking Christ Jenny silly little bitch clean off your empty rocker that's what. I was all mixed up inside I mean I didn't want to be hurt kept telling myself it was better than being kept in just the same if Mr. James had been a woman I wouldn't have. Well it is ruddy odd and that's a fact and nobody what knew me would credit it I just couldn't understand how I could want to be beaten I'm not a meek sort of female no one tries it on with little Jenny. A boy got fresh once told me I'd got an adorable arse what needed spanking some hopes he'd got talk about tooth and claw I drew blood with both. Yet now well somehow I liked Mr. James being strict made me all goosy when he fetched the cane and was stern oooh that was nice! I was in for a shock though my arse was crawling with desire but he says Hold your hand out Jennifer. My hand Mr. James? Yes says he its humiliating for females to be beaten on the seat. Well maybe but the time came when I got my bare bot. spanked across his lap bawling like a baby but that's another story.

By golly I was feeling peculiar all shaky and buttercups in my tum. But more daft than scared making me hold my hand out at sixteen! I says Its bloody childish he give that grim smile I don't think you'll find this childish Jennifer and what's more won't I give it to you if you don't stop swearing my girl I didn't know where to look I was that embarrassed and thinking daft little cow.

Then I got real scared holding my arm out awful reluctant seeing him carve the stick in a bow what made it look horridly menacing then standing well back laid it across my palm. It felt hard and cold and the stubby end looked thicker'n before I was quivery my paw shaky and damp wishing I could change my mind but I couldn't back out then anyhow I thought babyish to be frightened of one whack but folly I was het up with excitement as much as fright.

Swish! Sharpish sting I didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed I says Well that's not so bad but it seemed he'd only tapped me as a warning didn't want to hurt me he said. They say some people never learn I have to go and be even more bloody silly don't I something was driving me on and maybe my pride was upset insolent as I could I asks Do I look sodding weak? I knew I'd get it then all right but I think he was a bit nervous said not to move my hand it might hurt more if I did. I gulped licked my lips and shut my eyes he wasn't hurrying twice I felt the cold hard touch on my palm I was praying he'd get on with it my knees seemed weak.

I was thinking not to be a goose – Christ nearly jumped a foot in the air I mean me not Him that bloody stick! (Thats a lovely word but I got out of the habit of using it to Mr. James on account of my backside getting too painful) I'm sure it wasn't so bad at school that time. Thought my hand was cut clean through burning like on fire and tingled as though with 100 nettle stings for absolutely ages I said Oh my Gawd that's no joke he says It wasn't meant to be and if I ever have to do it again it'll be two strokes and do you understand me miss always miss or Jennifer when I'm disciplined. Real stern by golly I says meekly Yes sir I'll try and be a good girl oh my golly never been so bloody subdued sir indeed I was being a baby well I've admitted I'm a coward.

Little Jenny'd learnt something and it wasn't English bloody grammar well I think I'm pretty good at that anyway well you can see that can't you I mean. I swore I'd been caned for the first and last time never wanted that again honest but some females can be screwy and maybe I'm screwier'n most only I reckon its just that I need something hot and stiff up me guess what if you like but no prize the fact is well I was scared stiff and getting funny sensations all at the same time. Oooh lovely warm thrill all over thinking of Mr. James all stern and masterful flexing and swishing that whippy cane I was real frightened then I'd think Jenny don't be a soppy little funk it's good for you like having a father keeping me in order and wish I could get at my clit thing.

I'm not sure but I think it was then I realised it wasn't really punishment I mean it was and it wasn't well it was sexy and to do with Mr. James being stern with me I've got to admit that but I mean I was thinking of him as a sort of father but oh my golly what a lovely sexy daddy!

Four days later I got two cuts for being fifteen minutes late and they weren't taps and I found out what he'd meant about hurting more if I moved. The first was awful and my hand jerked back just as the stick swished for the second time I didn't mean to it hurt so much my nerve went that bloody cane caught the tips of my fingers. Oh my golly the pain was sickening I doubled up eyes smarting poor fingers burning unbearable yet numb at the same time feeling six times their size and for a minute just didn't know what to do with myself tears was running down my cheeks but I didn't cry out loud. I know this sounds like school stuff but if there's any girl what thinks it's soppy and childish well just let her try it! Well of course I knew jolly well what most people would've said but I honestly thought I deserved to get the cane mummy couldn't properly afford private tuition and what was the good if I didn't do what I was told only it didn't work that way.

Anyway I'd had enough after that Jenny's going to be a good little girl honest! But next Monday I said to Mr. James Fuck the homework I got tore off a strip that made my eyebrows curl and told Fetch the cane miss. I was a bit sulky I said Get it yourself. Oooh he was mad he says that'll do from you my girl you need a good lesson and do what I tell you now! No more arguing I obeyed submissive as you like. That was the first time I'd handled the cane I ran my fingers along it all excited I was actually glad oh you stupid bloody bitch!

Three he says three on the same hand oh gosh I just couldn't I nearly backed out could have said No my mouth was dry I wanted to snivel. Till I thought of something that evening it was typing I says Please Mr. James I can't do ;lkjh after three on the hand Well he says you must have it on your bottom three strokes with your skirt up.

My heart was thumping somewhere near my throat voice shaky and hoarse face must've looked like a geranium and I wanted to wee but didn't take no notice of that. He said Very well my disobedient child shall have what she wants cheeky sod I nearly said then I looked at the cane and thought better not. Well I didn't have to pretend to be frightened trouble was I was getting sexy too funny feeling both I want it and no I don't I'm scared sick and nearly hypnotised by that whippy stick rapping against his hand threatening and sort of tempting. And then I spotted something what made me giggle and get told off didn't he know what made me laugh? I thought so that's why you want to cane me Mr. James your prick's sexy as my private place oooh my goodness I think I'd like it up me you wicked girl!

He made me lift my skirt rolled tight and bend over holding the seat of a chair I just can't describe the way I felt with this feeling only much stronger churning round inside like milk going buttery as us girls say I'd come all over unnecessary I'd never got so randy being kissed. Awful funny sensation in my cunt down my thighs up my back my breasts well all over. It was scary embarrassing and humiliating bum sticking out more immodest than I'd ever been first time in my life I'd ever stood like that showing my panties off to a man what would mummy say what's more I was wishing I'd gone to the loo it was getting bad s'pose its being afraid.

I'd heard that until a girl's had an eider as they used to put it up the Bricklayers way before they condemned us she don't want it with a man but don't you believe it! This must sound shocking immoral but I think I'd've let Mr. James screw me right then on the floor oooh Jenny you bad wicked girl even thinking that you need your randy arse tanning that you do.

I was enjoying being mastered and I felt well pain immodesty indignity so what? Now I thought now my knicks it coming down but he didn't s'pose he didn't dare I kept thinking oh lor I want to do a pee awful bad I can feel it with my pants tight under my crutch oh Mr James that naughty cock of yours'll bust right through soon. The air's cool on the bit of bare skin above my knicks I'm goosy all up my spine oh golly the stick's touching me making me all shuddery with a sort of ecstasy buttocks twitch boy am I frightened! Trembling breathless mouth and lips dry heart thudding fit to bust and ten pounds of cold suet pud. in my tummy if I wasn't gripping that chair I swear my knees would've caved in. The goofy thing is it's a really delicious fear I like it! I want to be hurt yet golly I'm funky! I dread it honest I mean that! The cane moving on my plump cheeks under the thin skin-tight cotton as he gets the right position is sort of well like as if he's caressing me oooh wish he would wish he'd take my panties down and fondle my bot. and right underneath.

I'm getting ever so worked up more and more and more the thrillingest sensations all through me strong like waves I'm tingling like electric it's glorious getting stronger and stronger – oh golly it's wonderful – I'm just not myself – it's like I'm high – a bit drunk – I can't stand it – I'm in a sort of daze like a dream – I'm nearly fainting it's rapturous – oh mum oh no no my bladder – I can't – I'll be disgraced for ever! Oh I'm frightened oh God don't let him cane me don't let him hit me hard!

There's that musical whirring hiss I flinch as I feel the crack across my bottom that's funny nothing much no pain Oooh-ouch! No pain? Jesus it's agony extraordinary sensation red-hot wire cutting right through my body catching my breath. I can't breathe oh God I want to cry I want to laugh I want to pee I can't stick it I can't! Pain rising burning my back icy cold sweat trickling hands sticky on the chair-seat.

WHAM! Another indescribable sharp surge of anguish oh my that's a good bit isn't it shows I don't need lessons don't it? I let out a gasping gurgling noise as pain sears right through the middle of me. Hold on Jenny brave girl he must see I want to do a piss the way I'm fidgetting I can't hold it and can't help shouting Bloody hell fucking cane! Foul mouthed child Mr. James says apologise for what you said I went all sullen why should I No I won't I says it is a bloody cane! He says Right miss that'll be one extra cut I won't have that language –

SWISH-THWACK – Ooooh-ow! My body jerks convulsive like an electric shock one leg goes right up oh God oh no warm wet running all in my pants now I'm crying tears plopping on the chair and wee running down my legs I can't think straight all knotted up inside all on fire. Blazing pain mixed up with burning excitement. Aren't I ever going to stop weeing must be gallons running in my shoes and soaking Mr. James carpet wouldn't punish me for that would he I'm writhing I know my face is contorted.

Stick it out don't move only one more – CRACK – Oooh-aagh! Oh oh oh can't help howling oh Christ never known such pain that was like being cut right in two thank God its over but I want another cut I'm mad my poor backside on fire is it bleeding? Oh oh I can't take any more yet I want it whip me oh glory whip me 'till I scream please sir scold me for being a dirty little girl say I must thrash your bottom for it my girl wetting yourself at your age! Yet while I'm thinking that I'm snivelling making little whimpering noises moaning No more please oh golly no more!

I said Please sir are you going to cane me for spoiling your carpet oh golly wish he would I would like just one more cut all the same terrific relief when he said Of course not Jenny you couldn't help that you may stand up yet I was disappointed too must be bloody mad I'm bloody wet! I stood up bent forward a bit squeezing and rubbing my burning arse. You poor child he says why didn't you tell me you wanted to go to the toilet?

I suppose that sounds a lot of fuss over four whacks across the arse with a cane nothing really but looking back that's what it was like real anguish like being cut in half I couldn't hardly stick it yet lovely blissful sexy sensations. In the mirror in Sir's bedroom I saw the weals beauties across the middle of each lovely round check just looking at them turned me on they was dark-red hard when I touched them and smarting oh golly burning! I was to get it lots worse but that's how it all started it always gave me a heavenly thrill funny the burning anguish in the backside cut right through and got joined up with the sort of gnawing pain in my gentiles pure rapture but there was a limit to the pain I could stick well I'm a coward and me thinking all them soppy thoughts about being birched and that.

Could've sobbed my heart out weeing my panties such a dirty childish thing and it was my fault I should have gone when I knew I needed to yet Mr. James was awful sorry for me even rinsed my knickers and dried them with an electric fire bet he's frightened my mum'll find out whipping her girl's bum so hard I pissed meself and I reckon she might smack my bottom for that!

Well I'm lying face down on his bed with my gorgeous botty all bare to cool the burning sting and my fingers in me oooh super mastication bet I look more tempting than the Sleeping Beauty anyway hope it'll tempt Sir so he'll have to put that stiff whatsit up me golly what a thing to say I know I'm a bad naughty dirty indecent girl but oooh I do so want an eider and anyway I'm the age of consensus. When my poor botty's better think I'll have to ask him to use a slipper on it for weeing my knicks really I ought to be wearing a bloody nappy!

NOTE TO MY READERS.

I never could persuade Jenny to use commas. She always said "If you don't know where to put the bloody things better leave 'em out." But If I'd used her spelling you really would have had something to complain about!

C.J.

The Perfect Match

Story from Februs 36.

The Perfect Match
A short story by Tim Starfield

'You two, you're just made for each other. You're the perfect match.'

That casual comment, spoken only a few hours earlier, stuck in Eliza's brain as she lay in bed. Katharine had said it, in the kitchen, while she was "helping" to wash up, after the dinner party. Helping, as far as Katharine was concerned, consisted of standing idly by with a dishcloth, nattering nineteen to the dozen, pausing occasionally to smear some new thumb marks onto Eliza's best crystal glasses.

The party had been a success. As ever. Everything in Eliza's life was a success. Her fabulous job, with its fabulous salary, fabulous car, home and lifestyle. Her fabulous figure, unspoilt at twenty-nine by children, rigorously dieted for, maintained at fabulous cost and vehement effort in the fabulous gym she patronised three times a week. Her fabulous wardrobe, her exquisite taste in books, music, and food. And of course, her fabulous boyfriend.

It was, as it is often, the contrast that made them so perfect for each other. Where Eliza was type A, go-ahead, dynamic, quick, cynical and extrovert, born to make snap but unerring decisions, and see them through no matter what, taking no prisoners, Paul was laid-back, easy-going, almost devil-may-care in his approach to life. You'd have called him a slob, except Eliza had him well trained. When she said hoover, he hoovered. When she said peel the potatoes, he peeled. Clean the car, go to the supermarket, mow the lawn... but, of course, Eliza never bossed. She asked. Nicely, if she could be bothered. And he was always there. Safe, solid, reliable. Happy? She thought so. His own career as an itinerant jazz musician, picking up odd gigs here and there, every now and then, with the emphasis on then more often than on now, seemed to give him the creative outlet he needed, leaving him free the rest of the time to enjoy the world and take it as it came. He was kind, he was good, he was above all a gentleman. A gentle man. And he was lucky to be with her. They both knew it, although it remained unsaid. Her own high-powered job financed a much higher standard of living than he would otherwise have afforded.

Chalk and cheese, people said. But it worked. They seemed to thrive on one anothers' company. The jokes flowed with the wine and they had that halo of contentment about them that seems to cling to successful couples. So often, that can get right up your nose, but with Paul and Eliza, it didn't. They seemed at ease with their roles and their relationship. It was obvious she wore the trousers. But that's been the way of the world for thousands of years, even if it was only recently that the women's movement managed to convince us all that it was OK in principle as well an in practice.

The last guests had left at about half-past-midnight. It was now getting on for two. They'd cleaned up, sorted the recycling from the rubbish and put another black sack in the wheelie bin, reminded each other what a brilliant cook Eliza was, polishing off tasty leftovers to prove it, and solved, in absentia, the social and psycho-sexual problems of most of their friends. They'd agreed that Katharine was drinking too much, and decided that she needed a man. One like Paul, in fact, would be ideal. But too bad, there's only one, and I've got him.

A hug, a brief kiss, then teeth flossed, and to bed.

To sleep? Well, yes. Paul had sort of tried to instigate a sort of cuddle.

'Christ no, Paul,' Eliza had snapped. 'Look at the time. And I've got a breakfast meeting.'

Paul had merely shrugged, and rolled over. He didn't seem to mind much. He never did.

Perhaps he was getting used to it. Perhaps they both were. The truth was, they hadn't made love for, how long? Six weeks? Three months? Since Christmas? It wasn't that the attraction had worn off. After four years, each was still the other's idea of the perfect partner. But the drive was missing. The spark had gone. In the first flush of the partnership, they would have had athletic sex for an hour or more, then slept exhausted, curled up like sweaty spoons.

Now? Now they each rolled over, leaving that tell-tale cold space in the middle of the bed, where the wet patch used to be. And separately, discretely, in different worlds, went frustrated and unfulfilled to sleep.

To sleep, perchance to dream?

Eliza is a soldier in an army somewhere. The details are hazy. The uniform is vaguely communist, grey non-descript fatigues and forage caps. She imagines she's probably an officer but it doesn't seem to make much difference to her plight.

She has done something terribly, disastrously wrong. Led a platoon the wrong way into an ambush or failed to blanco the webbing on her boots, she can't be sure, but retribution is on its way. Hauled into a hollow square of fellow conscripts, she is being harangued by a large and frightening Sergeant Mayor. His face seems hazily familiar. The chin and the hair could be Liam Neeson, or Joseph Stalin, but the glasses and the smile are definitely Paul.

The hot jungle sun beats down on her as she stands, head bowed, listening to the rant. An overwhelming feeling of guilt floods through her, but somehow it combines with an enormous wave of warm relief. She had tried to get away with it, flown too near the sun but mercifully had been found out in time. She's for it now. For it, in a big way. And although the fear is palpable and exciting, it's also strangely reassuring.

She moans gently in her sleep and without knowing it parts her legs a little to let a cool hand stray between them.

Paul, who had left school himself at sixteen and under something of a cloud, having hated and resented the place and its stupid rules and petty regulations the whole time he was there, would be the first to react with astonishment if you woke him from his dream and told him, 'you're a Headmaster.'

But he is. And facing that most awful dilemma of a Headmaster's life. One we all know so well and cherish. His (strangely mature, supermodel bodied but angelic looking) Head Prefect has been caught smoking a cannabis joint. So often it happens. What can he do? He doesn't want to expel her but surely it's the only solution. Here she stand on the other side of his desk, pushing a guilty toe into his carpet, not daring to look him in the eye, incessantly twining a blonde pigtail in her nervous fingers. Her reddened face, red with blushing and smudged with the effort of recent tears, seems oddly familiar, but, of course, without the guile, without the years of hard-won worldly wisdom, it's Eliza.

He mutters a few tentative pompous phrases. In his heart of hearts he knows he should call the police, call her parents, call in the Deputy Headmistress who was at Roedean for years and will know what to do. But he doesn't.

He proposes a solution to their joint dilemma. She gasps, then gulps, then nods. On feet of lead he walks slowly to the cabinet in the corner where old McGregor, his predecessor, kept the cane. In the days when it was allowed. In the days when it was the only answer to every problem. He unlocks the glass door and allows his hand to stiffen into a powerful grip around the long, pliant, rattan tool of his total authority.

Sighing softly, his hand stiffens into a powerful grip.

* * *

Eliza to ordered to strip. Reluctantly, slowly, her heart hammering with shame and excitement, she peels off her tunic, unclips the grey scratchy sports brassiere. Let them see her tits, she's proud of them...

Wait a minute – am I the only woman in this entire army? Hardly daring to look around, she does so, furtively. Yup. Seems so. A sea of male faces is following her every move, licking lips and salivating as her nipples harden in the humid breeze. Another warm flood of humiliation trickles through her as she unbuckles her belt, lets the heavy grey combat trousers fall to a puddle around her ankles.

Hardly able to move now, she shuffles towards (Paul) the bulky Drill Sergeant as he stands, impatiently tapping the riding crop along the top of the gym horse. Wearily, she leans across it and reaches with her hands for the gravel on the far side. Stretching her fabulous body taut, like a big letter A with her superb arse as its apex.

Rough fingers scrabble at the itchy fabric of her uniform briefs. They are pulling her knickers down to her knees, baring her bottom for the onslaught of her dreadful punishment. She will faint with the shame of it... but no, she mustn't, she must stay conscious for the first stroke of the appalling lash.

Taking more than her fair share of duvet (as ever), she twists onto her front, bringing her knees up to her belly and arching her back.

Headmaster Paul is having trouble with his gown. His gown? Christ, I suppose Headmasters have to wear gowns, don't they? It won't stop flapping open, hindering the free swing of his caning arm. And that's another thing. Why does this suit appear to have no fly-buttons? It was bad enough to have his star pupil kneeling in tears before him, beseeching him not to punish her, promising him anything, if only he'd let her off, without having certain thoughts raising their ugly head... as it were. 'Well I am the head girl, Sir...' Of course, he declined her offer. Afterwards, maybe, when she's well and truly learned her lesson... and Jesus! I'd better lock that door right now: can't have God-knows-who barging in... today St. Ethelburga's High School, tomorrow The News Of The World!

But, panic over, he was, with a masterly (even Head-masterly) display of self-control, dissuaded young Eliza from her disgraceful Plan B and got her lying supine across his leather-topped desk. Skirt up round her ear-lobes, panties at half-mast, her lithe but provocatively rounded bottom the perfect target... if only he could stop this wretched gown from flapping about...

Grunting slightly with the effort, he plucks feebly at the edge of the duvet, eventually managing to wrap a tiny portion of it (mostly cover) around him.

Captain Eliza feels the rush of cold air on her defenceless exposed bottom as the full enormity of her awful situation dawns on her. The ruthless bear of a Sergeant-Major bellows some dire imprecation about counting strokes and through the haze of her fear and arousal she can dimly hear the sharp intake of breath from the surrounding cohort as the terrible leather whip is raised and swished through the air. Army-style, for a couple of agonisingly close practice swipes. She can practically feel the imprint of its cruel impact on her naked rump already. She shivers with a guilty, yearning, anticipation.

Clumsily, almost furtively, Headmaster Paul swishes his cane through the air. He can see his victim blanch and visibly clench her tight young buttocks as she hears the whoosh of the fearful rod. Yet strangely she seems more composed than he is. Resigned to her fate, she lies helpless before him, the slight sway and swell of her girlish hips almost daring him to do his worst. Only the agitated drumming of one standard issue plimsoll on the parquet floor betrays her anxiety.

How does one manage this thing? It seems to have a mind of its own. And it would be just hopeless to be too gentle with the first stroke... on the other hand, don't want to have to send the girl bleeding profusely to Matron or to Casualty.

Come on, man, pull yourself together. Play up. School!

Oh yes. One more thing to say. His own throbbing excitement setting the blood pulsing through his body so fast that he can hardly breathe, Paul manages somehow to utter the essential phrase about this hurting him a lot more than it hurts her, then with new and deadly resolve, pull back his powerful arm, takes careful aim, and launches the vicious cane – splat! into the centre of the tempting target.

With an animal howl of pain and shock, Eliza buckles over the wooden horse as the eyes of a hundred cadets watch the livid red weal rising across her pearl-white arse. Grimacing and grinding her teeth, she steels herself for the next implacable stroke... and the next... and the next...

And so we leave them, in their oddly symmetrical harmony. Two people in one bed. So near, and yet so far.

Leave them to dream. To sleep, fitfully.

To awaken, somehow unsatisfied.

She at six, to the power shower and the power dressing and the power meeting. To brazen her way through another day barking orders, needling subordinates, charming the pants off superiors. Achieve, achieve, achieve and it's a slap in the face for the builder who wolfwhistles, no tip for the taxi driver who calls her 'love'.

He, at ten, to grope his way to the toilet, bent double with a hard-on the size of the Eiffel Tower and spend the first agonising minutes of his day trying to persuade his prostate to pee. And then to shrug, smile, wonder fleetingly what all that was about and make himself a nice cup of herbal tea. And stretch and yawn and see the note reminding him to pick up the dry-cleaning or else and smile again, foolish but cheerful.

Oh yes, they're the ideal couple all right. Made for each other. Everyone says so. They know it themselves and tell each other so.

They're the perfect match. They just don't know why.

School for spanking

Story from Swish Vol.4 No.3.

School for spanking

It sounded a crazy idea – a great idea. Linda couldn't make up her mind, but then it wasn't her idea but Pippa's. And Pippa really knew how to put it into practise – or so she said!

"A school for spanking? Have you got any more crazy ideas?" Linda asked her sister, Pippa.

"Sure. The other one is that it'll work – and, besides, think of the fun we'll have," Pippa laughed. Both in their early twenties, they had always been among the most attractive go-girls in the neighbourhood, but this idea was too way-out even for Linda to follow. "First thing is," she snorted, "we'll have the snoopers round here wanting to know what the hell is going on."

Pippa fluffed her hair back and blew a long wisp of blue smoke from her prettily-pouting mouth. "Remember that Mum always used to tell US that we needed someone to really teach us?" she said. "AND?" Linda threw back at her, "he did an all. It was you upstairs first for half an hour and then me. Why it took half an hour for you to get yours when mine only lasted a couple of minutes I'll never know, by the way – but then they split up and......"

"Right!" Pippa interrupted her, "and we were still at spanking stage – me nineteen and you a bit younger. So just suppose there are girls who aren't getting it, but should, for one reason or another?" Linda cocked her head. Pippa had really been thinking this out, she could tell. "You mean like there's no one to spank them, or no one who dares to, or – er – they resist too much."

"Right on!" Pippa said in her best jokey voice. "You were like that, you know – resisting I mean. I could hear you. All squeals and squals. No wonder you were in and out so quick. You used to burst out of the study pulling your knicks up, I remember! And you still blush about it too. You'd make an ideal pupil, you would. Just my cup of tea, in fact."

"Oh yeah – and what would you teach me?" Linda sneered. A slight look of apprehension passed over her smooth oval face as Pippa jumped up and grabbed her arm. "No – look, Pippa!" she began desperately, knowing that look in her sister's eyes only too well. But she was off-balance in more ways than one and Pippa had sensed it. A screech from Linda and she was well over Pippa's lap with her skirt quickly tucked up.

"Nice! A lovely white round botty!" Pippa laughed, giving it a gentle smack where the cheeks burst out on either side of the backstrap of her sister's cute blue knicks. "No use struggling, Linda, I've got you tight. You try to wriggle off, my girl, and you'll get a real scorcher. Right – first lesson. Knickers have to come off – right off, like this." Linda's suddenly kicking legs were accompanied by a yell of "No! No, stop it!" which Pippa calmly ignored, ripping the tiny nylon garment down and getting it off one high-heeled shoe so that it dangled little larger than a man's hanky from the other. SMACK! went her palm, leaving a distinctly pink imprint of splayed fingers on Linda's luscious orb.

"NA-OW!" Linda yelped and got another. "I told you – I TOLD you what would happen if you struggled, Linda." SMACK! SMACK! And oh, how juicily even such a perfect tight bottom jiggled, Pippa thought with an inward thrill, keeping her left arm firmly clamped around her sister's waist. "STOP it, Pippa – will you stop it!" Linda howled. "NO!" Pippa said sharply, "I won't – not until you listen, Linda. This is exactly how some of our pupils would act, and a fat lot of good you'd be if you react in this way, too. Now – are you going to be quiet or not?"

"Oh-oooooh!" Linda whined theatrically for good effect and then decided to change her tune. Squeezing her tingling bottom cheeks together she let herself hang limp. "Go on, then – but no more smacks, Pippa."

"Huh! that's a bit Irish! How can I teach you if I don't? All right – just little ones – you'll hardly feel them but they keep you nice and tingly while I'm talking. Now, the first thing is, to get your skirt off, too. For one thing they crease up and for another they keep slipping down, O.K?" But before Linda could answer, Pippa's hand was already at the side zip and in a flash Linda's skirt was slipping down to her ankles just as her knicks had.

"Mmmm!" Linda bubbled as Pippa's palm fell very lightly but rhythmically now. If only all spanks were like this, it would be nice. Extra nice, in fact. Unthinkingly she let her legs glide apart, to Pippa's murmured approval. "Good girl, Linda – now, we've got you in the right position, just perfect. It's not hurting really, is it? Bulge it up, darling – I mean get it right in the centre of my lap. It's only one of the positions you can be spanked in. Or strapped, of course, but then you never did get strapped, did you?"

"Mmmmpfff!" Linda choked. Despite what Pippa had said, her hand was coming down just that little bit harder now and her cheeks were getting gradually hotter now and she was squeezing them more. On top of which the tingly feeling was spreading its tentacles right through her and making her feel extra squirmy. "B..b...but you weren't st....strapped, Pippa, were you? Did he strap you – honest?"

Oh, what a lovely bottom – so smooth, so round and getting so nicely hot now, Pippa was thinking. Several times in between her rhythmic smacks she let her fingers linger and drift over the silksmooth globe, teasing the tips into the tight groove and even slipping them down to the lips of Linda's pussy so lightly that Linda scarcely felt the sly caress at first.

"Uh-huh – a few times. Mostly when you were out," Pippa said dreamily. Linda was coming on nicely – her hands still planted submissively on the carpet. There were quicker, softer, "OOOOH's!" coming from Linda now and once in a while her pretty head would jerk up as a harder one fell on her bouncy cheeks, but her thighs were nicely lax still, the way they should be. Giving her a last lingering smack and then resting her spread fingers gently on Linda's pink bottom, Pippa bent suddenly to kiss both its hot cheeks, causing her sister to giggle and squirm.

"OOOH!" Linda choked, bringing a laugh from Pippa. "Yes, darling it gets very much like that when it's done properly. You never allowed it to be. Sit up now – pretend you've been naughty and you have to sit on my lap and say you're sorry."

Surprised to find that she was almost sorry it was over, Linda obeyed with a flashing of shapely legs, squatting her bottom into Pippa's lap where she had quickly drawn her own skirt up so that their warm, sleek thighs and stocking tops rubbed together. "You see – it wasn't so bad, and that's the way we'll teach them," Pippa said, clasping her sister fondly, "but you have to play the game properly now. Say you're sorry and then give me a little kiss." Linda giggled. Her bottom felt funny but lovely – and funnier still, really, bulging down partly on the front of Pippa's panties.

"All right – I'm sorry," she mumbled and gave her sister a quick peck, but then felt Pippa's arm tighten about her waist. "No!" Pippa told her sharply, "it's going to be like a drill, pet – we're going to have to teach them a full and proper routine. That wasn't a proper kiss, for a start. Secondly, you're not to scramble up yet. Not like you used to – that was silly, not to say a shock to all," Pippa added with a laugh. "Does your botty still hurt?"

"Y..y...yes," Linda pretended to stammer, though it was a nice squirmy tingle and in fact she couldn't help moving it about still. "Good it's supposed to," Pippa said in a practical way, "but that's only the first stage. Remember, you're pretending to be a pupil, O.K? You can keep wriggling around on my lap – that's what you're sitting like this for. It helps, you see. Now, next time you'll have it just a little harder – oh no, don't worry, it won't be awful, but you'll be surprised how your bottom will respond eventually. Then we'll take you to the strap, so you'll be bending right over for that. Or kneeling on the bed, I think – it gives the best position."

"Oh, but I don't want...." Linda began, rather startled, and not sure whether they were still really playing out a game or whether Pippa was serious.

"Sssssh! Quiet now, Linda. I'm going to slip my hand right under your botty now to feel if it's still hot. No – keep still, Linda!"

"NA-AH!" Linda squealed. There were fingers everywhere, it seemed to her. Her bottom jiggled squirmed. "N...n...not in there....OOOOH!" she choked. "QUIET, Linda, quiet, and stop being silly. There – doesn't that feel nice – and THAT? Yes, darling, arms around my neck, you've had your spank now, but not really hard enough. Next time I'll really bring you up."

"D...d...d!" Linda really stuttered now helplessly. There had never been any feeling like this before. The room seemed to be spinning about her and Pippa's fingers were moving faster, faster and the tingly heat in her bottom made her move it up and down until the breath seemed to be rushing from her body. "Nynnnng!" she mewed at the incredible sensations that were flowing through her and sending streaks of fire throughout her body.

Moments later, Pippa stroked Linda's hair as she went limp. "See?" she teased softly, "and THAT was only a little baby spank." Deftly her fingers slipped the buttons of Linda's top and laid the two halves aside from her bared tits, "Even your nipples came up! Oh, I'll really have to take the strap to you – and a lovely pink botty to go with it all," she coaxed, "come and see!"

"WH...WHAAAART!" came croaking from Linda's mouth, but she was off Pippa's lap and being led shaky-legged into the bathroom where Pippa spun her slowly round in front of a full-length mirror, her top flapping. "See? You look cute," Linda purred, "all flushed face, flushed botty and hot nipples."

"Oh stop it – you're TERRIBLE, honest!" Linda tittered, pulling away from her. "Honestly, you're so bloody sexy sometimes, I don't know where you get it from" – a remark that brought a silvery peal of laughter from her sister. "Well, I know where you got it from this time – my little spanking, pet, and you've been missing out," Pippa said admiringly. For Linda really looked a doll in her suspendered stockings, high heels and open top, and with her bottom cheeks still slightly roses and cream. "Well, haven't you?" she asked teasingly, running a caressing hand under the enticing warm globe.

Linda bit her lip and smiled. "I know what YOU'RE thinking and we haven't got one of THOSE around the flat!" she laughed and ran back into the living room to pick up her skirt and panties. Putting them back on she cocked her head at Pippa. "Did you mean it, though – all of it?" Linda shrugged. "Well...I was kidding about a school, of course, but there are a few possibilities, you know, and it WOULD be fun. Know what made me think of it? Sue Carter at the fete the other day. She was keeping a stall with her mother and father and some row or other blew up among them. I was standing just by the side of the stall at the time and I heard her Mum say, "He'll give you a damned good spanking when we get home, my girl."

Linda giggled, hand to her mouth. "Wonder if he did?" she asked. Pippa smiled back at her. "Well – he's coming to the social club tonight – I think I'll ask him," she replied and turned off into the kitchen while her sister was still gaping. "You wouldn't dare!" she called after her, while Pippa cheerfully called back, "You'll see!"

John Carter was always a bit twitchy around Pippa, and she knew it. How to bring the subject up was something else, but finally she managed it by wriggling occasionally. "Got an itch?" he grinned. He was about forty-three, as she figured, and not bad looking. The fib came easily in reply from Pippa. She and Linda had been fooling around spanking one another, she said – but she had got it harder. By this time they were in a side room to the local hall, all by themselves, and John was edging closer to her.

"Made you burn?" he asked, "want me to look at it?" – "Here and now?" Pippa asked cheekily and carefully moved away not quite enough as his hand made an enquiring movement around her well-curved bottom. "Whoo! It stings still," she laughed, "but I bet you'd have spanked me even harder, huh? I bet Sue gets it from you sometimes."

"That she does – or rather she would if she kept still. Three or four and she's off like a bolting rabbit," he smiled, while Pippa clucked her tongue. "Really?" she responded, "oh dear, we can't have that. Want me to take her in hand? I've had a bit of practise – at both ends, as it were," she grinned, "and Linda says I'd make a marvellous trainer."

"You would?" His hand hadn't drawn away, she noticed, in fact the smooth warmth of her bottom through her summer dress was attracting his palpitating touch even more. "I don't think you could exactly train a girl to be spanked, though," John said, convinced she was kidding him. But she had a glorious globe – it's surface felt as silky-smooth as the slightly shiny material of her dress. For a heart-thumping moment he had touched the inrolling groove.

"Listen – I bet you – I bet you twenty-five quid that in one week I could spank Sue, AND she'd like it," Pippa said, heart in her mouth herself. It was bloody daring, she knew it was – daft, too. It probably wouldn't work anyway, but she didn't see how he could miss the challenge, and he didn't. Knowing his male mind well enough, Pippa figured that if she lost he would never ask her for the money anyway. Just the chance to spank her instead!

"You're on, Pippa," he said eagerly, "one week as from Monday, and no rough stuff and no guys. Hey, but listen" – his expression screwed up comically – "how the heck would I know whether or not you'd won? Or whether I'd won, rather – because there's really no way that you can."

"Oh, really?" Her spirit was up now. "Well....you'd know....you'd know next time you spank her, or try to. But I doubt if you ever will again, not after I've finished with her. So it's swings and roundabouts, huh, but don't forget the bet is on!" And with that – eluding his ever-more eager hand – Pippa skipped back into the main hall where he tried all evening in vain to get her on his own again. And – just as she had pre-arranged – Linda looked in later to pick her up, so the two were able to skip off together out of his reach.

It was then that Pippa rolled out the honesty mat and told her sister what had happened. Linda stared at her for a long moment. "So it was all just a gag?" she asked. "Huh! have you forgotten your little spanking and how it made you feel?" Pippa replied. "Listen, I'm really going to town on Sue, and it's time she came round again anyway. Besides," she giggled, "with a figure like hers at her age, I think she's got the makings of." Linda laughed. "Oh yeah? The makings of what?" she asked, but then they both burst into laughter and began figuring on the conversation of Sue.

Bringing the subject up wasn't so difficult as Pippa thought it might be, but the nice meal they cooked when Sue called round on the next Friday evening, washed down with a couple of bottles of white wine, did the trick. School was always a good standby subject, anyway, and for all three of them it seemed barely a long weekend away. "Funny that none of us ever got caned," Pippa said, "but I guess we were the goodies. Anyway, I think the cane's primitive. A strap's much more effective."

Sue looked slightly open-mouthed. "You reckon?" she asked, "well, I dunno, but if it's anything like spanking I don't think I want to know. God! the last time I couldn't sit down for an hour afterwards!" Pippa tutted. "Really? Oh, he does it much too hard too soon, that's the trouble," she said somewhat to the astonishment of Sue who was about to say something when Pippa went on, "You see, most men just don't realise that spanking is quite an art. It has to sting you, of course, or there wouldn't be any point in it – but there's a difference between that and really hurting you. Hey, Linda, shall we show her?"

Well....that was at eight thirty. By nine o'clock, Sue was regarding her discarded panties and skirt with bemusement and wriggling a bottom that was as rosy as her face. "WHOOOOO!" she gasped. Her skirt and knickers weren't alone. Linda's lay there, too, and Linda was laughing and saying to her, "See! that was a medium one, but it does work you up, doesn't it?" Sue's eyes looked rather cloudy, Pippa thought, but she had really wriggled adorably – and shown it all. Smiling to herself she watched Linda lean against Sue on the settee, put one arm around her shoulders and kiss her.

"You have to kiss after," she whispered. Her mouth brushed Sue's moistly. "Mmmmm," Sue breathed, "oh, I can't sit still, though, and....."

"And what you want is a nice lie down," Pippa said. She came over and took Sue's wrists and drew her up. Sue's nipples were pinky-brown and stiff as little thorns where she had opened her top after spanking her and when she put a questing hand down to feel and soothe that hot bottom, Sue's cheeks were squeezing invitingly. "I'll put some music on in the bedroom," Sue heard Linda saying and tried to draw back away from Pippa's caressing hand.

"I...I don't need to lie down really," Sue heard herself saying, but they were so nice and insistent and Linda was already lying down on the bed smiling and reaching out to her as Pippa led her in.... And then their tongues.... and their fingers..... WHOOOOO!

"Isn't she adorable? God, she needs it regularly," Sue heard Pippa saying, and then her lovenest was pulsing and sprinkling as Pippa's agile tongue snaked in and out between her thighs and Linda's lips and fingers were – OOOOOH! – in other places, too, and the bed was trembling – and spanking was never, never like this before.....

But never was anything quite the same after, as Pippa herself was the first to discover. It was at eight-thirty the next evening when John Carter called at the flat. Linda had gone out and Pippa was alone when she let him in. Privately Pippa had decided to say nothing to him at all and let the whole thing blow over, but he had other ideas, it seemed. "About spanking Sue," he began as they went into the living room. "You mean you have – again?" Pippa asked, trying to laugh the subject off. But he wasn't to be deterred, it seemed. And oddly enough he was peeling off his jacket without asking if he might. And smiling.

"One gets to know things," he said. It was Pippa's turn to gape. "Huh? You mean she sneaked?" Hands on hips he regarded her levelly. "Oh, I always give spankings myself for sneaking – whether true or not. Not too hard, but not too soft – shall I show you?"

Pippa remembered shrieking "No!" but the rest was a whirl. He was a strong man, as she quickly discovered, and once over his lap and under the grip of his steely arm there was obviously no escape for anyone. Moreover to her surprise he seemed to know just as much as she did. "Panties off – but skirt first," she heard him saying from above her while her nyloned legs kicked valiantly and to absolutely no avail. In a moment breathless and heaving, hair awry and her hands flat on the carpet, she was stripped to her top, nylons and high heels and feeling the first bouncing sting on his palm.

"YEEE-AAAARGH!" Pippa squealed as much in reflex as anything. "No struggling now – we don't struggle – isn't that in the rules?" she heard him asking almost in the same second that the SPLAT! SMACK! of his hand came down again on her juicy hemispheres. "WHEEEE-OOOOH!" Pippa mewed. Her cheeks were stinging and squeezing at every rhythmic SMACK! but at the same time the realisation was sweeping over her that he DID know how to do it. And better than she could.

"NEEE-YNNG!" Pippa gritted. That was a hard one – it wasn't fair! Her calves kicked to his amused but not mocking laugh. "Just getting the sting in a little deeper, pet," he told her, "get it right up now. You know what you've got coming to you, a practised hand like you."

"WHA-AH-AAAAH!" Pippa shrieked. He was smacking her too hard! God, she'd forgotten what it felt like after a whole twelve months. Her botty was flaring, cherry-red, and she hardly seemed conscious of the fact that he no longer had to grip her waist so tightly but was already calmly slipping the buttons of her top one by one until he could palm the polished globes of her tits, the nipples flint hard. "D..d...d....!" Pippa stuttered when he finally swung her up and carried her down on to the rug, his straining cock rodding up against her bared thigh. He daren't give her time to recover, she knew, as his fingers sought the pulpy lips of her slit and eased them open for her creaming.

After all, it was in the rules.

Nothing Sacred

Story from Uniform Girls 38.

Nothing Sacred


Janine's misery showed on her attractive young face as she stared almost unbelievingly at the telephone she had just replaced on the hook. That had been Mr Wilks. The auditor. The disciplinarian. Mr Wilks, who two weeks ago had proved to her that a cane can be a positively disciplinary instrument when it came to reminding young ladies that Company money is not their's to "borrow" or steal.

That afternoon that she just wanted to forget. That afternoon when she had been instructed to visit the large remote house with that frightening loft. The loft itself was an eerie place but the frightening part of it was when Mr Wilks had turned up with the cane. He had presented a figure not to be trilled with. Nor was there any room for argument when he had stood there, swishing the cane in his hand as though to emphasise the awful power he had over her. Again, as she stared at the telephone not wanting to believe that she had just spoken to Mr Wilks. Janine was forcibly reminded of that dreadful afternoon. He had made her take down her panties. He had made her stand there, with her dress held high so that he could stand and look openly at the soft plateau of her tummy and the brush of pubic hair.

She had expected him to feel her there and then, but to her surprise he had made her bend her bottom without her knickers on... and he had made sure that she really did bend it too. Not caring that she could not clench her rounded cheeks tightly together as though to salvage some dignity and modesty from the humiliating situation. Dignity? Modesty? There had been little thought for such graces that afternoon. Especially when he insisted that she thrust her naughty bottom right out. The pain had been something excruciatingly impressive. Mr Wilks was a wizard with figures and he was a master with the cane.

She preferred to surrender to the convenience of amnesia regarding what happened after he had punished her so thoroughly. She knew she had stayed perfectly still whilst he had slowly stripped the rest of her clothes. From her. And he had touched her where he had assured her all girls like to be touched.

It was true that he had not actually physically performed anything with her, but there were two opposite feelings when he was stroking her between her legs. The pain on her bottom was burning and the thrills from her valley were exciting. It was all so crazily mixed up for her right now.

And now, like a serial of horror stories, he was back! His voice had held that same soft, yet commanding quality that she associated with him. And there she had two more opposites! His soft, very controlled voice and his equally hard and very demanding cane!

Janine knew that she was the sort of personality that would conform to any damn thing he might care to mention when he was swiping her bare buttocks with that terrible, springy cane. Something in the back of her mind told her that she would have to do whatever he told her anyway! He could not possibly know just how much the cane hurt or else, surely, he would not bring it down so hard.

How she had writhed. How she had yelped and pleaded. He had seemed to be indifferent to her imploring tones. It was as though he was stone deaf! The rafters of that loft had rung with her rising toned voice as each stroke of the cane had brought fresh responses from her throat and mouth. She had signed the note afterwards in which she readily agreed to accept whatever punishment he preferred to give her. Such was the state of her pain wracked bottom that she knew that she was prepared to sign anything at all. But that note had only contained the truth after all said and done. It had meticulously outlined the cause of her punishment and that in itself was an indicating document. There was no mention of the fact that she had only intended to "borrow" the money. It had all been laid out in stark truth without any fringes of belittling the offence. She recalled reading the opening sentence. "I, Janine acknowledge that I am a thieving young woman and admit that I have stolen money from my employers, and because I deserve to be punished, I accept punishment from Mr Wilks without complaint, protest or expectations of being excused from this terrible crime of which I am guilty. I must expect to be very obedient to whatever Mr Wilks seems a term of punishment and this must certainly include a chastisement on my bare bottom..." the document had gone on and on and every sentence was further incrimination of her character and a cementing of a contract in which she had virtually laid herself wide open to become a model of obedience regarding the punitive demands of the austere Mr Wilks. That signed missive had now made her the helplessly defenceless young woman that she was. With that evidence in his hands, he was able to demand anything he liked from her and despite her reluctance to obey him, she was powerless to do otherwise.

Now the telephone call had brought back very sharply the "duty" she owed to Mr Wilks. This coming week-end, he had told her. Same place. Same time. Pretty near the same punitive lesson as last time but with added flavours to remind her how hopelessly she was under his thumb.

The place had not changed! Hardly in two weeks. It still held a frightening atmosphere for Janine. The last time she had come here had been her first. She had not known then how much a cane can stripe and sting. Pain is hard to recall in a physical sense, but Janine remembered how it had hurt her like fire. She remembered too how ashamed she had felt at the sheer humiliation of the positions he had made her get into. Fully rounded postures that exposed her shapely bottom to the extreme of curviness. She accepted that it must obviously look most attractive when she thrust it back the way he made her, but why did he have to punish it when she was trying hard to do what he told her. She had hoped fervently, that he would be satisfied in feeling it with his hands, although this had caused her to shudder as he had insisted that she keep the nates pushing right back so that he was able to stroke and feel them with almost leisurely carresses.

Her pretty features were now revealing the blushing shame she was suffering. She looked down at her neat blue checked dress and then at the flat heeled court shoes with her white socks encasing her lower legs and feet. This mode of dress that Mr Wilks insisted she wear only added to a sense of frustrating helplessness. Involuntarily and hardly aware of what she was doing, she stroked the palms of her hands over the rounded cheeks of her bottom, feeling the crispness of the dress as she did so. It was all too awful. It was just too degrading to think about. He had proved to her that she was not too big to have her bottom punished, and her bare bottom at that. Whoever would have believed that she, Janine, had stripped her panties down when he had told her to do so, and she had actually knelt at the stool with her ripe nates thrusting so rudely for Mr Wilks to stroke her bare bum just before he had given her the mind boggling strokes of the cane.

She appeared almost wistful in her waiting stance as she stood now, facing the door, her hands behind her back. He would come through that door when he was good and ready. It would not be a surprise to her because she would hear him coming up that flight of wooden stairs. Uncarpetted they were so the tread of his ascending steps could not be covered in silence. She knew the procedure now, but knowledge of how to proceed only added to the dreadful and mortifying shame that she now felt.


She heard the creak of the lower step, and something inside her froze, she almost called out in panic. Slowly, certainly unhurried, the advancing sounds of his feet getting closer and closer to the loft-attic grew louder. As she saw his figure approaching the door which had been just slightly ajar, she gripped her dress and pulled it up to a line above her waist. She was exposing her tight brief type knickers and a whole area of her smooth tummy. He came through the door, and his face expressed no emotion whatsoever. Only seriousness in his features as his eyes once again traversed the smooth contours of her shapely torso. So rudely displayed as he had instructed her too. As he slowly approached, she remembered she had to turn round and she did so that by the time he was close to her, she was facing the opposite direction, and again, she felt the cheeks of her bottom tighten together. She chewed the inner lip and suffered the light pats of his hand on her rounded tight knickers but she made no sound that might he mistaken for protest. The word protest did not enter her mind right now. Obedience was certainly the word of the day right now.

"Alright, you may drop your dress," she felt relief at the unexpected instruction.

Perhaps he had changed his mind! Perhaps he was not going to actually punish her with the cane today. She wondered whether he was going to use other methods to remind her what a naughty girl she had been. Like... well... perhaps he wanted to "play" with her without having to use punitive methods as he did before. Perhaps all sorts of things that did not include the use of a stick.

"Do you know what this is?" his dry, soft tone asked.

She turned again and her eyes saw the strap in his hand. As she realised what use such a fearsome thing could be put to, her eyes widened and very real fear stabbed through her. It was not just an ordinary strap like a belt, but a twin thonged piece of equipment.

"I... It's a strap," she could hardly recognise the misbelief expressed by her own voice.

Speaking was a strangled incredulous tone that came from her mouth!

"It is a tawse," his own voice conveyed contempt at her ignorance.

"A... a tawse," her voice repeated hardly audible.

"A very good piece of leather is the tawse. Has a much better quality at reminding naughty young ladies how to behave better in the future.

And you have been a naughty young lady, haven't you?'

"Y... yes, Sir," she squirmed.

This was another attitude that he had insisted on. He wanted her agreeing with him in whatever he said and what he required of her. She had learned a very quick and speedy lesson in trying to avoid repealing Mr Wilks precise phraseology, and the lesson had been an additional painful striping from the cane. The cane had now been replaced by this tawse thing. Janine did not like this either. She hated the cane, but this supple double thonged leather was a most awe inspiring piece of hide that she had ever seen. And she automatically realised that whatever he demanded her to say then she was not going to be backward in saying it. No matter what!

"What have you been, Janine," it was as though he wanted her to be very aware of her position and to be reminded of what she had done.

"I... I have been a very naughty young lady, sir," she choked.

"And you deserve to have this tawse across your bottom, don't you?" he insisted.

"Er... er... yes, sir I do," she moaned helplessly.

"Tell me Janine. We do not want any misunderstandings do we... tell me that you deserve to have the tawse across your bottom. Your bare bottom," he was like a school teacher trying to get a point across to a slow thinking pupil.

"I... I deserve to have the tawse across my bare bottom," she was squirming inwardly like mad now.


He held it out and in shaking fingers she took it. It felt so cold. So unfeeling. Normally she would not mind holding a strap, but this was a terrible thing; supple and purposeful too.


Janine did not want to hold the detestable leather and she ached for him to take it from her, despite the fact that she knew that once she realised it he would have it in his hand and then the trashing of her bum would commence. It was all so very conflicting in her mind. He even added to her acute discomfort by making her offer it to him and then she had to repeat that she was very aware of her naughtiness and that this was the strap with which to punish her.


He indicated the chair and directed her to kneel on the seat facing the back. Terrible stabbing sensations of trepidation and fear once again throbbed through her as she knelt on the hard wooden seat. He then told her to lift her dress up to her waist. Again, in a state of remorse and degrading shame, Janine hoisted the dress until the white panty knickers were exposed. It was a forlorn hope that he would leave them there. He didn't. She had to physically repress her emotions from begging him not to use this strap tawse and her silence was not indicative of her acceptance that this was the natural order of things. As he eased her panty knickers further and further away from her shapely bending bottom, Janine responded to the heated humiliation at having to silently suffer this ignomonous treatment of the baring of her buttocks.


They certainly looked very inviting and as he made her thrust her nates back, so she automatically reacted obediently. Mr Wilks was able to see how her extra effort caused the perfect spheres to take on more and more attractive perfection as they curved almost in a manner that would normally suggest that she was enjoying this experience and this was only caused by her own mind telling her that she just had to appear to be as cooperative as she could. But that was all it was. Appearances. Shuddering spearheads of shame were engulfing her now as she knelt on the seat easing the flinching nates into perfect response and readiness for punishment.

Janine closed her eyes as if to blot out the agonising sensation filling her body. He was carressing her tautened skin again. And she could do nothing, absolutely nothing to dissuade or stop him. She gritted her teeth and kept perfectly still as the disciplinarian's palm stroked all over the moons of her bottom. He did not attempt to touch her between her accessible thighs even though these were now kneeling some eighteen inches apart. The soft intimate valley of her thighs were most certainly available should he decide to have his fingers delving and playing, but he was concentrating more on the intended part of her anatomy that he would soon be watching as it wriggled and writhed in response to the heat that he was soon to ignite on them.


The swish of the tawse was a much different sound than that of the cane she discovered although her interest in sound evaporated as soon as the end product was achieved! There was that whining swish and then there was a distinct cracking sound of thwacking... but it was the sudden infusion of indescribable hot pain that followed the thwack that shook Janine from silence to a resounding and echoing yelp. Her head shot up and her right hand thrust round in an automatic reaction to the fire brand that had been laid fully and squarely across both buttocks.

"OOOOOWAAAAH... NO... NO... NO... NO... NO... OH PLEEEASE PLEEEASE," her lips formed the words, her bottom and the terrible sting that had been placed across it dictated the response.

"Get your hands away... how dare you?" he snapped.

What am I doing?, she feverishly thought to herself. Oh no, I cannot take any more of this. It is just too terrible and painful for words. "Keep your bottom still," he added a further impossible instruction. Keep it still? I'm not moving it!! It is behaving all by itself!!! It was most certainly writhing now and the second stroke from the terrible tawse brought the natural reaction again...

"PLEEEASE... IT HURTS TOO MUCH... MY BOTTOM IS HURTING TOO MUCH... NO MORE... PLEASE... PLEASE... OH PLEASE NO MORE," she tearfully jerked the imploring words from her mouth.

He continued to prove her wrong. He brought four more strokes across the ever gyrating target of her bottom now, and these were wristy cuts. Full strength strokes that Janine thought impossible to receive and still her knees jerked about, her bottom thrust and went into every possible movement. Round and round, backwards and forewards and then from side to side. It seemed undetermined which way to writhe to soothe and respond to the fierce tempo of pain now springing up on both cheeks. There was no doubt that her bottom had been punished. The thick lines were very easily exhibited. Mr Wilks was able to see the exact spots where Janine must have hurt the most.

"I'll do anything... anything at all... prove me... tell me to do anything you can think of and I'll obey you," she assured him without really thinking. She certainly meant it, but what she should have realised was that she would have to do "anything" any way if he chose to make her respond to other commanding instructions!


He then told her to stand before him. She still held her dress clear of the hell-fired globes of her bottom and she used the hem of her dress to dry her eyes, or certainly to help stem the flow of streaming tears that just would not cease erupting from her stinging eyes.

Her bottom was still twitching continually because she was unable to control it. The nates were clenching and unclenching and she was shifting from one foot to the other.

"I had meant to show you the small bedroom immediately beneath this attic room," he said.

The statement was lost on her.

"I shall correct that forgetfulness today," he said.


The pain. The awful constant pain, was the only sense that Janine was thinking about. She did not care about small bedrooms and she did not care what he intended. Just so long as he left the tawse where it was. When he told her to sit down, she did so with the utmost care! Slowly and then her face making the grimace of response to additional pain, she slowly let her bare bottom contact the seat on which she had just been kneeling. The tawse, that awful bloody tawse was now on the floor at her feet.


His fingers were busy again. Just as they had been last time. With sure progress, knowing that she was unable to prevent him he slowly removed her clothes. This had happened last time, hadn't it?

He was speaking to her again, but because he had released the tawse and left it at her feet, she was only half listening. The sheer hell pain on the cheeks of her bottom took up too much sensation for her to be interested in anything else. She seemed vaguely aware that she was undressed and he was speaking about her breasts and nipples and what young men did with them. Even though he was squeezing her orbs, she could not feel any enthusiasm one way or the other.

Then they were going down the stairs, her voice making small sounds as his hand patted her throbbing nates and then there was this small bedroom; a small single sized bed and he was telling her to get between the cool sheets... as she spread her thighs wide she felt the seeking fingers feeling her where, he said all girls liked to be felt.

Competing for the crop

Story from Phoenix 50.

Competing for the crop

Joanne could hardly believe what was happening. The way it had been described to the nineteen year old stable girl, she had pictured nothing like this.

Sybil Baxter, the racehorse trainer for whom the pretty, shapely, dark-haired girl had recently started work, had described it as "a bit of fun".

Draping an arm around the shoulder of the new girl, the blonde, attractive, yet formidable leading lady trainer, had explained what was so unusual about the Colonel Richard Hudson Memorial Steeplechase.

"The late Colonel had been a keen supporter of National Hunt racing, and also the owner of the Carchester racecourse. He had been one for the ladies and, as well as horse racing, he had loved to smack the bottoms of young girls".

Joanne laughed, imagining a be-whiskered, whiskey drinking, old soldier, smacking the upthrust buttocks of a servant girl; but what did Sybil Baxter's revelation have to do with the big race on Saturday?

"He was absolutely delighted when, in recent years, many more girls came into racing. The old boy was particularly fond of stable girls".

Joanne pulled a face, but it was still a pretty one, nevertheless. The Colonel had now passed on, so her bottom couldn't pass through his hands, so to speak.

The two females leaned on a white-painted rail as the trainer continued. "The Authorities have put up a nice trophy and good prize money as a proper memorial to the late Colonel's enthusiasm for racing".

Joanne nodded her obvious approval.

"However", continued Sybil Baxter, "Unofficially, we trainers and owners decided to honour the memory of the old boy in a manner more befitting his other passion".

Joanne's big blue eyes widened, sensing that the bottoms of young stable girls somehow fitted into this tribute.

She was right.

The young girl subconsciously rubbed the palms of her hands over the nicely padded seat of her fawn coloured riding breeches, as she listened to her employer.

"There is always a very good prize for the best turned out horse in the parade ring, so we thought that the person looking after the worst turned out horse should get something as well – a smacked bottom as a fitting memorial to one of racing's great benefactors".

Sybil laughed, her big breasts bobbing up and down. However, Joanne, the proud possessor of decent boobs herself, did not laugh.

"What happens if it's a stable lad who... er... loses?" the young girl wanted to know.

Sybil Baxter started to walk away from the rail, and she smiled at Joanne.

"It's carefully arranged that only stable girls parade horses prior to that particular race".

Joanne somehow knew that her employer was telling her all this for a good reason. Sure enough, Sybil mentioned that one of her particular charges, a chestnut gelding called Half Time, had been entered in the Memorial Chase at Carchester.

"Anyway, it's all a bit of fun really", breezed the blonde woman, sticking her hands in the pockets of her Berber jacket, and setting off for the boxes in the yard. As she walked away, she turned her head and said to Joanne, "I suppose you're game".

It wasn't a question. Joanne knew that she could back out if she wanted to. No employer could possibly insist on any of their staff taking port in such a ritual if they didn't want to. A refusal, however, would not do much for an employee's popularity or promotion prospects.

Sybil Baxter ran a very successful yard. The working conditions were better than in most and, as she sent out a lot of winners, there was always a fair amount of prize money to be divided up amongst the hard-working staff.

Joanne certainly didn't wish to upset her own apple cart. Besides, there was only one girl who could lose, so the odds were pretty good. Furthermore, the popular, pretty-faced new arrival had already won one prize of £20 for turning out a horse at Hexham only the previous day. Little chance, therefore, that she would actually lose.

Anyway, hadn't Sybil said that it was all a bit of fun, really? Joanne liked a bit of fun.

The day of the Colonel Richard Hudson Memorial Steeplechase drew nearer and nearer, until there was only a week to go.

Joanne talked about the event with a good-looking stable lad called Tony. He had a conditional jump jockey's license and he occasionally rode one of the yard's no-hopers in a selling hurdle.

"So you've got your arse on offer at Carchester next Saturday, have you?" he grinned, leaning against the doorway of Half Time's box.

"Guess so", grinned Joanne, dropping a hose into a bucket. "It's big enough, isn't it!"

"I personally think it's a very nice arse, Jo", he smiled, "I was riding out behind you this morning. Those breeches of yours are really tight across the beam, and the way that arse of yours was lifting and offering itself to me as you rode along, got me all hot and bothered".

"Really?" remarked Joanne. She picked up the hose, turned on the tap, and a surprised Tony received a jet of cold water in his crotch. "That should cool you down a bit!" she laughed.

She roared as he danced around, and she followed him with the hosepipe. She could get away with that with Tony. The pair of them had a good, though unconsummated, relationship.

The day of the Carchester races quickly came. Joanne sat up front in the big horse transporter with the Travelling Head Lad who was driving, and with Tony sitting alongside her. As they turned into the main gates, she could not help but wonder how many of the racegoers were aware of the 'bit of fun' involving the stable girls and the big race of the day – the Memorial Chase.

She led Half Time into his stall, confident that she was not going to lose out in the secret competition. Joanne was intrigued by it all, however, and she wanted to watch the event when it took place.

Joanne gave Half Time's coat a final brushing, and checked that all the leather was clean and polished, before saddling him up and leading him out into the parade ring.

As she led her charge round, muttering to him when he nuzzled her neck, she was aware of an unusual fluttering in her tummy. Her view of the other horses was obscured by Half Time, the only other runner visible to her being the one immediately in front.

Joanne recognised the girl leading it as Amanda Raymond. Tall and blonde-haired, she was very attractive. In fact, she worked for a neighbouring stable, and she had chatted to Joanne several times in the village pub.

Joanne looked at Amanda's jean-clad bottom, watching the cheeks rise and fall in the stretched denim, with each stride she took. She had never really noticed anyone's bottom until now. Remembering Tony's remark about her own rear, she smiled, wondering why he wasn't impressed the same with her tits. Joanne knew she had really nice tits.

Amanda's grey horse had its tail plaited, but Joanne didn't think the leggy, blonde-haired girl had made a particularly good job of it.

The loudspeaker crackled to life once again, announcing that the £50 prize for the best turned out horse had been won by Joanne Bradley, who looked after number six, Half Time.

Joanne gave her charge an affectionate pat on the nose. She'd won fifty quid which would go towards a car. More importantly though, it wouldn't be her bottom providing the 'bit of fun' later on.

"Well done Joanne", Amanda congratulated her, as the leading reins were slipped from the bridles, and the horses, with their jockeys aboard, cantered down to post.

"Thank you," beamed Joanne, "That's a weight off my mind – and a weight off my arse as well!"

"We'll find out in a minute who..." began the blonde.

However, she was immediately interrupted by a man calling her over to him. He was handsome, aged around mid-thirties, and was dressed comfortably in a tweed suit. He wore the almost obligatory brown trilby hat. Joanne was to find out later that this was Richard Hudson Jnr, the son of the late Colonel.

He whispered into Amanda's ear, and then walked away.

The blonde remained there, a look of distress on her face, and she burst into tears on the spot.

Joanne now knew who the unlucky girl was going to be!

Half Time ran a poor fourth, but the horse that the dark-haired Tony looked after, romped home by five lengths.

"More prize money to shore", he grinned, as the pair locked the horse box prior to making their way to a large marquee just outside the racecourse, on land owned by the Hudson family.

It was time for the 'bit of fun'.

Joanne could hardly believe her eyes when she got there. The place was packed with people of both sexes and all ages, standing on boxes, tables, and anything else they could find to use as a vantage point.

Suddenly, there was a lot of cheering, especially from the males, in the big tent.

"She's starting to strip off", grinned Tony, grabbing hold of Joanne's hand. "Quickly! Let's get to the front!"

By pushing, shoving, and even crawling, the two of them got to the front of the crowded marquee.

Joanne gasped as she crouched down on the grass, and took in the scene being enacted in front of her.

A small makeshift stage had been erected, and upon it stood Richard Hudson Jnr and Amanda Raymond.

Hudson, now minus trilby, jacket, and tie, stood with hands on hips, accepting items of clothing being removed by the unfortunate stable girl.

Already, he was holding Amanda's black boots, socks, and jeans. There were more cheers as she tugged her white top upwards and showed, first of all, her black-pantie-covered crotch, her flat tummy, and then her black, not very well-filled, bra.

"She hasn't got much tit to swing", complained a middle-aged man alongside Joanne.

"Never mind, dear", consoled his female companion, "Her swinging bottom will more than make up for it when Richard gets to work".

Joanne watched, dry-mourned, as the man on the stage added the white top to his collection.

Then, head bowed, Amanda unclipped the back of her bra, and passed the thin black straps down her arms.

Polite applause broke out as the audience beheld the sight of the bare-breasted stable girl. Her boobs were apple-sized, dainty almost, but were very firm. She made to conceal them with her arms, but Richard Hudson wagged a finger at her.

"The girl last year had tits like melons", sighed Tony, clearly upset that poor Amanda did not compare with her predecessor in the breastworks department.

Joanne wriggled her hand out of his. She really felt for poor Amanda. This whole thing was carrying a bit of fun too far!

"Off! Off! Off!" came the shout from a hundred or so voices. The most vociferous of the callers seemed to be the well-dressed daughters of owners and trainers and the like. It was for all the world like a guillotine scene during the French Revolution.

Amanda hesitated, biting her lip. Then, closing her eyes, she pushed her black briefs down her long slim legs.

There was more applause as she straightened up, embarrassingly revealing her thatch of golden pubic curls.

"I always wondered if she was a natural blonde", roared a coarse male voice.

Joanne recognised it as belonging to the red-faced trainer Amanda herself worked for.

"The girl last year had ginger hair", reminisced Tony, taking hold of Joanne's hand once again.

"Remind me to dye my pubes if I'm ever up there!" scowled Joanne.

Amanda handed her panties to Richard, who held them aloft to the baying crowd. Joanne was horrified when the handsome landowner hurled them into the audience. She was even more horrified when Tony caught them, and gleefully stuffed them info a pocket.

"All good fun", he grinned at his colleague.

He received an icy glare in return.

Richard Hudson put the girl's clothing down onto the wooden flooring. When he straightened up, he was holding a flexible, plaited, riding whip.

A gasp went up from the crowd. Amanda started in horror at the implement. So too, did Joanne. She had expected the 'Memorial' to the late Colonel to take the form of a gentle smacking over the knee. This was awful.

A hush fell on the big marquee as Richard Hudson indicated to Amanda that she was to turn around. As she did so, the silence turned into a murmur and, as the blonde girl revealed her enticing bottom for the first time, there were loud shouts and a round of applause.

"Not a bad arse at all", murmured Tony, his brown eyes shining as he craned his neck further forward to ogle Amanda's ripely-rounded, marble-white, buttocks.

Joanne thought back to the parade ring, remembering how she herself had admired the blonde girl's bottom. She had always thought her own was too big.

Richard Hudson ran a hand through his thick fair hair. Joanne stared at him. He was certainly a good looking bloke, and he seemed so nice. How could he do what he was doing?

He placed his left hand onto Amanda's shoulder, and pressed her down to touch her toes. The action rounded out her bottom nicely, and more murmurs of appreciation ran through the audience.

Joanne noticed how Amanda's long lean thighs were pressed tightly together. Would she be able to preserve what little modesty she had left?

"You might as well show it off now, Amanda!", roared out her boss. "We're going to see it sooner or later!"

The remark caused a great deal of laughter. Joanne opened her mouth to say something, but thought better of it.

There was total silence now as Amanda, legs taut, braced herself for her ordeal. Tony gripped Joanne's hand tightly. She herself found that she was completely unable to turn her head away from the awful scene. The blonde girl's superbly sculpted buttocks were like a magnet to her eyes.

Richard Hudson gripped the riding crop and raised it to shoulder height. Then, it came arcing down to land horizontally across the full width of Amanda's seat.

The flesh rippled with the force of the blow. The bent-over girl squealed and tottered. The rapt audience, with one female exception, voiced their approval.

"How many does she get?" croaked Joanne.

"Only six", replied the good looking stable lad, licking his lips. "A pity it's not more".

Already, a line the width of the implement had sprung up across Amanda's derriere. It bisected her crease and gave her behind the appearance of a hot cross bun.

Joanne wondered what it would look like when it was all over.

Richard steadied himself for the next stroke, and delivered it crisply to the straining rump.

THWACK!

The sound of the crop striking the unprotected nubile flesh was immediately followed by a loud shriek.

Amanda's seat waggled from side to side in its acute discomfort. When it eventually came to rest, with another stripe one inch below the first one, her narrow thighs had parted, and hundreds of pairs of eyes gazed upon Amanda's intimate cleft.

''Looks just like the girlfriend", remarked a wag.

Tony gripped Joanne's damp hand. "We might see it twinkling before the six are up", he said excitedly.

"How nice", sniffed the dark-haired girl.

The sarcasm was not noticed by the stable lad. "A couple of years ago", he told his pretty companion, "The girl up there actually came before it was all over!" Tony had obviously relished the poor girl's dreadful humiliation.

Joanne sighed and shook her head. She suddenly realised that she herself was very wet down there. What a good job it wasn't her up on that platform.

Richard raised his arm once more. Joanne took her eyes off her friend's twitching bottom and looked closely at the late Colonel's son. No doubt the father would have been proud of his offspring carrying on the family tradition in this spectacular way. He reminded her of a hero in a romantic story. He had such lovely dark eyes.

Richard had a strong right arm, too. Amanda yelped like a puppy as the crop sliced its painful mark on the undercurve of her rump.

She still maintained her bent-over pose, but her bare feet stamped a tattoo on the rough boards of the mini-stage.

"This is no time for dancing, my dear", laughed the stricken girl's boss.

Richard arched the crop between his hands as he waited for Amanda to brace herself for the fourth swipe. He bent down to peer at the blonde girl's sit-upon. He obviously had a close up view of her most intimate parts.

"I'll bet he's having a good sniff down there", sniggered Tony.

He had Joanne's hand in a vice-like grip.

Joanne preferred to believe that Richard Hudson was inspecting the target area for any signs of damage, so that he would not call her any uncalled-for distress.

The fourth and fifth lashes were delivered swiftly, one after the other. Amanda's posterior went info motion after the first of the double blows had landed, and Richard's crop then hit the moving target with a loud CRACK!

Amanda let out a howl, but no one heard it as the audience erupted with cheers and applause for the landowner's skill with the pain-giving implement.

The blonde girl jerked upright, clasping her scorching rear. She turned round and round in her anguish, further delighting the crowd with her dancing breasts.

"Good fun, isn't it?" breathed Tony, letting go of Joanne's hand and clutching her trim waist instead.

Joanne disagreed with him, although there was something about the affair she found arousing. She couldn't quite figure out exactly what, however.

Up on the stage, Richard Hudson gently persuaded Amanda to remove her hands from her rear. When she did so, Joanne bit her lip as she surveyed her friend's bum. Ridges the width of a little finger corrugated the twin humps.

The man responsible dabbed gently at Amanda's eyes with a big white handkerchief, and then he pressed down her shoulders so that she was posing submissively for the final stroke.

Joanne's nails dug into the palms of her hands as she watched the crop descend for the final time.

It landed on the join between her thighs and bumcheeks, sending her to her knees and lewdly exposing herself more than ever as she sobbed her heart out.

Immediately after Amanda sank to the floor, one of the first to congratulate Richard was Sybil Baxter. She shook him warmly by the hand.

Quite a few owners, trainers, and their wives, made close up inspections of Amanda's wealed backside, before reluctantly leaving the marquee. Joanne thought that it was awful. How could people be like that? She wanted to help her friend in some way, but Tony assured her that she would be "well taken care of".

For the trip back to the yard, he suggested they both ride in the horse box. Joanne knew the reason why, but she wanted to get screwed as much as the stable lad wanted to screw her.

Reluctantly, she had to agree that the whole thing had been a turn on. The gusset of her panties was sticking to her.

The racehorse transporter had an empty stall, and plenty of straw to lie on. By the time the big vehicle had pulled out onto the main road, Tony was already out of his trousers.

Joanne eyed his manhood in awe of its pleasure-giving qualities, before allowing it into the dark-haired warmth of her loins. She cupped her hands around his flanks, and surges of pleasure rippled through her body as they made love in the moving vehicle.

That had all been twelve months ago. During that time, Amanda had come to work for Sybil Baxter, and had immediately moved in with Joanne. The two girls had become inseparable.

As the Memorial Chase fixture neared once more, they discussed the after race event quite often, as two of their particular charges had been entered, and would definitely run.

The day of the race came and, as the horses were paraded around the ring, Joanne heard the loudspeaker announce that the £50 prize for the best turned out horse had been won by Amanda.

Tony, as a conditional jockey, had got the ride on Joanne's horse. As he mounted the animal he said to her, "We'll have a different arse on show afterwards. I wonder whose it will be?"

The dark-haired girl shrugged, and led horse and rider away. When she had slipped the leading rein, she found that Richard Hudson was at her elbow. He pulled her to one side and whispered in her ear. "Bad luck, old girl. Your turn out wasn't up to scratch, I'm afraid. Six o'clock in the marquee. Okay?"

Joanne ran off in search of her friend Amanda.

Tony, who had fallen at the second last, was shocked when she told him the news. "I don't believe it", he gasped, "You normally do a wonderful grooming job".

Joanne shrugged her shoulders once more, and remained silent.

As six o'clock approached, she made her way to the marquee as instructed. On the way, elbows were dug into ribs, and knowing winks exchanged, as greedy eyes focussed upon her tight khaki breeches, which snugly contoured her buttocks, thighs, and hips.

"Don't be frightened", Richard assured her as she sat on the stage, waiting for six o'clock to strike. "It will hurt, but it's all a bit of fun, really".

Joanne looked into his dark smouldering eyes, sniffled, and nodded.

At the first stroke of six, a cheer went up. Joanne rose, with weak knees, and stood on the stage in front of what she was sure was a bigger audience than the previous year.

She stood on one leg at a time, letting Richard pull off her black shining boots. Then, he dragged off her white socks.

"You're on your own now, Joanne", he smiled at her.

There was a hubbub of conversation as she began on the buttons of her white blouse. She had earlier removed her bra, so that, when the last button was unfastened, and the sides of the garment pulled apart, her breasts were revealed for all to see.

Joanne's full, rising-tipped breasts were fully appreciated by her audience. She saw Tony, who had pushed his way once more to the front – this time with Amanda – clapping enthusiastically. The blonde girl, last year's 'loser', grinned as the blouse came off completely.

Her boobs swung and swayed majestically as Joanne began to fumble with the buttons on her drum-tight breeches. There were five on each side. It wasn't long before she was showing off her well-moulded legs, leaving her standing there in just her red, polka-dotted briefs.

"Off! Off! Off!" came the chants.

Joanne ran her tongue across her lips, as she she hooked her thumbs in the elaslicated top of the briefs. She recalled her remark of the previous year, about dyeing her black pubic hairs a ginger red. When she'd said that, she'd never dreamed she would actually be in this position.

Her eyes sought Tony as she skinned down the polka-dotted triangle.

The stable lad's mouth dropped open in amazement. The rest of the spectators gasped, and then wildly cheered and clapped.

"Most unexpected, my dear", smiled the handsome Richard Hudson alongside her. "Very nice too, just like the rest of you".

It was nice hearing that coming from his lips.

Joanne had not dyed her pubes – she had shaved away her jet black pubic triangle, and her love mound was completely stubble free! The excited crowd just loved her hairless zone.

Tony blew her a kiss, and Amanda gave her a thumbs-up sign.

She felt Richard's hand, warm on her shoulder, and taking a deep breath, she turned around.

Having always thought of her bottom as being too much on the big side to be appreciated, she was delighted to hear the shouts and cries, as her nether cheeks were put on view.

Two large, white, and quivering globes overhung her full, heavy thighs. It was her strong hips which swept out beneath a narrow waistline, which gave the illusion of her bottom being over-large.

Those members of the audience who had attended the event over the years, thought the girl's bottom was just perfect for the purpose.

Again, Richard's hand touched her shoulders. Joanne, legs braced, lowered her body from the waist, and her fingers touched her toes. She hardly heard the noise from the hundred or so people behind her, as she waited for Richard to begin.

Her bare, helpless bum trembled chubbily.

Suddenly, she was aware of everything being quiet. Then there was a 'whoosh!', followed by the sound of bare flesh being struck.

Joanne felt the crop streak across her bottom, and her breath left her in a rush.

The first stroke was agonising. Her behind jiggled and contorted, rose and fell.

Richard waited for her to recover before swinging in once more.

Joanne cried aloud, gyrating her buttocks as they reacted against the smarting pain.

So pre-occupied was she in coping with the after effects of the scything whip, that she was oblivious to the fact that her thighs were wide open for the benefit of the spectators.

Again, white fire blasted through her ample bottom. She had never imagined that the bite of the riding crop could hurt so much.

Still, she had only herself to blame for the temporary discomfort. Joanne had helped Amanda to turn out her horse, and had thus neglected her own. The blonde girl's winnings had been gratefully handed over to her friend. She was still saving for a car.

Joanne gasped and her body wriggled more and more violently, as each quickly succeeding stroke added its cumulative contribution to those which had landed before.

The money wasn't the main reason why the pretty girl with the hairless mons had set herself up. Amanda had confided in her that the girl who got her backside seen to at the hands of Richard Hudson, got to spend the night with him!

Joanne really fancied Richard. What better way to preserve the memory of his randy, yet kindly, late father?