What's in a name?

Story from Janus 55.

What's in a name?
by Andrew Grantham

CAROL started her first day at her new college with some misgivings. She was new to the town and had had no time to make any new friends. The pretty, bubble-curled blonde girl felt very much out of things as she tried to find her way around before the 9am bell sounded. The other girls had commenced term the day previously and they had all mated up, leaving the new arrival very much on her own.

Carol eventually found her room and took up the only available seat. She realised right away that her new educational establishment was much stricter than the one she had left.

She fell foul of two teachers before midday. Things were clearly going to be very different for her here. Several times, she inwardly cursed her father for taking his new job and making the family pull up their roots.

After the lunch break, she was stunned to hear her name called out. She was told to report to the Headmaster.

'Me?' she asked the lady teacher. 'Are you sure?'

'Your name is Carol Barker, isn't it?' was the reply.

'Yes, Miss,' she admitted.

The middle-aged woman squared her shoulders and stood menacingly in front of her. 'At this college,' she thundered, 'students do as they are told – first time!'

Half a minute later, Carol knocked timidly on the door of the Head's study.

'Enter!' commanded the authoritative voice.

The blonde took a deep breath and entered the holy of holies. Sitting at his huge desk was the Headmaster, a good-looking man in his early fifties. He had finely-chiselled features, a faintly sensual mouth and a strong, clefted chin.

He looked up from his writing, motioned with a finger for the girl to stand in front of him, and then put down his silver pen.

'You... you sent for me, Sir?' said the blonde haltingly.

The Headmaster – the girl didn't even know his name – folded his arms and looked at her icily. 'You are new here, aren't you?'

'Yes, Sir,' mumbled Carol. She didn't like the tone of his voice, but surely she couldn't be in hot water already?

'You have certainly got off to a bad start, my girl!' he snapped.

Carol's blue eyes widened. She had given a tiny bit of cheek to the French teacher and sniggered during biology, but that was all.

The Headmaster stood up. He was a tall man. 'I'm going to teach you a lesson, young lady!' he rapped. 'I hope you will benefit from it. I'm sure my pupils always do.'

He strode towards the corner of the study. There, propped against the wall was a thin, springy, crook-handled cane. Picking it up, the Head swished it menacingly.

Carol's legs turned to jelly. This was going over the top. She couldn't believe it.

'Bend over the desk!' he ordered her sharply. 'Lift your skirt up to your waist.'

The blonde girl stared at him disbelievingly. 'You can't,' she croaked, switching her gaze to the cane, eyeing it in astonishment and awe of its evocative power.

'Can't I, miss?' he sniffed, taking hold of her upper arm and expertly folding her over the shiny desk top. Carol thought she must be dreaming and hoped she would wake up before the ordeal began.

She knew it was reality however, when she felt his hand at the hem of her navy blue pleated skirt and then pressing down on the small of her back. There was a draught on the backs of her thighs as the Head took a practice swish with the cane vertically downwards behind her.

Fighting an urge to cry she bit her lip, knowing that tears would be inevitable later.

Carol jumped involuntarily at the touch of his hand on her nether regions. Her white cotton knickers were swiftly yanked down to her knees, whence they fell to her ankles. She felt her face burning. Her white blouse had ridden halfway up her back so that she was naked from there to the tops of her white socks just below her knees.

The blonde's shapely breasts were squashed on the hard surface of the desk and her thighs were being uncomfortably indented by its sharp edge. She was aware of the cool air on her bum and it felt terribly vulnerable, raised high and naked behind her.

Carol's long and finely-wrought legs stiffened and pressed together as the Head placed the thin cane across the dead centre of her bottom, pushing it deep into her creamy flesh. He admired the pair of full, pale globes separated by a long, narrow valley. A pity he had to hurt them, but he had a job to do. After all, it was in the girl's best interests.

Carol clamped her eyes tight shut. She tensed as she heard the terrible high-pitched swishing. What would it feel like when it...?

The cane landed squarely across the undercurve of both buttocks. A stifled squeal left her lips. The first stroke was agonising. She had expected some pain, but not the sheer, excruciating hurt that engulfed her whole body.

Almost right away, another stroke bit into Carol's soft, pampered bottom just below the centre. She bit her lip as the heart-stopping pain surged through her. This was the worst thing that had ever happened to her.

In her misery, she resolved to find another college in which to complete her education.

Before she had recovered, another swoosh heralded the arrival of a further cut which landed across the fleshy, round hemispheres. Carol's back arched up and a scream was heard. She did not realise at first that it was her own scream.

She stuffed a fist into her mouth, and her teeth clamped on it. Her face was awash with salty tears.

There was another whoosh and Carol felt the cane streak across her bottom. It took but an instant for the pain to reach her brain. The band of fire spread from her up-poked, branded bum to the top of her head and the tips of her toes.

The blonde wondered what her bottom looked like. She couldn't actually feel the individual red lines, but she knew they were there all right.

Another stroke produced another line of fire. Her buttocks twisted and she began to moan. Her body seemed drained of life and transfused instead with the most awful suffering. Flames consumed her bottom. And then one more stroke split the air and cracked loudly and agonisingly against Carol's juddering mounds.

Suddenly, there was a frenzied knocking at the study door. The Head paused, cane in the air, sighed petulantly and went to see who was disturbing him.

Carol, her shoulders heaving with sobs, her backside a burning cauldron of pain, was grateful for the respite. She wondered just when her torturous ordeal would end.

In her pulsating agony, she failed to hear the mistress who had sent her apologising profusely and explaining that the girl she ought to have sent along was Coral Parker and not Carol Barker. She hoped she wasn't too late.

Old Snotty

Story from Roue 12.

Old Snotty

Even though the high hedges on each side gave some protection it still seemed a long chilly walk down the narrow path in the evening, especially in the autumn when somehow the hedges seemed to act as a bit of a wind tunnel and it seemed even further away from the main school buildings. The fallen leaves always swirled round your flat school shoes and on those occasions it was best to wear your school mac over your uniform despite the fact that you knew very well you wouldn't be feeling the cold coming back later. You were expected to be there promptly ten minutes after prep finished, always in the free hour before you had to go to your dorm, and somehow the side door of the darkened pavilion was always ajar when you arrived.

It was errie finding yourself in a dark building, so empty, just feeling your way along the corridor towards the little gleam of light that glimmered out from under the storeroom door.

They always gave you ample time to think whilst you were waiting, sometimes as long as fifteen minutes by yourself in the dimly lit storeroom, plenty of time to meditate on what might happen to you, and after your first few times you soon learned what was expected.

It seemed quite natural that the contents of your changing room locker would be on the chair waiting for you all ready. You didn't have to look around either, the main object, the one that really mattered, would be etched on your mind for life. It was there over to one side with its rough leather top and splayed out thick wooden legs to remind you how soon your own legs would in their turn be splayed out and your bare tummy would be wriggling frenetically across the hard top. They would always set it fairly tall, high enough off the ground to keep you on tiptoe, or even to get your feet off the wooden floor, so that with your body well forward you could kick and twist without hindrance.

You always tried hard to avoid constantly thinking about 'all that' whilst you slipped quietly out of your school uniform and into your running vest and shorts – those ridiculously brief cotton shorts slit up the sides and so brief that the lower third of your bum was bared even when you were standing, and more to come when you bent over the horse.

Try to forget it, think about how that thin skimpy vest shows your pretty tits off – pity he's not susceptible to 'pretty tits'.

Quite why they made you put your socks and gym-shoes on you couldn't imagine. The store room was none too warm in this weather, but at least they'd been kind enough to light the old heater in the far corner. It was a bit smoky but you huddled your shivering figure over it for the little warmth it gave out, knowing it wasn't just the chill that was making you shiver.

'Old Snotty' wasn't one of her favourites, thought Julie, suddenly feeling the tightening of her buttocks. All of the masters took the opportunity of chastising the young girls at the school when they got the chance, but 'Old Snotty' needed only the flimsiest excuse to apply a gym shoe to a girls backside. Julie shuddered at the thought of what was in store for her as she eased her thick blue knickers down to her ankles before quickly stepping out of the unnecessary garment. She lost no time in slipping the thin tight vest over her fair hair tied back in its twin bunches, and almost as quickly she pulled the tight brief running shorts up over her pertly chubby buttocks. Might as well make the most of them before 'Old Snotty' peels them down again she thought ruefully.

She heard his cough in the corridor and the slight pause as he locked the outer door to the pavilion, and she knew she would barely have time to prepare herself for his arrival.

With a tiny sniffly sob she ran to the horse and bounced herself up across its high leather back. Her body wriggled forward across the worn leather top until her toes were just clear of the floor mat, her legs were spread apart exactly as he liked her and she bent her knees in towards the horse to throw her rounded cheeks back into full prominence. Like all of the staff he had his little whims, and two previous painful visits to the pavilion had taught Julie the value of cooperation. There would be no complaints this evening that 'She hadn't stuck her bum out.'

As she lay there tense and frightened she could hear the steady advance of his footsteps down the corridor and then the squeak as the door handle turned, followed by the faint cool rush of air as the door opened and shut.

As the light switch clicked, her end of the room was suddenly illuminated brightly. Two focussed spot-lights like they had in the 'classy' shop windows shining from above and behind lit up the only part of your anatomy they were really interested in, and she tried to imagine what sort of a picture Snotty was revelling in. She could tell from the sound of his puffy breaths that he was enjoying the display. She sensed his piggy little eyes gloating and his lips being moistened as he peered short-sightedly at the half-exposed buttocks, the thin shorts moulded to the chubby teenage cheeks. Her forward position over the horse would have pulled her shorts well up over the two pert mounds of her young bum so that the shorts would have risen up to make the legs cut high across her bare cheeks, with the gusset taut into the cleft that divided the two melons of her behind, the separation of her thighs, throwing the fat little sliced peach of her labia into 'bas-relief'.

Suddenly she felt his cold sweaty hands fondle her bum where it was bare, and her thighs began to squirm at the thought of what was about to begin. She began to weep silently.

Despite her attempt to conceal her weeping from him, Old Snotty must have heard her and suddenly a front light lit up her tear-streaked face, revealed by the mirror so carefully positioned in front of the horse. Snotty really enjoyed seeing a girl cry and she noticed how much bolder his hands became with his rising excitement. Nearly all of the masters seemed to derive a good deal of pleasure from chastising their pupils, and Old Snotty in particular could hardly conceal his excitement from any girl he had to punish, and as Julie could just make out his face dimly in the mirror even though the room was fairly dark behind her, she could see his visage lit up with anticipatory lust as he continued the searching exploration of her nubile buttocks. At last he stopped, and then Old Snotty watched her face avidly as he slapped the sole of the gym-shoe across his palm a few times, noting with a curled twist of his lips how Julia's face winced as each 'smack' of the shoe echoed round the room and as she felt him rest the cool sole of the gym pump across the trembling lower slopes of her chubby bum she began to cry. The first smarting crack of the shoe across her bottom was delivered so hard that she nearly leapt off the horse. Somehow you could never remember just how stingy a spanking was, and she heard herself crying out her protests as he continued to whack her bum, really hard firm sharp whacks of the pump full across both cheeks, delivered as usual with just enough pause between the strokes to let the pain reach up to her brain and sink into her mounting anguish. After ten strokes or so her buttocks were rising to each whack and her thighs were twisting around on the horse.

Snotty licked his dry lips with growing pleasure as his eyes flickered from the reflection of the sobbing girl's tear stained face in the mirror to the cherry-red tight buttocks leaping and squirming across the horse. Julie's bottom was much too sore and stingy for her to put up more than a feeble token protest as he stripped her shorts down to just above her knees, and she soon-widened her thighs as much as her lowered shorts would allow at his command, and then for the next minute or two all that could be heard from the room was the out of condition wheezing of the master interspersed with the gasps of the girl as she got a couple of dozen more before he dropped the slipper.

Julie's round, sore cheeks cringed as his hands felt for her buttocks, she was terrified he would spank her some more with his bare hand as he sometimes did, particularly if he was in the mood for a revival of his flagging excitement, but with a sigh of relief she realised he was only rubbing cooling cream over the crests of her pink behind.

It wasn't an unmixed blessing. Old Snotty rubbed hard and he liked to feel you wriggling your still sore bum and thighs in his hands, his palms were rough and the cream he used always made it hurt like hell before it soothed at all. Julie's tears and weeping increased once more as the cream began to tingle her tender buttocks fanning the fiery red stingy sensations, she kept telling herself it was better than having him give her a hand-spanking. Nevertheless she couldn't help crying out.

"Oooh – aahh – nnn – please – ooh – ple – nngg – not so – hard – Sir – please no more."

Julie's tears slowly subsided and gradually her bum's tingle got less she felt her thighs and buttocks relax, but she began to feel uneasy at the way his hands were slipping up and down her smooth slippery thigh tops. She began to pant and gasp as his fingers parted the damp swollen lips of her labia, easing apart the peachy cleft and exploring forwards to find the cherry pink bud, insistent fingers rubbing it hard into full turgidity. She felt an overwhelming desire to 'pee' on his hand and knew she would be smacked hard and long if she allowed herself to indulge in any such naughtiness.

Old Snotty took her up to the climax of her inevitable orgasm and watched her bucking up and down on the horse, her lissom legs squirming with her shamed excitement. He left her alone in the gym with her thoughts.

Ten minutes later Julie put out the storeroom lights and crept tearfully down the darkened corridor rubbing gently at her still-smarting bottom, knowing full well that Mr. Harris would be seeing her tomorrow at eight sharp before morning assembly.

Questions and more questions

Story from Janus 57.

Questions and more questions
by Michael Burntwood

Gymshoes pattered over the varnished wooden floor of the gym hall. The netball match had started. It would settle the question, which team was to be appointed to play in the school championship final against the winning team from the fifth form heats.

Long-legged sixth form girls were running up and down from one side to the other following the ball, eager to do their best to win the game and on Parents' Day belong to the team which would show the younger girls that sixth form young ladies as always are the best.

One of the teams was dressed in dark blue leotards and the other wore white sleeveless vests tucked into brief running shorts of shiny red nylon. Today, however, it seemed as if there was something wrong. Miss Hampton, the gym teacher, had to blow her whistle to break the game from time to time.

Again the shrill tone from her whistle sounded within only the first minutes of the match. The game stopped and surprised girls stared at each other in bewilderment. An explanation came when Miss Hampton pointed her arm at one of the girls in a leotard.

Sighs of vexation were heard from several of the players in both teams. The player who had now once again caused Miss Hampton to stop the game was a slim-waisted blonde girl, the only one with a pageboy coiffure. She belonged to the blue team and was dressed in a leotard which seemed to have been outgrown at least a year ago. None of her chums was particularly amazed because they knew that Madelaine, for one reason or another, quite regularly became subject to their teachers' displeasure.

'That was the third time, Madelaine, that you deliberately aimed to hit Lorna with the ball. I can't understand why you are more interested in attacking Sonia and Lorna than doing the best you can to help your team win. It's unfair to them that some of you are fighting all the time. I suppose you and Lorna and Sonia for some reason are on unfriendly terms and can't concentrate on the game. So we will have you three sit down on the bench and keep quiet. Then the rest of the girls can play this game according to the rules. To make the teams even, Carolyn can play for the whites.'

Madelaine, Lorna and Sonia looked sullenly at the teacher and glanced tight-lipped at one another. Then they very sulkily sat down as they had been ordered to, and Miss Hampton signalled for the game to recommence. Slender-built, lissom girls started to run across the floor, following the ball from one side of the hall to the other, calling out with excited voices. But it hardly came as a surprise when, only a couple of minutes later, the whistle blew again and there was a new break.

Girls in both teams now became annoyed because the signal had nothing to do with the game. There was no reason to stop the attack the white team was making towards the basket on the blue side. Though they were now sitting on the bench, the three girls were also the cause of this latest interruption. They had caught the attention of Miss Hampton as they were trying to push each other off the bench. The teacher was obviously more angry this time. In a very harsh tone she ordered the girls to stand up. Exchanging angry glances, the girls obeyed.

The scolding that Miss Hampton bestowed upon the miscreants finished unexpectedly. She sent the three 17-year-old girls to stand in the corner, and to stop them scuffling she ordered them to clasp their hands on their heads. When the girls had obeyed, Miss Hampton turned back to the teams and, clearly irritated, blew her whistle to start the game again.

The players, occupied with the game, did not care at all for the three unruly girls in the corner, even though something quite out of the ordinary had occurred. On very rare occasions it had happened that a girl had been put in the corner during a gym lesson. In the sixth form it had perhaps never happened before. But the girls chasing the ball were totally engaged in the game and going all out to win. Their young bodies in tight-fitting gym outfits flew across the floor on long teenaged legs, firm breasts bouncing and round buttocks jouncing above lithely-tapering thighs.

At times, when the game was stopped, some of the panting girls glanced at the three lanky figures in the corner. Gazing at their backsides and noticing their well-rounded bottoms, they would have welcomed with ill-concealed spitefulness the sight of reddish tramlines marking the skin on the nether halves of the three girls' trim buttocks. Buttocks which Lorna, Sonia and Madelaine were displaying, as the leotard Madelaine had on, and the brief red shorts Sonia and Lorna wore, had ridden up because of their raised arms.

Most of the girls blamed Madelaine for what had happened. There were those, not only in Madeline's team, who had plans to show her what they really felt about her disturbing the game. They surely would know what to do when they returned to the changing room to shower and put on their school uniforms once more. Madelaine could expect to get slaps from hard hands or wet towels on her thighs and buttocks, till she had smarting blemishes on her bottom and the backs and fronts of her long, shapely legs.

The game had not proceeded for more than another five minutes before there was a further outbreak of disorder. Madelaine pinched Sonia's right thigh. Perhaps she did it harder than she had intended. Perhaps Sonia yelped louder than she had cause to. Miss Hampton's whistle stopped the play. Red-faced with anger and looking extremely stern, she turned to the girls in the corner in time to see Madelaine put her left hand back on top of her head. In the harshest tone she demanded an explanation, while the other girls on the floor stared, noticing that Sonia was rubbing her thigh with one hand. Very severely, Miss Hampton held her eyes fixed on the guilty-looking schoolgirl's down-tilted face.

'You are really the most incorrigible girl I've ever had, Madelaine,' she expostulated. 'Now go to my room and wait for me there. You can sit on the chair by the door – and don't you dare do anything else. I'll deal with you after the game. And you, Sonia and Lorna, sit down where you are. I'll have a talk with you when the others are changing.'

Even Madelaine was forced to blush as she trudged alone out of the gym hall with all the girls' eyes upon her. She sat down moodily on the chair in the gym mistress's small room. On the other side of the door, the game started again. She could hear the sounds from the girls. They were however unusually quiet and had good reason to be low-voiced. All were aware that they had better be on their best behaviour. Miss Hampton had already been provoked far enough and would hardly stand for any more nonsense today. None of them wanted to tempt their teacher to resort to still stricter methods in order to maintain her control.

Madelaine now felt far from happy as she sat fidgeting on the hard chair. If she could imagine anything that Miss Hampton had in store for her, she felt certain that it would not be something nice. Her lips were closed and her eyes downcast, as if she were studying her gym shoes. She held her long legs stretched out, her heels resting on the floor and her hands nervously moving up and down along her lithe, silk-skinned thighs.

It was not the first time Madelaine had been in Miss Hampton's room. She had been there before, but never in fear of being punished. It was awful to sit there and have to think about punishments. Shivering, she remembered what other girls had said about a girl who had been taken into this room for some mischief. She recalled what she had heard about where to look. She did not want to turn her eyes in that direction but could not withstand the temptation to check if what she had been told was true.

One look, a mere glance, was enough. It was true. It was there on the second shelf from the top. She could see part of it sticking out. It was the crook-handle end of it.

Madelaine bit her lip hard and rubbed her palms against the thin fabric of her leotard where it tightened across her narrow hips. She felt certain about what was going to happen. Miss Hampton would take that cane down. Then... in that very stern voice she sometimes used, she would tell her to stretch her left hand out, palm upwards... But... what if she wasn't going to cane her across her hand?...

Madelaine shuddered at the thought. Could there be any way for her to escape? All sorts of thoughts raced through her head.

Perhaps she could explain to Miss Hampton what had happened? Why she had been so angry with Lorna and Sonia. It would be embarrassing for her, but maybe just for once the truth would help. Seconds ticked away and became minutes.

Madelaine became more and more anxious, sitting on the chair, waiting for something she hated to think about, but which was inevitable. Unconsciously, she had put her hands in between her thighs, pressing them tight to her crotch. She trembled and felt cold, wearing only the thin, outgrown leotard. She would have liked to convince herself that she was the innocent, injured party, but she could not. It wasn't all the two other girls' fault.

Breathing rather fast, Madelaine straightened up. Through the door she clearly heard Miss Hampton's whistle sounding three times. Madelaine stiffened, sitting up properly on the chair. After a while everything became silent in the gym hall. One of the teams had won the match. Madelaine did not know which one. Then she heard the girls clattering away to the changing room. Cautiously she turned her head and looked across her shoulder at the door with its framed glass pane. She felt a cold shiver run up her spine – a shiver of fear that Miss Hampton was soon going to open that door and enter the small room. Her breath came in rapid gasps and her body rigidly quivered.

But all of a sudden there was a strange sound. A noise that set all her nerves on edge. She heard repeated dull slaps, which were followed by half-suppressed yelps from a girlish voice. Madelaine held her breath and listened intently, her cheeks growing paler. That sort of slapping noise was something she recognised. It had to come from a hand landing hard on tender flesh; the yelps were how a poor girl complained about a smarting pain which increased in her flesh every time the hand bounced up from the firm bottom, where it served the purpose of teaching the young lady how to behave.

Only after at least ten smacking reports did Madelaine become absolutely sure who it was. That was Lorna's voice she heard squealing and whining. The noise went on and on and that kind of sound did not make Madelaine feel more calm. She became acutely scared, for it was obvious that Lorna was not getting off lightly. Minutes seemed to pass before the spanking came to an end and the stomach-churning squealing turned into a blubbering wail.

Madelaine wrung her hands, feeling tears coming into her eyes and a heavy pressure inside her. In a way it was worse to have to listen than to be chastised herself. She strained her ears, hearing what must be Sonia's voice objecting plaintively.

'No... no-oo, Miss Hampton! I haven't done anything! It wasn't me! I don't know why Madelaine pinched me. Please. Pleeeease. Don't. Dooooon't. No-ooo. No-oo, Miss Hampton...'

Though Madelaine was scared, she could not stop herself. On trembling legs she stood up close to the door. Stealthily she raised a corner of the brown-and-white striped curtain and looked through the glass. She saw them in there near the wall to the left. Lorna was standing away from them, holding her hands to her tear-stained face.

Madelaine inhaled sharply and stared at Lorna. She could hardly believe her eyes. Lorna was 17 years old, as they all were. Yet she stood there so shamefully bared. She had her tight red nylon shorts right down and encircling her ankles, and was displaying her flat tummy and the dark triangle of her pubic hair. The lower half of her body was entirely exposed.

But Madeline's eyes almost at once turned away from Lorna, as she caught sight of Sonia, who was half-bent across Miss Hampton's lap. Miss Hampton was sitting on a low vaulting-box, clearly trying to make the eagerly-resisting teenaged girl lie down across her knee. She held Sonia's left wrist with one hand and the other was grasping the girl round her waist.

Madelaine flushed. Never could she have imagined that anything like this could happen to the girls in the sixth form. It was extraordinary. First, Miss Hampton had ordered them to stand in the corner. That was probably the first time ever that girls of their age had been sent to be shamed like that in front of the whole form. But now. This was much worse. Miss Hampton not only spanked girls who were 17 – she even pulled their shorts down and took them across her lap!

Madelaine saw how Sonia struggled in vain to be free. It did not take Miss Hampton long, for the gym mistress was strong. Madelaine almost pressed her nose to the pane of glass. Sonia was perched across Miss Hampton's lap and lay there with her legs floundering. She tried fervently to hold on to her shorts with her right hand, but a few slaps on her thighs made her obedient and the tight-fitting shorts were tugged down. And then Sonia became still, lying with her bottom up quite bare, prepared to be spanked till it was red all over.

The sound from the hard slaps could be heard more clearly now that Madelaine had her face close to the glass, and she could see with her own eyes how the arm was raised and then brought down, the hand rising high in the air and descending with sheer force. The sight of the rippling flesh starting to develop red marks from Miss Hampton's fingers and palm became too much for Madelaine. She closed her eyes. Panting, she slumped down on the chair in great anxiety, convinced that her own punishment was going to be no less shameful. Miss Hampton would certainly perform what she considered to be her duty and it would be on Madeline's behind, not on her hands. It was not much of a consolation to her that Lorna and Sonia were also going to leave school today with red and tender bottoms.

Further away, Madelaine heard the school bell sounding the end of the school day. Soon her mates would pour through the school gates, giggling and chattering and having nothing at all to worry about. With a deep sigh Madelaine wondered whether her chums, or at least some of them, really believed that she was not afraid of punishments. She was. Her bravado was only an outward act. She was scared every time she had to endure some kind of chastisement, whether at school or at home. Madelaine herself did not think any girl could be particularly brave when it came to having to pay for her misdeeds. A girl's bottom was sensitive and a cane so awfully whippy.

Half-paralysed by shame and fear, she stood up when the door was opened and then shut again. She felt too afraid and too shy to look up. She knew it could be no one other than Miss Hampton who had come in.

All her fears came true. Miss Hampton went straight to the wall with the shelves and stretched up her arm and took down the cane, before she turned to her. Madelaine did not want to look up. She glanced to the left and looked out through the window There outside, she caught sight of other girls fully-dressed, crossing the school yard in pretty navy blue uniforms, swinging their satchels, happy and carefree on their way home from school. Looking at them, she felt so ashamed and naked, standing alone in front of the gym teacher, clad only in her very tight, too-old leotard.

She heard Miss Hampton's voice but did not distinguish the words properly. The gym mistress's voice held no compassion for her. She was talking like teachers always did, about how schoolgirls were expected to behave. Teachers and parents always talked like that, but such words rarely inspired much interest from girls in their upper teens. She could not listen and she did not look up at Miss Hampton. Madelaine felt terrified and appallingly embarrassed, and she could not bear to look at the threatening cane Miss Hampton was bending between her hands.

The gym mistress angrily became aware of the girl's disinterest and suddenly swished the supple cane through the air, striking the outside of Madeline's left thigh with smarting effect. The searing, unexpected pain made Madelaine jump out of the way and let out a shrill, protesting yelp.

'I told you to bend over the end of that couch, Madelaine,' Miss Hampton repeated, pointing at the massage-bench alongside the wall behind the girl. It was high, covered in rather worn-looking brown artificial leather. On it was a cushion in the same material, but that looked almost new.

Tears were emerging from Madeline's eyes, and a whimpering from her mouth. She looked down at her thigh, rubbing the sore red mark on her skin with her left hand. Then, with a deep intake of breath, she slowly and with very short steps went to stand at the foot-end of the couch.

'Please, Miss Hampton,' she sobbed. 'It hurts. Please, don't use the cane. I... I have marks already. Daddy caned me at home the day before yesterday. That was why I got so angry. Lorna and Sonia teased me when we were changing our clothes because I still had those marks.'

'Yes, I know. They told me when I asked them why you were making such a disturbance. They have already been punished. Now it is your turn. Bend over and don't let me have any more fuss.'

Madelaine was reluctant to obey, but hard, unrelenting hands helped her. The leather cushion was pushed beneath her tummy and when Madelaine lay forward on the bench-top, her feet did not quite reach the floor. Her long legs were dangling in the air and a strong hand held her down. Madelaine had no option but to resign herself to her fate. Miserable and unable to resist Miss Hampton's demands, she felt her teacher's hands at the legs of her leotard, tugging them up. Shuddering, she gripped hard on the sides of the couch.

It was awful. She knew that most of her bottom had been bared. The leotard had been pushed up so high the cloth was cutting into her crotch. Miss Hampton yanked it even further. Her bottom had now been made completely vulnerable, and all that Madelaine could do to suppress the sound of her sobs was to press her face flat against the cool leather top. Any time now she feared that the cane would fall ferociously across its target. Her bottom tensed and relaxed repeatedly, the soft flesh wincing in expectation of her first-ever caning from the gym mistress. Madelaine knew what it would be like. She was only too well acquainted with the ways in which a cane could hurt. Experience had taught her more than she ever wanted to know about such things. She hated and detested being caned.

The sensation therefore came as no surprise to her. She had waited in anguish for at least a minute for the cane to whip into her soft flesh, and sure enough it did. The pain was the same as she had felt only two days before, when Daddy had used the cane that was kept at home solely for that purpose. Miss Hampton had aimed carefully and struck straight across the bare centre parts of her buttocks. The searing pain made Madeline's lips form a scream, but it never left her mouth. She succeeded in repressing it, but almost all the breath left her lungs and her hips heaved and wriggled.

The resilience of her bottom and the suppleness of the cane co-operated, and the teacher's implement recoiled smoothly from the stung and quaking flesh. A stripe of white across the pale skin marked the place, well below the tugged-up legs of her leotard, where the cane had made its brief visit, and within seconds it turned pink. The first tears of pain fell from Madeline's eyes on to the covered bench-top, yet Madelaine felt proud that she had not cried out.

The next two strokes were slightly less hard, although their cumulative pain and shock caused her hips to hump up and down energetically. But number four surprised Madelaine, as it really did hurt dreadfully. The scorching pain it caused very low down across her buttocks forced her to emit a plaintive cry and involuntarily she kicked up with both legs.

'I see you really felt that one, Madelaine,' said the gym mistress in a tight little voice. 'Perhaps that was just as hard as you get from your father. The rest will hurt like that one did. You have six more to come.'

'Oh no! No more, Miss Hampton! Pleeease! It hurts so awfully. Aaaaooouuch!' Madelaine shrieked as the very flexible cane whipped into the apple-curved rounds of her bottom for the fifth time, indenting another set of tramlines right above the previous ones. This time the smart made Madelaine snatch her body up off the couch, her visibly inflamed bottom performing a mad dance in the air.

The gym teacher's response was to order her to move forward on the bench so that her whole body, from head to ankles, now lay flat on its leather-covered surface, her long legs parted slightly and stretched out horizontally. Now Madelaine could not hold back her blubbering cries any longer. But as Miss Hampton made her wait in suspense for the next stroke, Madelaine tried awkwardly to induce her to let her off the rest of her punishment.

'Please, Miss Hampton. No more now. It hurts. It really hurts. I've learnt my lesson – I really have. Daddy was so strict, I'm already so sore. Please, Miss Hampton, please don't cane me any more!' At the same time she started to struggle and attempted to turn on her side to protect her buttocks.

'Oh no, Madelaine,' the teacher warned her, suddenly sounding spiteful. 'If you make a fuss I'll give you two extra strokes.'

Madeline's squeal this time was shriller when Miss Hampton's cane, to emphasise her words, landed with a loud crack, etching a blazingly painful red stripe across both her thigh-backs at least an inch below the crevice where the swelling of her buttocks began. Crying from the savage smart, Madelaine clung tightly to the end of the padded bench, dutifully submitting herself to Miss Hampton's unbearable discipline.

Now at last Madelaine realised how stupidly she had behaved. Instead of getting revenge on the two girls, she had made Miss Hampton more angry than she had imagined she could ever be. Never before had Madelaine been caned twice in one week. Once was more than enough – far more than enough. Sonia and Lorna had been lucky. They had escaped with a mere spanking. Of course a spanking was humiliating to a girl of 17, and still worse when she had been taken across the knee and had her knickers pulled down. But Madelaine would have given anything to have exchanged her punishment for the chastisement they had received.

Snivelling and sobbing, Madelaine tried to brace herself for the remaining strokes that were still due to her. She did not know how many more it was to be. She had lost count because of the pain. Had she been able to see her own bottom, she could perhaps have counted the number of strokes Miss Hampton had given her, for these marks were stronger and more livid than those left by the recent caning from her father.

The pause was over and Madelaine just had to cry out again when the cane scorched her soft flesh, almost too high up this time.

Again there seemed to be a pause, and Madelaine had a few moments' grace. Her cheeks were wet with tears and she could not stop weeping. The lithe cane rested right across her nervously trembling bottom, aligning itself for another stroke. Madelaine did not know that Miss Hampton was studying the marks her cane had already made in her skin. She did not know anything any more, only that she had been a very naughty girl and was now paying the price for her misbehaviour. The teacher seemed to be quite satisfied with the tramlined marks her instrument had produced on Madelaine's trim, girlish bottom with intent to make the culprit feel sore and remorseful. The girl still had to take a few more strokes, however, and she noticed a couple of areas where there were inch-wide gaps between stripes. Slowly she raised the cane again.

'There are only three more now, Madelaine. Try to be a brave girl and your punishment will soon be over.'

The three cracking whacks fell only five to ten seconds apart and Madelaine cried out, wailing from the pain each of them caused her in that part about which parents and teachers seemed to agree that girls possessed not only to sit upon.

Whimpering and shivering, Madelaine climbed off the padded bench and stood up straight when Miss Hampton told her to. Tears were flowing down her cheeks and the red, swollen tramlines across her buttocks ached and burned like fire.

Weeping, Madelaine was allowed to leave the room and weeping, she showered when she had reached the changing room. The water helped to ease the pain, but when she towelled she felt the soreness of the long, raised stripes. As she dressed, her thoughts turned from what had happened to what she had to face when she came home. Mum had asked her to hurry, but instead she was already at least half-an-hour late. She could not leave until she felt reasonably sure that people would not notice from her face that she had been weeping.

At home Mum and Aunt Doris would be impatiently waiting for her. Aunt Doris was busy making a new dress for Madelaine, and that was why the girl was expected home straight after school. Mum had reminded her once again as she had left for school that Aunt Doris was coming to try the new dress on for size. Madelaine sighed as she thought how life for a schoolgirl sometimes seemed to be so complicated. At home she would have to undress and stand between Mum and her Aunt in nothing but her underwear. Protests would be useless. Aunt Doris could not come back another day and Madelaine could not try on the new dress when she was wearing other clothes.

No knickers in the world could conceal reddish stripes decorating a pouting girlish bottom after it had been given ten sharp whacks with a school cane and on the bare too. There was also the weal across the backs of her thighs, which was not possible to hide at all. Mum and Aunt Doris were bound to notice the marks which still were red and swollen across her buttocks. Mum would almost certainly pull her knickers down to see everything. Then, amidst all kinds of exclamations, she would probably count the stripes.

There were going to be questions and more questions. How would Madelaine be able to find answers to all of them? No, Madelaine knew there would be no end to all those questions a Mum and an Aunt could put to a poor unhappy teenaged schoolgirl, whose bottom was still fierily tender after having just been dealt with by the cane. And why, oh why, didn't she live more than five minutes' walk away from school?

Dear Polly...

Story from Februs 39.

Dear Polly...
A Short Story by Sam Ramsey

Oh, I do miss Polly! We used to meet up often, and (sweetly wanton girl!) she'd ask for her pretty bottom to be spanked and paddled, and sometimes even lightly caned, before we made love. 'No pain, no gain,' she would say – for she'd discovered that these little acts of submission turn her on as nothing else does, and make her orgasms afterwards so much more intense.

But now she is two hundred miles away. My fault, of course. The new job was far too good an opportunity to turn down. There are fleeting visits still. But between times, the odd phone-call doesn't really fill the gap. So, occasionally, I write. At first, it was just cards or quick notes, with a teasing erotic tone. But she wanted more. Polly always got really turned on when I showed her the stories I had written for Februs – she confessed (so wanton again) to having frigged herself reading them. 'Make the letters more explicit too,' she said. So I did...

Dear Polly,
It was great to speak to you on the phone a few days ago. Except that, hell, I do hate phones. I always feel that I've not managed to say what I meant. Still, it was terrific to hear that you were really looking forward to meeting up again. As I said, I'm incredibly busy at the moment, but Monday week looks a real opportunity. That should be just wonderful. I'll phone you again nearer the time to wake definite arrangements. Meanwhile are you in the mood for another letter, perhaps even ready to play with yourself as you read? You are? Good!! Then I'll continue...

* * *

Have you won the lottery yet? A very selfish question, of course – for (do you remember?) after our last time together, when I had to leave, you said that if you won the lottery you'd love to come and stay in a hotel so that we could have some unrushed time together, Wow! What an idea! I've been imagining how things might be.

Perhaps we'd meet up in London: and we could have a relaxed afternoon shopping around Oxford Street. We'd start by buying you some really good lingerie (I mean very expensive, lacy, sensuous wisps of things), and then a pretty dress or two. And some sexy, strappy, very high heels – you know my tastes! Maybe we'd then move on to one of the less sordid sex shops, and buy toys for you – a vibrator, perhaps a slim anal dildo too, and a whip with soft leather strands to tease you with. We'd certainty end up at the Janus shop in Soho. You'd probably be the only woman there, as we browsed through some magazines, looking together at the pictures of pretty girls being spanked and caned. We'd select some magazines, and then we'd carefully choose a paddle and a cane for you. Would it turn you on, knowing that the other men in the shop are watching you, imagining you naked and crying out with painful pleasure as you bend over to receive punishment from the instruments that you are buying? I rather think it would...

Then it would be back to the hotel – a rather smart, elegant one (well, you have won the lottery!). And we'd have a long, lingering bath together, drinking champagne. You'd lie back against me, feeling me hard against you. I'd run my soapy hands over your breasts and tease your nipples hard, and get you to play with yourself a little. (I know how you like that, Polly – lying in a bath, drinking a glass of wine, and slowly masturbating yourself!)

We'd get out of the bath and dry each other, and it's almost time to get dressed for dinner, but would we be able to restrain ourselves? I'm not sure I could! My lips travel down your body, tasting you fresh from the bath. And you tumble backwards onto the bed, and my lips continue downward; you part your legs and you feel my tongue on your pussy; you begin to get wet; and I continue to lick you until you come to a sweet orgasm. We cuddle for a moment while you recover; and then you kneel up beside me and take my cock deep into your mouth – you suck me beautifully, as you do, and soon (all too soon) I fill your mouth with come.

Afterwards, I watch you got dressed in your new lingerie; a beautiful reverse strip-tease. First, your stockings and pretty suspender-belt; then a bra which lifts your breasts so sexily, your nipples only just covered and still visible though the fine lace; then the tiny matching panties with just a thong behind, leaving your lovely bottom quite naked. You slip on one of the dresses, balance on your new heels, and I take you down to the restaurant. You look so attractive and sexy – all through the evening we catch other men stealing glances at you. We catch up on more of our news over dinner: the food and vine are excellent, the whole atmosphere of the place a relaxed delight.

As the meal progresses, though, the sexual tension starts to rise again – for, though it is all quite unspoken, we both know that after the meal, in only an hour or so now, you will be half-naked, leaning over, waiting for the fiery kiss of the first stroke of the cane. We tell each other about our sexual adventures since we last met – you describe your session with the last man who spanked you, and I tell you all about the hour I treated myself to recently at a rather classy massage parlour, playing with two very pretty young girls in the jacuzzi. By now, we are drinking our coffee, and I have moved my chair around the table to be sitting closer to you. We have fun looking round the restaurant, imagining the relationships of the other couples. There's another older man with a young woman; they obviously know each other well. She is very elegantly dressed, but around her neck there is a slightly incongruous narrow leather choker; she has a band tattooed round the top of her arm. Is she into bondage and submission? In their room later, will she be moaning against a ball gag, writhing in the ropes that bind her, as the clamps are tightened on her nipples? There's another older man with an even younger, very beautiful, blonde girl; when her companion leaves the table for a moment she sits there, looking obviously very bored, but she turns on a forced animation when he returns. Is she perhaps an escort girl, about to be very expensively fucked? And on a near table to us, a couple of very attractive women in their late twenties are flirting with each other, occasionally touching hands across the table when they think no one will notice. I tease you, asking you which of the two lipstick lesbians you would like to make love with (I haven't forgotten – how could I? – your confession that you'd really like to make out with another woman one day).

Our coffee is finished; I take your hand and escort you out of the restaurant. Shall we pause in the bar? No: we've drunk enough – so at last we go back to our room.

I hold you tight for a while, my hands on your bum. Then I gently ease up your dress so I can feel your bottom naked in my hands and caress the smooth skin. After a while, you slip out of your dress, and carefully lay it over a chair; and you start to step out of your heels, but 'No,' I say, 'keep them on.'

We lie on the bed with the magazines we bought, and leaf through them together, looking at the erotic photo-sets of girls submitting to various instruments striping their pretty bottoms, talking about which of the girls we would fancy playing with. I read you one of the stories, about a maid in a Victorian country house being punished and then made love to by one of the house guests; you read me another story, about a girl's first experience of the cane. We get more and more excited...

Eventually, I say, 'Stand up!'. You obey, and stand by the bed in your lacy lingerie and heels. I caress you and stroke you and then remove your bra, caress you some more and suck your nipples hard. Then, my voice hoarse with desire, I tell you to put your hands on your head.

You stand there like the naughty girl you are, and I fetch the whip that we'd bought earlier and begin to flick you with it. The strands play on your bottom, on your thighs, on your tummy, on your breasts (especially your breasts). You bite your lip; it doesn't exactly hurt but it teases and torments. Then the stings increase. You begin to wriggle, and you gasp once or twice. But I make you keep your position, as I give you some harder strokes on your bum.

I then tell you to lean forward with your hands on the bed; and I arrange the mirrored wardrobe door so that you can see yourself. I pick up the cane...

Oh, we've done this before... what, a dozen times now? And each time I cane you or crop you, Polly, it is just a bit harder. I love the way you submit, the way you draw in your breath in little pants as you take the strokes, the way you get so turned on. I love the way the little bars stripe the perfect flesh of your bottom.

You look at yourself in the mirror, an image of sexiness in your stockings and suspenders and g-string, as you lean forward now, your bum a perfect curve. You watch me raise my arm. I hold the cane aloft for a moment, and then it swishes down.

You feel the impact, and then – a moment later – the line of fire blazes across your bottom.

Then another stroke. And you cry out, moving from one foot to the other, until you settle again and raise your bottom.

Another line of new pain draws a sighing moan from deep inside you.

Oh Potty, it hurts – but it is thrilling too. The heat in your bum seems to transmit itself straight to your pussy. You cry out as the cane cracks down again. I reach down and stroke you; a finger penetrates your wetness and teases your clit so that delightful sensations shoot right through you. Then my finger moves back and up, tracing round your sensitive bum-hole. You press back, as if wanting me to finger-fuck your bum already; but no, you can not enjoy that pleasure just yet. First, you must take four more stripes from the cane.

One. The sound loud in the silent room.

Two. Your bottom aflame again. You moan.

Three. Your bum has become the centre of the world – but as if to put out the fire, your pussy is now so very, very wet. I touch you and you open up to me with a sigh of pleasure. But it isn't quite over.

Four. The hardest stroke you have ever taken. Tears spring to your eyes, but immediately you are in my arms and your bum is being soothed and pampered, and we are cuddling tight together.

Then I lie you down, and – as has happened so often before – my kisses run all over your body. You open your legs to me, and my tongue searches round and round, slowly, teasingly. Finally, my tongue centres home on your clit, and you sigh with pleasure, and cry out again as soon a wicked finger deeply penetrates your bum-hole.

You drift far away into your own world, until suddenly an intense, deep orgasm washes over you. You lie there shattered for a moment; but then you smile and kneel up beside me and start stroking my cock. You take me into your mouth until I get very hard – and then you look at me and say, 'Please fuck me now.'

A bit later you are standing again, looking over your shoulder into the mirror, proudly inspecting the marks across your bum. You are still on a high, the heat in your bum still transmitting itself to your pussy. You want more sex.

I'm exhausted (twice in one evening is the limit at my age!); so I hold you in my arms as you play with your new vibrators, and I watch you come again as you masturbate with one while the other is plugged deep in your pretty striped arse.

Well, Polly, do you like the idea of that scene? Is your pussy wet? Have you started playing with yourself as you read this? God, how I wish I was caning you and fucking you right now!

But if that first night in our hotel is wonderful sexual fun, the second is even better for you – because it is the night you at long last have the first lesbian experience that you have imagined so often.

* * *

It is middle of the evening; after a light meal, we are sitting in the hotel bar. You are excited but a bit apprehensive. We have arranged with a very expensive upmarket agency to send us a girl, and she is meeting us here so that if you don't take to her, we can back out. She is a few minutes late.

Then a young woman is standing at the entrance to the bar, looking around. She's of medium height, shoulder-length very dark hair, olive-skinned, large brown eyes, rather beautiful. Her coat is hanging open, and underneath she is wearing a low-cut little black dress, showing a slim figure and long legs. We catch each others' eyes, and she comes over.

'I'm so sorry, I had real trouble getting a taxi.'

She calls herself Alice, and – it turns out – she is a student, working her way through college. She is immediately relaxed and friendly and we warm to her straight away. And when I go to the bar a little later for a second round of drinks, I notice that you are already chatting animatedly, and you obviously like her. So a little later I say, 'We'd very much like it, Alice, if you would join us in our room.'

And she smiles and says yes, she'd like that too. So we buy a bottle of champagne, and take it upstairs.

'Well, the agency told me a little, but do you want to say what you'd like to do?'

We do, and she nods and smiles acceptingly. 'That sounds fun,' she says.

So Alice begins to undress you completely, and lies you down on a towel on the bed. She then asks me if I'd like to help her undress; and who am I to refuse? I take off her dress and then her bra; I kneel behind her and take down her little lace knickers, kissing her bum as I do. But now she is naked apart from her heels I am dismissed to the role of a happy spectator.

Out of her bag she gets some scented massage oils, and she begins to work on your back. A long, expert, slow sensuous massage. It feels quite wonderful. Hands knead and stroke and rub. Occasionally, Alice rubs her breasts too over your body, so they begin to glisten slightly from the oil. She moves down from your back and massages your legs, moving up to your thighs and bum. She parts your legs slightly, and her hand sometimes strays to the very top of the inside of your thighs, brushing across your pussy lips.

'Turn over,' she commands at last.

And her ministrations continue on your thighs and tummy and eventually your breasts. By now you are very aroused, and when Alice bends down to take your nipples into her mouth you moan aloud with pleasure.

She continues down, her lips tracing patterns on your body, getting closer and closer to your centre. Then at last, her mouth is on your pussy, her tongue is seeking your clit. And for the first time you are been licked out by a woman. The sensations are gorgeous; subtly different from anything that you've ever experienced before. She knows exactly what to do, exactly how to pace things. Soon you are floating away, you are utterly wet and opening out to her, and from afar an orgasm begins to build and build until suddenly the waves crash over you.

Alice lies on the bed next to you, cuddling you tightly as you come down; I'm sitting on the bed next to you both, a caressing hand wandering over your bodies.

She kisses you on the lips. You smile into her eyes.

'That was wonderful,' you say.

'I'm glad,' she says. 'I'd very much like it if you'd do the same for me. Please will you?'

The moment of truth for you. But you are on a high now. So Alice lies down on her back, and you kneel over her and your lips begin to wander over her smooth, scented skin. You feel the springy flesh of her breasts, and take a nipple into your mouth, sensing it get erect. You savour, explore, nuzzle, kiss. Then your lips travel on. Past her belly button. On downwards to the small patch of hair above her shaved pussy. She parts her legs.

And for the very first time you taste another woman's pussy. Sweet, moist.

'Oh yes,' she cries, 'lick me there, just there...'

You lick around, feeling your way with your tongue. You hear Alice moan, and she is beginning to play with her own nipples. Seeing you lying between her thighs, your bum in the air, I'm so tempted to fuck you there and then – but no, I don't want to distract you, I want you to savour every moment of your first lesbian encounter. Alice's legs stretch wider apart, her pussy now aflood with her sweet wetness; you lick faster, and then, quite soon, she cries out two, three times loudly as her orgasm overwhelms her.

A little later, Alice is leaning over the bed as you did the first night. But tonight it is you who get to wield the whip and cane, to fulfil your dark desires (oh, Polly, how could I forget that you told me too about the rest of your lesbian fantasy, about having a pretty girl to be your slave for an evening). I watch, entranced, excited almost beyond endurance, as you begin to tease and torment her. First, the fine tails of the whip search out her tenderest spots, and she begins to writhe and grimace. You pause, and the two of you stand up pressed together for a while, kissing deeply; then you make her bend forward again. You pick up the cane; tentatively at first, and then more firmly, you begin to apply it to the curves of Alice's sweet behind. I watch the impacts, the play of mingled pain and pleasure across her face, the fiery stripes developing across her bum, while between strokes you frig her so gently, so sensuously. You too get more and more turned on by her submission, as Alice cries out and moans; she is obviously as into being punished as you are (the agency followed their instructions well!). She looks straight into my eyes, her eyes damp from the smarting pain, as you cane her once more, and then a final time.

Alice stays bent over when you have finished, panting, and together you and I put lube around her pretty bum-hole and you hold her as I push my cock into her arse. She cries out but then relaxes into it, pushes back slowly and suddenly I'm deep inside her. You then slip round in front of her, kneel before her, and – in compensation for her all suffering – lick her pretty pussy again, as her arse is being fucked. Soon she is crying out in a different voice, coming to her second orgasm; as I hear her moaning in pleasure, my come pumps into her anus.

And then at last it is your turn again. Would you like to sixty-nine with Alice? Would you like Alice to fuck you with the strap-on that she has brought in her bag? Would you like me to whip you as she sucks you another orgasm? Would you like to be forced to masturbate in front of us?

No, I think what you would like most of all is that poor punished, sodomized, Alice would wreak her revenge and punish you in your turn. I'd watch her naked body glisten as first she paddles you, and then she renews your stripes from last night. The fire in your bottom lights again, the excitement courses through your body burning, burning. I hold you tight, kissing you, frigging you, as Alice plies the rod; I feel the strokes judder through you, and already I feel my own excitement mount again. Then, when you can take no more, our two sets of lips would travel all over you, fingers, tongues, dildos penetrating every orifice, until you came to the most shattering orgasm of your life.

So babe, you really must win that lottery!

Love and kisses
Sam

* * *

That's the letter I sent before visiting Polly a few days ago. It was indeed great to see her, to feel again the curves of her body pressed against me. She had a lovely surprise for me too.

'I've something to tell you!' she said, as I began to undress her.

'Don't tell me! You've won the lottery.'

'No. But I have been with another woman for the first time...'

She tells me about her experience; by strange coincidence, it must have been the very same night I was writing the letter. A few days before, Polly and some girl friends had been talking about their fantasies, about the ways in which they'd like to experiment. Polly confessed her desire to make love with another girl, and one of her friends set her up with a date – a very pretty young blonde girl of twenty three (who, it turned out, had a lovely figure and a shaved pussy). And so, a couple of nights later, having drunk a bottle of wine together, at first slightly awkwardly, Polly made the first move; soon they went to bed, and suddenly it all felt relaxed and utterly natural. The two spent the whole night together, making love repeatedly.

'I lost count how many time we came. It was wonderful.'

'Do you want to do it again?'

'Oh yes, oh yes...'

'Did you spank her?'

'No, not really. My only regret that is that we didn't have toys to play with... I would have loved to whip her.'

'Did you do this?' I asked, as my finger strays inside Polly's sweet rosebud.

'Oh yes,' she whispered, 'I asked her to finger-fuck my bum the second time; then I did her, which she loved too.'

She tells me more.

'You have been very naughty,' I said. She sighed again. 'You should be punished.'

'Yes, please!'

Lying on the bed, a whip and a cane, and other instruments of pleasurable pain, lay ready to play with. Polly lifted her breasts towards me; I kissed her nipples hard erect, and slowly picked up the nipple clamps...

Teddy's Narrative

Story from Phoenix 44.

Teddy's Narrative

A girl's Teddy Bear normally keeps a strict code of silence. But Miss Jennifer was so naughty the story has to be told.

It is pitch-dark in the bedroom and the hands of the Micky Mouse clock point to five-past-midnight. Miss Jennifer lies in the big bed; she wears no pyjamas and she is crying. She lies on her tummy because her bottom is throbbing with bruised heat. She has been bitterly caned and big silver tears roll down her soft cheeks and soak into my fur. I'm a very wet Teddy Bear.

All the toys in the nursery saw the caning. The tin soldier stood very stiff all the time it was happening. The abacus counted the strokes, and the musical-box thought of Handel's Water Music. Most of the toys felt sorry for Miss Jennifer who screamed and wept as Father caned. But I know what caused it all, and I think she deserved it.

About three moths ago Miss Jennifer took me to bed. "Oh Teddy," she said, nuzzling up to me, "Today I met the man that Mummy and Daddy want me to marry. And Teddy (a tiny tear came into her eye and she pouted her lips) I'm afraid I don't like him. She said a lot more which I won't bore you with, but I didn't like the sound of it. I said to myself: it doesn't matter if you like this boy or not Miss Jennifer. If the old Duke wants you to marry him... you'll marry him.

A few weeks later Miss Jennifer came home at five o'clock in the morning. She'd been to a big, society Ball. "Oh Teddy," she said. "That horrid man took me to the Ball tonight and afterwards kissed and kissed me. He wanted to go further but I didn't let him because I still don't like him."

That sounds like trouble I thought. The Duke and Duchess favour this young whipper-snapper, but Miss Jennifer still says 'No'.

And so matters went on for about a couple of months. Then one night the Duchess came into the bedroom for a serious, heart-to-heart with Miss Jennifer. The Duchess said the young man came from a very good family. It appears he has a title. He was also good looking, rich and sensible; a most suitable groom-to-be. Miss Jennifer must learn to like him. The Duchess didn't mince matters and finally Miss Jennifer dissolved in tears. Later, in bed, she asked me what to do.

I kept my mouth shut. It's more than a Bruin's job is worth to say anything. But I thought to myself: you'd better change your mind Miss Jennifer, or that cane behind the bedroom door will be in action. The Duke and Duchess are not to be disobeyed. Although Miss Jennifer is over the age of consent she would still be subject to the Duke's strict discipline.

To cut a long story short, about eight o'clock tonight Miss Jennifer came into the bedroom looking very shocked. "Oh Teddy," she said weepily, "Daddy had sent me upstairs; and you know what that means." Of course I knew what it meant and so did all the other toys. One of the younger dolls started sucking her thumb, the twin book-ends looked at each other and slowly shook their heads.

Miss Jennifer perched on the side of the bed and kicked her shoes off petulantly. She has dainty ankles and pretty feet. She raised one side of her skirt, unclipped a suspender and rolled one silky stocking down her shapely leg.

Mary-Anne, the big china doll noticed Miss Jennifer was gnawing her lip anxiously; obviously she was thinking of what was to come. She unclipped the other suspender and, with a heavy sigh, her other stocking came off. Miss Jennifer then sat with her skirt high over her thighs and her small hands gripped her knees which had begun to tremble slightly. Because the Duke was very angry and she felt very frightened.

If Mary-Anne the china-doll had had the least sip of water at this point she would have disgraced herself terribly, because Miss Jennifer looked so soft and loveable, so diminutive and helpless that the doll longed to tell her how sorry she was about Miss Jennifer's plight.

Miss Jennifer gave another sad sigh, and swallowed with some difficulty and her hands went to the waist-belt of her skirt. Then she stood up and unclipped the buckle. The dark material fell gently to the ground and Miss Jennifer stepped free of it. Now all the toys could see her lovely long legs, dimpled knees and smooth, slender thighs. Jack-in-the-Box looked straight at Miss Jennifer's soft, white, skimpy knickers which hardly covered a quarter of her precious bottom, and Jack-in-the-Box was no longer in the box.

Then Miss Jennifer stretched behind her to undo her bra, and as the hooks loosened she eased a delectable breast out of each bra-cup, then hung the lacy garment over the back of a chair. Gollywog's hair stood high on end because the bra seemed to have confined Miss Jennifer's breasts very slightly and as it came off they fell back into their natural shape, which is oval and not very big, but very soft and creamy.

I'm a lucky Teddy Bear because of all the toys, I'm the one who is hugged to Miss Jennifer's breasts as she whispers secrets to me in the dark. Sometimes – like right this minute – her breasts heave and tremble as she squeezes me against them because of the nasty, burning, pulsing pain in her punished bottom. At times like this my head gets very wet because Miss Jennifer uses my big fluffy ears to wipe her streaming eyes. As she dabs me to her, she moans softly and gives little whimpers through parted lips.

"Oh Teddy. Oh Teddy – darling – if only you knew how my bottom hurts just now. So do my thighs; I daren't move my legs because of the cane. Did you see how hard Daddy caned me? I just know the pain is going to go on all night. Even if I do manage to fall asleep, I'll wake up again, because I ache so much, and that part of me twitches and I can't do anything about it. I try to stop it but it's the result of Daddy hitting really badly."

"Oh Teddy... do you think the pain will ever go away?"

Now I know the pain will go away – eventually – because it always does. Miss Jennifer's bottom will get back to normal and those deep red marks will disappear. But it's no good saying anything because the old Duke has laid-in some master-strokes – inwards and upwards, undercutting the buttocks where they swell out. I had to admire his style. But it's no good telling Miss Jennifer not to cry, so I say nothing.

Anyway, let me get back to describing what happened earlier. You'll remember I was saying how Miss Jennifer was undressing.

Miss Jennifer stood by the bed in nothing but those wispy knickers and if Humpty Dumpty hadn't been just a poster on the wall, he would have fallen and smashed into a hundred pieces.

The fact is, I've know Miss Jennifer since she was born. I was put in the nursery even before she arrived. I've seen her grow up. She was a pretty child and she developed into one of the most desirable girls, certainly in our district, and maybe even in the County. I've loved her for 21 years: I even celebrated her 21st Birthday in bed with her – I'm not saying how!

Anyway, I knew what was going on in Miss Jennifer's mind. She was thinking she wouldn't take her knickers off. She simply wouldn't. She positively refused to because at 21 she was far-too-old to be caned; she had her rights and Daddy shouldn't bend her over when she was totally naked. It wasn't fair; she hated it; it made her feel so small. Worst of all it brought back memories of her teenage years when Daddy was dreadfully strict. In those days she never seemed to be away from the cane.

But then the big stuffed-owl on the mantle-piece caught her eye, who is always so knowing and wise. Then she thought about how furious Daddy was and if she didn't do exactly as she was told, when he came upstairs he'd probably double the number of strokes he was going to give her. So Miss Jennifer decided discretion was the better part; slowly, painfully and miserably she began to take her knickers off.

Her thighs parted just a little bit because the knicker-fabric had slipped tightly into somewhere. It does that quite often and I don't think Miss Jennifer really minds. She sucked-in her tummy, gave her hips a fabulous little wiggle (it's so sexy when she does that) and down came the knickers. I could see Miss Jennifer resented her nakedness and defencelessness and placed a delicate hand in front of her. I can't speak for Jack-in-the-Box, but none of the other toys looked at that place because we all felt sorry for her.

Miss Jennifer didn't have a stitch on. The only sound in the Nursery was the tick of the Micky Mouse clock and that seemed to be as loud as Big Ben. The toys held their breath: Miss Jennifer looked so lovely, slender, demure and afraid and they wished they knew how to help her.

I've watched the scene a thousand times, especially when Miss Jennifer was a teenager and I know there's absolutely nothing any of us can do. Miss Jennifer is going to be caned. She's going to yell and screech and wiggle about hopelessly. I can see the cane behind the nursery door. It hangs on a hook so easy for Daddy to reach when he comes – red-faced and angry – into the room. Nobody in the whole world would dare to move that cane; Daddy has said it must never be touched except by him. But he makes sure it hangs where Miss Jennifer can see it as she lies in bed.

Then there was a long wait during which Miss Jennifer became more tense and afraid because she couldn't help imagining what was going to happen.

Pained and miserable you might feel Miss Jennifer, this old Bruin said to himself, but not half so pained and miserable as you'll feel when the old Duke has done with you. His Grace made Miss Jennifer wait for about three-quarters-of-an-hour contemplating her nakedness and wondering if any girl alive could feel more wretched.

Then there were the inevitable footsteps on the stairs. Miss Jennifer went all tense and whimpered softly. The door opened, a hand reached out and that terrible, thin venomous cane came down from the peg and zipped and whistled through the bedroom air. The old Duke certainly had a head-of-steam on; I'd not seen him swing that arm so broadly for years. He swung round on Miss Jennifer, who crouched back down onto the bed in a hopeless attempt to getaway, and instead of pulling her up (as I thought he would) he pushed her downwards flat on her back.

Then he grabbed both her ankles in one huge hand, and hoisted them upwards, and pushed her legs right back over her head until one dainty little foot rested beside each ear. She was bent over double and her back was pressing into the mattress; needless to say her bottom-cheeks were totally exposed. Not a nice position to be caned in – but then what position is?

I could only guess the Old Duke was tired of arguing with Miss Jennifer over whether or not she was willing to accept that boy. And sure enough, that was the trouble, because – as he lifted the cane in the air – the old Duke said: "If you won't accept my choice of husband for you the easy way, then – by God – you'll marry him the hard way."

With those words, it began: Wallop! Wallop! Wallop! Down came the cane on that bare, white-skinned, adorable bottom and Miss Jennifer screamed as if she'd been touched with a red-hot iron and shouted: "No Daddy! No Daddy! Pleeeeese... noooooh!"

Miss Jennifer began to struggle, she tried to kick her legs free of the old Duke's grip but he pushed down on her hard, bending her back again into position so her bottom was fully and rudely presented. It was a good job it was only her Father who could see her like that.

I've seen Miss Jennifer caned at almost every age since the old Duke began to discipline her, but I can't think when I've seen her bottom jive so desperately as it did then. It swung to the right, the left, and back to the right again. It bounced upwards, boobed downwards, writhed, wriggled and jiggled in a dozen different angles, in a wild struggle to get away from the cane. The more it jiggled about the harder the old Duke pressed down; the force of the pushing made Miss Jennifer's cleft part slightly but the slash of the cane made her cheeks squeeze as tight as the spring in the wind-up song-bird, against the searing pain.

The toys were horrified. They thought it was the harshest whipping, the cruelest show, the most pitiful bouncing back-and-forth fight to escape they could remember. Wallop! Wallop! Wallop! That trusty old stick – which I've seen in action so often – continued its work, but never so fiercely as the Duke used it then. Even Lion, bravest of all the toys, drew his tongue over his lips.

Six terrible strokes Miss Jennifer got and the old Duke hurled the cane onto the duvet and stormed out of the room. Miss Jennifer rolled onto her tummy and curled into a tight ball. She squeezed and clenched and unclenched her cheeks, gasping, gulping, struggling hopelessly against the agonising pain.

Then – like she always does – she grabbed hold of me and I knew I was in for a soaking because she was howling and weeping and her tears would soon be all over me. Which is just how it turned out.

Right now Miss Jennifer is in a state half-way between sleeping and wakefulness. She's still flat on her tummy but instead of not daring to move, her body is slowly beginning to press itself into the mattress. She's putting most of the pressure on her lower parts which are starting to move in a gentle, rhythmic, sensuous way.

She snuggles her soft lips into my face and the last thing she whispers is: "Teddy Darling... will you please come on honeymoon with me." Then there are heavier breaths and bouncier movements and little squeaks of satisfaction before Miss Jennifer at last falls into fitful sleep.

What cheeks!

Story from old Swish.

What cheeks!

"Mark, did you hear what that man said as he walked past us?", June asked. Together with her husband she was leaning over the rail of the top promenade on Brighton's seafront, her short grey skirt swaying gently above her knees.

"Said what?" Mark asked, drawn out of his contemplation of a luscious, peachy young bottom on the beach where a girl in her late teens lay face down on a towel, legs apart. – "He said.... he said, "She's got an arse I'd like to smack." Fancy saying a rude thing like that – about me!"

Mark almost grinned at that but managed not to. One of the first visual points that had attracted him to June had been the polished apple of her bottom when he had first encountered her at the age of eighteen sunning herself in her garden. Mark had been accompanying a friend there on a quick look-in visit, but his entire interest had centred on the lovely, leggy girl who seemed to have no inhibitions about the fact that her bikini was so skimpy that over half of her tits showed above, while below the backstrap of the sea-blue bikini bottom had almost worked its way entirely between her bulbing cheeks. It had occurred to Mark even then how often June must have got spanked for displaying herself around the house like that.

"Mark, you should tell him off!" June was protesting, and though Mark was the last person to want to seek a barney in public, he sensed that his bride of eight months would think him a weakling if he didn't do something.

Striding after the man and wondering what on earth he was going to say anyway, Mark reached him and his girl companion – who was at least half the man's age – and tapped him on the shoulder, saying rather selfconsciously, "Here – I say!" – "Pardon? Yes?", the man responded and then turned, making Mark adopt an entirely different expression.

"Good Lord, it's you, Roger!" he exclaimed while Lucy, who Mark also knew from a couple of years back, turned and smiled, her tits jiggling under her loose top. Lucy was the same age as June, though those two didn't know one another. Roger was the eldest of the four, in his forties, and kept a sort of antique shop, one of the curiosities of which was that he often had a bundle of old canes and birches somewhere in the back for 'interested enquirers'.

Explanations quickly followed between the two men. – "I wasn't being offensive, I was praising you, June", Roger was saying all of ten minutes later when the four stood in the bar at a nearby, seafront hotel. June shrugged and looked coy while she and Lucy continued casually eyeing one another up. – "Yes, he's always saying things like that when he sees a pretty girl, June," Lucy said, which brought a bit of a more pleased look to June's well-made-up face, bringing her to say, "Well, I s'pose it's all right; we didn't know who you were, of course".

"Let me make up for it by buying you lunch", Roger suggested, adding "Or we could have a sandwich in my room, or Lucy's, upstairs. It's a bit more relaxing. I love room service, don't you?" – "Room service? Oh yes, it's nice to be waited on", June replied vaguely while Lucy giggled and sidled up to her saying, "I get it all the time -room service, I mean, do you?"

"Eh?", asked June. The four were already drifting towards the lift. – "Oh, she's kidding you, June; she only gets spanked occasionally, that's all – the way Mark spanks you, I expect", Roger said frankly as the lift whirred up. – "Oh no, he's never...", June began but stopped at a nudge from her husband and a quick look that said silently, "Don't make me look stupid, June".

"Really never?" Lucy asked. The passage up to the second floor was quick and an empty corridor received them. In no time at all they were in Roger's room and June's quick eyes picked up the communicating door between the bedrooms. Following her look, Lucy laughed and said, "Oh, just in case". – "She means in case she needs attention of some sort", Roger put in and made a phone call for sandwiches and coffee, plus a follow-up drink.

"On holidays you can do anything – that's the nice thing", Lucy said and threw herself down on her back on the double bed, ceiling-gazing and showing her stocking tops, which made June flush and try to look away. "Romances, you mean? That sort of thing?", June asked, hoping that the subject of spanking wasn't going to be brought up.

"Not really. Something more out of the way, she means. Don't you, Lucy?" Roger asked provocatively. – "Yes? Tell us then", Mark said. He had an idea where they were leading and with a sudden kick he realised that with the four of them in one room there were distinct possibilities. He had always resented June's apparent prudishness in some things after the way she had always paraded her 'perfect peach' around. She had looked even more provocative than Lucy in those days – if that were possible.

"Well, I mean....", Lucy began, but then came the waitress and conversation died away until she had gone. – "I mean, in a hotel room it's just really private; you can let yourself go, better than you can when you're at home sometimes", Lucy offered. She had sat up but hadn't pulled her skirt down. Her black suspenders showed. Mark thought of the canes in Roger's shop – the old canes that must have seared so many bottoms – and felt a quick tingle in his loins. He wondered if Lucy had been Rogered as well as spanked.

"I dunno", June said and had a funny feeling that she wanted to escape or at least get the subject changed, but they weren't going to let her. Lucy started to talk about her first canings at school and Mark and Roger were listening like it was the gospel, June thought resentfully. Only when Roger asked, "And how about you, June?", did she start and blush. – "Oh no, not me", she answered quickly, making him raise his eyebrows and ask, "Never? Really never?"

"But you were spanked, June, weren't you?", Mark broke in. Dammit, he had been wanting to ask her that for some eighteen months, even before they were married. A luscious tight bum like hers couldn't have gone untended, surely. But Roger meanwhile saw June's hesitation and read through it, even as Lucy did. She gave her uncle a quick wink as if to say, "Go on!" A tight feeling of excitement was in her. She got up and put the two trays of empty plates and cups and glasses aside – that small gesture giving June a strange feeling that something odd was going to happen. Besides, Roger had a funny look on his face. And then with the completion of Lucy's bit of 'tidying', he got up from his chair and said quietly, "Come on, June; shall we find out?"

"WHAT?" blurted June in amazement. He had got hold of her wrist and was pulling her up. She didn't want to have anything to do with this near-stranger, she thought, but Roger knew that feeling, too. Girls always felt like it when they had their bottoms unpeeled for the first time and perhaps had to bend over in a college study under the interested, searching eye of a Head.

"Mark! Stop this! What's happening? Ah, NO! You can't do this! I want to go out, I want to.... NAAAAR!" came June's screech as Roger literally hauled her to the side of the bed and jerked, "Quick, Lucy, get the cane! Mark – you deal with Lucy. Isn't this what hotel rooms are for?"

"You DARE! Mark, I'll never speak to you again if you.... Oh, my god, no – stop it!" June cried in an anguish of apparent embarrassment as her brief, flimsy skirt was flipped up to the admiration of all three. Her nylons were sheer and tanned, taut at the tops where suspender drew on them, bringing the darker rings to small peaks. Her panties were powder blue, translucent, the pert cheeks gleaming half visibly beneath, the firm twin half-peaches bulbing out naked on either side of the thin, stretched material.

"June, it's just a bit of fun", Mark said with excited desperation. Lucy had scuttled through the party door so quickly to fetch the cane that she was back in a trice, handing it to Roger who said in a clipped voice, "You hold her down, Mark, you have to", and this producing another good screech from June of "Oh my god, no! Not in front of.... oh, you SOD!" as Mark clipped her shoulders down, pressing her mouth and nose into the bedcover while Roger swiftly peeled her tiny panties down and got them off her struggling legs.

"I'm going to tell my mother and every.... YEEE-AAAARCH!" came June's piercing cry as the cane took her full across her cleft orb, and therewith a barking interruption from Roger of "Be QUIET, June, and put it up now, put it up! You may have escaped a spanking in the past, young lady, but your time is due now". – "It isn't, it isn't! When I get out of here I'm going to.... GEEE-OUCH!"

"You're going to WHAT, June – what?" Roger growled. The second one he had given her had been too quick for his liking, but it was the way he had had to deal with Lucy once until he had tamed and trained her. June's fists were beating on the bed, her back squirming as she tried to resist the pressure of Mark's hands, and to no avail. Already, as Lucy could see in I profile, Mark had a hard stand-on that was poking up into his trousers. In fact both men had. It was exciting and would be even more so if June would only control herself.

"June, listen.....", Lucy began, kneeling up on the bed on the opposite side of the struggling young woman so that she faced Mark. – "NO, Lucy – she has to learn. I believe she did once, and she's forgotten it. Isn't that so, June?" Roger asked.

For a moment only June's wild sobs could be heard as she strove to contain the fierce burning of those two strokes across her hitherto uncaned bottom. Yes, it had been spanked several times in the past, and especially when she flaunted herself in her bikini, but she wasn't going to tell them that. She remembered how her wild sobbings had filled the house then and how she had been spanked the harder until she had subsided mewing and had felt her bikini bottom then being stripped carefully down to reveal the hot, reddened state of her quivering bum-cheeks while her squirmings had caused the hump of her unveiled pussy to rub shamelessly on her duvet until she felt sicky and funny, and then the curtains had been pulled together, and.....

"NO!" June gritted rebelliously now. In struggling, her pink-streaked bum came unguardedly higher up for a moment, giving Roger his sought-for chance to whip one up under her orb – under the ledge of it where she would really feel it. And June did. – "YEEE-EEEK!" she squealed. "Mark, if you d... d... don't stop this, stop him, I'll.... NEEE-AAAARGH!"

"I don't often cane a girl like this, June", Roger cut in across her rising wail, "I like to take my time, June, and that is what I'm going to do eventually with you – when you've quietened a bit, that is. You ARE going to quieten down, June, aren't you – ARENT you, eh?" and with that another brief flick of the cane brought yet another squeal and the wild, surprising cry from June of, "Yes, yes, yes – all right!" Scorched as her hot apple felt, June felt desperate in that moment and no longer had the energy to press up against her husband's restraining hands. Even her legs had slopped kicking and hung limp, thighs tremoring, a reddened hue spreading fully over her once pale but apple-firm cheeks.

For a moment then a near silence fell on the room – a silence as ripe with expectancy as June's flaring bum was. – "I want....", Lucy said suddenly and slipped off the bed, looking coy, and Roger said simply, "Yes. Mark – take her into her room. There's another cane in there".

"HAAAR, Mark, no! If you do..... NEEE-OW!" – but this was June's weak cry, of course, and with it came such a searing, searching passage of the whippy cane again across her quivering hot bumchceks that she actually reared for a moment and then slumped again, her fingers scrabbling wildly at the bedcover. As Mark released his pressure on her shoulder, so he expected her to spring up, but June didn't. Her face turned away from him, her eyes half closed, lips trembling.

"Quickly", Roger said and nodded towards the door to which Lucy was already coyly retreating. Lucy was still very good at looking coy, Roger thought approvingly, if not also admiringly. She only needed three or four strokes nowadays to bring her on, but Mark wouldn't know that. Not at first, anyway....

It had been eleven forty when the married couple had first encountered the other pair. It was two forty when they finally left. – "We'll have dinner first – say eight o'clock this evening", Roger's last words to them were. As for June, she held her head strangely high, her tears long dried and her make-up restored. For a long time she didn't speak and refused to let Mark hold her hand, but in a matter of twenty minutes they were in their own room at a hotel just a few hundred yards along the front.

"I'm not.....", June said suddenly and sat in a chair by the bed, clenching her fingers together. Mark looked at her sadly. Everything depended now on what both said and did, and he knew it. – "They're only staying here over the weekend", he said, and drew the curtains aside to look down at the promenade. – "When you were in the other room with that girl....", June said and stopped again. – "It's only for dinner tonight", Mark responded, but he didn't turn to look at her. Right now June didn't want to be looked at too much, he thought. – "Oh that's what he SAID!" she sneered. "If you want to go – go with that girl as I'm sure you did, you can, but I'm not. I'm..."

"June! Shut UP!" Mark uttered decisively, bringing a gasp from her, but – to his relief – no shouted reply. – "B... but, you don't understand what he.... I mean, what he.....", June said and began blubbering while Mark watched dispassionately and then moved towards her and bent slightly over her, stroking her hair. If she had really meant to leave, she wouldn't have begun immediately packing her things, he told himself and – better – June knew that HE knew that. Her blubbering was a cover. He didn't need to be told what she had succumbed to on the bed afterwards while at the same time Lucy's hot bottom was bumping passionately into him. He knew and June knew. It was a part of it. He felt pretty sure by now that it hadn't exactly been her first lesson, either.

"Come on, we'll go down to the beach, June", Mark said suddenly. "But Mark, you don't understand – I'm not going to.... Oh, Mark, please. I don't want to!" wailed June, albeit softly as he led her out of the room again. It was his turn not to speak now. She would appreciate that. Her wail had been phoney, and they both knew it. It was too late to turn back now, and she knew that, too. Too late. They were both suddenly in another compartment of life. True, they could shift in and out of it at will, but not right now. There was something that June had to re-learn. Obedience was the only word for it, corny as it might be – and she had been obedient under Roger on the bed afterwards. Mark knew that, even though she had got her knickers back on by the time he and Lucy (a well-pumped Lucy) had reappeared in the neighbouring bedroom.

There hadn't been time for June to smooth the centre of the ruffled bed, and she had been conscious of that, too. They had only used the side of the bed when she was being caned. There had to be a real lesson for June tonight – and that too was the half-excited, half-scared thought that was in her own mind as well. – "I wish – I wish we had done it together", Lucy had blurted afterwards, but Roger had silenced her with a look as if to say, "Yes, but don't say it, Lucy".

It was Roger who directed everything – or maybe she had always wanted to be directed, June thought dully when her dragging footsteps led her at last into the bedroom with them again. It was Mark who pleaded with her then, "Don't make too much noise tonight, June", but it was Roger who said crisply. "Don't ask her, Mark; she has to learn. Isn't that the way it used to be, June?"

And as smoothly as if he owned her, Roger swept one arm up beneath her skirt and held her plump, knickered pussy firmly cupped then while June stared at him and Mark and Lucy and dared not move. Distantly she realised that Lucy was quickly slipping her own dress and knickers off and that one silent cane waited on the bed. Mark wasn't going to take Lucy into the other room this time. June realised that too as Roger turned her about and led her towards the bed.

"You're going to be a good girl tonight, aren't you, June?" Roger was murmuring as he bent her over, stripped her knicks down and picked up the cane. And June remembered those selfsame words long ago, and her bikini bottom lying on the floor, and the curtains being drawn, but this time there were two waiting, urging cocks – not just one.....