Playing Games

Story from Janus 39.

Playing Games
by R.T. Mason

A pleasant tree-lined suburban street in a quiet southern counties town. It is five o'clock on a warm sunny April afternoon and one or two residents are to be seen in their gardens. Indoors most housewives are starting preparations for the evening meal. At Number 27, though, neat and well-kept like all its neighbours, there is no one in the garden and equally no sign of culinary activity inside. Instead the sole occupant is sitting inactive on a sofa in the sitting room. She has a nervous expectant look on her pretty face. Quite frequently she glances at her wristwatch.

She is wearing schoolgirl uniform. A dark blue blazer with red piping and a red badge, a red-and-blue striped tie, a short pleated blue skirt. Below the bare knees are neat white knee-socks over shapely calves, and sensible brown strap-over shoes. When standing she is of medium height with a trim but well filled out figure. Her hair is blonde, short cut with a fringe, which sets off that pretty face with its at present rather tense expression. Another glance at her watch shows it to be now exactly 5.05.

Outside at exactly 5.05 a car is turning into our pleasant tree-shrouded street. It stops outside Number 27 with something of a jolt – a sign of nervousness or excitement perhaps on the part of the driver? He gets out, glances up and down the street, and then briefcase in hand walks quickly to the gate at Number 27.

Inside, the girl gives a start at the sudden strident ring of the doorbell. She jumps up and smooths down her skirt. By the time she gets to the door it is ringing a second time. The man's face is pinkish and his voice has an excited edge.

'Linda Beckford?'

'Yes... Yes Sir.' Her hand nervously fiddles with a blazer button.

'Truancy Officer. I believe you are expecting me.'

'Yes Sir. C..Come in, Sir.'

She stands aside to let him pass, as she does so pulling back her shoulders so that the firm thrust of her breasts is evident. She closes the door.

'My... my parents are out, Sir. I haven't told them and I was hoping they... they wouldn't have to be told, Sir.''

She leads the way into the sitting room, short skirt swaying above pretty knees and bare thighs. In the sitting room she stands uncertainly, one hand on the back of the sofa.

The man puts his briefcase down. 'Informing your parents is routine procedure, Miss Beckford.'

'I... I know, Sir. But my friend... Her parents weren't told, Sir. She had something else.'

His eyes hold hers. 'What did she have, Linda?'

A nervous lick at the full soft lips. 'A spanking, Sir. She had her bottom spanked.'

The man's heart is thumping. His eyes flick up and down the trim delectable shape. 'And is that what you want, Linda? A spanking?' A pause and then, his voice thick, 'With your knickers down?'

Flush-faced she tosses her head. 'I... I haven't got any on, Sir. No knickers. I took them off.'

The man's face goes bright red. His eyes focus on the short blue skirt. His voice is tight with excitement.

'Show me.'

A moment's hesitation and then her hands go down to the skirt's hem and slowly pull it up. Up the slim bare thighs. On up to finally reveal that there are indeed no knickers. Just a neat bush of brown hair at the centre of quite bare rounded hips. Her eyes fixed on him, she continues to raise the skirt until it reaches her blazer.

He blinks, and coughs. 'Some of you girls nowadays need the cane, not just a spanking. You're all too bold by half.'

Her voice is a half whisper. 'Oh no Sir, not the cane. My friend just got a spanking.' The skirt remains held high.

'I shouldn't do it, I could get into serious trouble.' His eyes remain glued to what she is showing. 'But... are you sure your parents aren't coming back?'

She lets the skirt fall back into place. 'Yes Sir. They're going to my Gran's.'

He moves suddenly, decisively forward, past the pretty blonde girl to sit on the sofa. He beckons her and she comes round and gets down over his lap. He grabs up the short skirt, up round her waist and then arranges her so that the firm, quite plump bottom is squarely over his lap. His hand fondles and she gives a squeal. Then the hand starts coming down. A measured rhythmic action of hard crisp smacks, splatting the pale cheeks which rapidly become a bright rosy red. The girl bucks and squirms, like a landed fish, yelping and gasping. The sounds are those of pain, but also of sexual arousal.

* * *

The spanking continued for some time – until Michael Adamson's arm was feeling exhausted. He stopped spanking to fondle his wife's glowing bottom. 'Did you come?'

Linda made a gurgling sound. 'Mmm... Ooh it was really heavenly!'

Michael made to push her off his lap but she stayed on. Then he asked: 'Are you going to come again?'

'Oh God! I expect so. That was really fabulous!'

Half an hour later Linda Adamson (nee Beckford) was, like all the other domesticated wives in the street, serving her husband's supper. She had prepared it earlier and left it in the oven before putting on the schoolgirl uniform. She and Michael had only got the outfit at the weekend, from another town where Linda had said it was for her niece. Before that for their schoolgirl fantasies they had simply used a blouse and skirt and one of Michael's old ties. Having the real thing made a big difference, especially for Michael who was particularly keen on the schoolgirl scenarios. Today was only the second time they had used the uniform and it had been a fantastic turn-on for both of them.

'Will Linda Beckford be wearing her uniform tomorrow?' Michael asked across the table. Linda had non-removed the blazer but was still in school blouse and tie.

She smiled. 'Perhaps. It is really super. But I still like the housewife scenes of course.'

Michael and Linda were both 23 and had been married for two years. The acted-out CP fantasies had been going on for six month now. Michael had always had an interest in that direction but previously it had been confined to magazines. Then, a bit hesitantly, he had mentioned it to Linda and showed her a couple of the magazines. She laughed and said it was silly – but at the same time looked through them with obvious interest.

'People do it for fun,' Michael told her. 'And it can be a big turn-on.'

Linda again said it was ridiculous and when Michael suggested she let him spank her said it was silly. But she did allow it. Her skirt up over his lap and Michael's hand smacking down across her tight knickers. Afterwards she just laughed but later that night, in bed, she admitted it had been 'very exciting'.

The next time, Michael took her knickers down. 'Imagine I'm your Headmaster at school and you've been sent to him for smoking or something. He's a pompous old chap, seems very straight-laced, but what he really likes is to get a pretty Sixth Former over his lap and get his hand on her bare bum.'

Yes, that really was a turn-on, Linda admitted. And after that she became an enthusiastic partner in the games which more and more became a major part of their love life. Michael liked the schoolgirl fantasies best but Linda, apart from the special excitement of the new schoolgirl outfit, tended usually to prefer scenes which could, in fantasy, relate to her present everyday life. 'Housewife scenes' they called them.

A 'housewife scene', might be a housewife caught shoplifting and being forced to take a spanking or the cane. Or having a minor accident with the car and taking a caning rather than lose a No Claims Bonus. A lot of them were naturally set in the house. The man who came to repair the washing machine offering to take his payment on the pretty housewife's bottom. Or the CP-addicted landlord.

All of these had a great sense of immediacy for Linda because she was a housewife who could have an accident in the car or might be tempted to walk out of the shop with some little item. She could imagine it actually happening. And when they were playing the game and Michael was spanking her or giving her six with that cane he had bought, she could imagine it was not Michael doing it but some other unknown man. That was really quite a thought.

Did that mean she would actually like someone else doing it? Early on in their games when that thought came she had dismissed it out of hand. But it was a big turn-on in the fantasies and those fantasies could be very real at times. And Linda began to wonder what it would be like for it to really happen. Just thinking that, when she was going about her household work for instance, could get her feeling hot and randy.

She had talked about it with Michael. What would he feel if it actually happened? Some other man caning her. Michael was excited by the thought, Linda could see that, but he wouldn't really answer. He just laughed and asked if she was planning to do some shoplifting. But all the same she knew he was excited by the idea. In a way it was the ultimate. But does one want the ultimate? It might be just too much, too exciting and scary to take.

Two weeks after getting the school outfit Linda saw the magazine. Not a CP magazine but a straightforward men's magazine. Her friend Julie showed it to her, apparently Julie's husband had brought it home. Linda had looked through, all those girls with their legs wide apart, but then at the end she saw the contact section. Her heart started pounding as she began to read the entries. One said: Company director would like to give light CP to inexperienced ladies. And there was another: Ladies, would you like massage and a friendly spanking in the privacy of your own home?

There were others too in which women and couples were advertising, but not for CP. Linda had never imagined you could get that sort of advert. Controlling her excitement she asked Julie if she could take the magazine to show Michael.

Julie said, 'Of course; I bet they pass them round at work anyway.'

After supper that evening she showed Michael the magazine and pointed out the two ads. 'Horny buggers,' he observed, then asked, 'What's this?'

Feeling almost as great a sense of excitement as in any of their CP scenes, Linda had handed him a folded piece of paper. Inside she had written: Young husband would like his attractive wife instructed in the pleasures of CP.

'What's this?' Michael repeated.

Linda smiled. Her heart was going at some fantastic rate. 'It's an advert. Wouldn't it make a super one! Just think of all those men out there reading it and really, you know, growling with excitement.'

Michael laughed, his face pink. 'I might even answer it myself!' He grabbed her. 'And just for thinking of it I think you deserve a good spanking right now.'

Michael took her over his lap, pulling up her skirt and yanking down the flimsy knickers. He started cracking his hand down and Linda was almost immediately gasping and groaning with overwhelming excitement. The turn-on was inevitably the thought of the advertisement. That message going out and being read by presumably thousands of unknown men. But of course sending in the ad was only a fantasy. Wasn't it?

* * *

Two days later Michael came home to find Linda in a clearly agitated state. He asked if she wanted to play a game but she shook her head. He poured them gin-and-tonics and they sat on the sofa. He could see her hand was shaking.

He asked what was up. Linda said 'Nothing'. She bit her lip and then started chewing her thumb.

'What's up?' he repeated.

She shook her head, then put it down in his lap. He heard a faint whisper,

'What?'

This time, though still a whisper, it was quite clear. 'I. Sent. In. That. Ad.'

'You what?' he gasped, pulling her upright.

Linda's voice was still a whisper. 'I didn't mean to. It was... it just happened.'

As she haltingly explained it, it had been like living a fantasy out. To amuse herself Linda had written out the ad, following all the instructions and enclosing a postal order. She had sealed it up and had taken it to the post office. She hadn't intended to post it but had simply wanted to savour the feeling of doing so. And then somehow, as if in a dream – or a fantasy, the letter had dropped in the post box.

'My Lord!' breathed Michael.

'It... it's not that bad. It'll have a box number. They won't print our address.'

'But you gave our address? My address, to be correct?'

'Yes,' said Linda in a tiny voice.

What Linda had told Michael was true, it had just happened without her really meaning to post it, but at the same time she had wanted to do it. And now that it was done, although she had to bear Michael's anger there was inside her a hot glow of excitement. To think of that letter winging its way to the magazine's office, its content being read and then printed. And then... It was almost too exciting to contemplate.

When Michael had got over the initial shock he suggested getting in touch with the magazine and telling them to send it back, but Linda quickly argued against that.

'I shouldn't bother,' she told him. 'Anyway I don't know if you can once it's been sent. Just let it go. No one's going to see our name, remember.'

He gave her a hard look. 'You don't want it stopped because you're glad you sent it, aren't you? It'll be a real thrill for you; that'll go out and you'll be able to imagine all those men wanting to get at you. Won't you?'

Linda put her arms round him. It was true of course; even as he spoke she could feel the thrill surging through her. She kissed Michael, a hot sexy kiss; then breathed 'Yes'.

Her hand slid down to his crotch and there was a stiff bulge there. Massaging it, she asked, 'Won't it be a turn-on for you too?'

Michael pursed his lips. It was true, the thought of it was exciting. A scary frightening sort of excitement but a very powerful one nonetheless.

Linda put her mouth to his ear. Shivering, she said, 'I bet we get lots of replies.'

Michael didn't answer but instead pulled his wife over his lap. Linda's skirt came up and her brief knickers went down and he began the now familiar but ever-arousing splatting of his hand down on her saucily plump bottom. This time, though, it was extra special, better even than that first time with the school uniform, or any of their various housewife scenes. Because for both there was the feeling that though Michael was doing it, it could be someone else. Any one of those waiting men out there. Unknowing at this moment, but who in a few weeks' time would buy a copy of the magazine.

The heady excitement continued unabated as they waited for the next issue. Linda even rang the magazine office to find out when it was due out. Michael finally saw it one Thursday lunch-time. With fumbling fingers he took it off the rack and leafed through. He felt himself sweating: there it was all right. No typographical errors or anything, just as Linda had sent it in. There was a box number but his eyes seemed to see instead his own address printed there. And a picture of Linda. Standing in her uniform, her skirt raised to her waist.

At home he wordlessly handed it to Linda. She scrabbled frantically to the ads section. Her eyes scanned, focused – then looked up to meet Michael's. She dropped the magazine and hugged him. They were both thinking the same thing: how long before the letters were popping through the door?

They agreed it could be something like a week as the replies would have to be re-addressed and sent on. But if the office waited until there was a batch of replies it could be longer. The post in the week always came after Michael had gone off to work but Linda said she would phone him as soon as there was an answer.

* * *

The first ones came after six days; a fat envelope falling heavily on the hall carpet. Linda ripped it open to find it contained three letters. Heart thudding, she opened one and unfolded the sheet of notepaper. She was so excited that at first she had trouble putting the words together.

Dear Sir,

I am writing in answer to your advertisement. I am sure I could help if there is not a catch, I mean I would not want to get involved in any threesomes as I am purely heterosexual. But if you would merely like to watch that would be alright. I would do exactly as you wanted with her, the cane, tawse, etc. I am well experienced with all of these, not vicious but strict.

I am aged 60 and I assure you, highly respectable. I look forward to hearing from you to arrange a meeting. Perhaps you could send a photograph of your good lady.

Linda read it again, feeling slightly sick with the intense excitement. She pictured the man, silver-haired perhaps with a military moustache. Formally shaking hands with her – and then telling her to take her skirt and knickers off. She went on to the second envelope. It contained a photo of a smiling youngish man, not bad-looking. She read the letter.

Dear Sir,

I am replying to your ad regarding wife discipline. I am aged 30, a bachelor, interested in the arts and music etc, but also with experience of CP discipline. I attended Public School! I should love to meet you and your wife with a view to assisting disciplining her.

Obviously gay, Linda told herself – and then wondered what it would be like anyway to be over his lap with her knickers down. She tore open the last letter.

Dear Sir,

I am pleased to answer your advert and you are quite right to want to get your wife properly trained and disciplined. Young women these days can so easily go off the rails and get involved in all sorts of adultery and suchlike goings on. A good sharp caning is what they need and I should be more than pleased to assist you. I am very experienced in such matters as I used to be a schoolmaster. Can we arrange an early meeting? Everything would naturally be in the strictest confidence.

Her head in a spin Linda went to make herself a cup of coffee, then sat down to re-read the letters. She looked again at the photo, and pictured the other two. Three unknown men who were offering their services – to cane and spank her. And there were their addresses, real live addresses: London, Birmingham and Banfield in Essex. Two of them had telephone numbers. Linda suddenly thought, I could hide one of the letters, not show it to Michael. Even get on the phone right now and arrange a meeting. Take the train, to London or Birmingham... And then...

The excitement was too much. Linda lay back on the sofa letting the letters fall to the floor and her dress rise up her elegant legs. She just had to let off some of the pressure. Only when she finished, in about two minutes flat, did she remember her promise to phone Michael if any letters arrived.

She called him, a breathless voice telling him they'd had some answers. Michael asked how many. A pause and then she heard herself say 'Two'. It just came out on the spur of the moment.

'One from Birmingham and one from somewhere in Essex. The Birmingham one sounds as if he's gay.'

It was like that business with posting the letter all over again. Linda didn't really mean to lie to Michael and there was no real reason to – except a sudden urge to keep part of it secret. She didn't plan to do anything about it, but the thought of having a special secret was irresistible. A private fantasy that she could keep all to herself.

She had picked the first one, from London. Was it just chance? Or the thought that she could at least fantasize about going there; it would only be half an hour on the train. When Michael got home he was really turned-on as well – at least by the schoolmaster one – and they acted out a fantasy of Linda going to visit him. It was really great for both of them.

Two days later there was another batch – ten this time. They were mostly similar to the first ones except two were a bit obscene. It was great reading them, including the randy ones, but once she had Linda took out that special London one again. She had looked at it perhaps 20 times since it came – and yesterday she had gone out and bought a London A-Z to see exactly where the address was on the map. It continued to constantly excite her – the thought of that particular oldish man and Michael didn't know about. And more and more Linda was feeling the urge to do something else – to call that phone number at the top of his letter.

One half of her said it was stupid to even consider it – while the other half said it couldn't do any harm just to phone. He would have no way of contacting her so she was quite safe, and anyway he would possibly be out. She kept telling herself it was quite quite stupid – but half an hour after finishing reading that second batch of letters Linda picked up the phone.

A man's voice said, 'Stanley Appleton'. That was the name on the letter. Linda's heart almost stopped.

'Uh... hello,' she said weakly.

He repeated the name. 'Who is that, please?' It was an ordinary educated man's voice, well-spoken with no real accent. She forced herself to speak.

'My... my name's Linda. You... you answered an ad my husband put... in a magazine.'

A pause and then, 'Yes!' The voice was eager now. 'Yes I certainly did. Well, how do you do, uh, Linda. This is a marvellous surprise.'

'My... my husband asked me to call.' Linda felt slightly more in control now, although her feelings were still in a wild lurch. She reminded herself that she was anonymous. There was no way he could find out who she was.

His voice sounded excited. 'I'm so glad you called. I was half afraid... well, a lot of those ads are simply jokes of course. Can we arrange a meeting?'

Linda felt her blood pounding. A meeting so that he could take her knickers down. She didn't really know what to say. 'It... it's very difficult. It was partly a joke but also partly, you know, serious. The trouble is, I mean, with an absolute stranger we, that is I, wouldn't know... what I was getting into. You hear... such awful things nowadays.'

He started eagerly assuring Linda of his credentials, she and her husband need have absolutely no fear, he would do simply what she wanted, what her husband wanted. Sitting listening to all this was a heady turn-on, knowing what this stranger was talking about. Spanking her; caning her. But clearly a meeting was out of the question. He sounded all right but he could easily do something awful. Murder her?

She told him that and said her husband had had second thoughts about the whole thing. Mr Appleton got very persuasive, telling her she had absolutely nothing to fear. He would simply like to meet her; she had such a lovely voice. Finally he suggested meeting in a restaurant, in public, so that if she wanted she would simply leave afterwards.

There was a longish pause. At the end of it Linda heard herself say, 'All right'. It was another of those moments when she seemed to have no real control over what she was doing.

When Michael came home and asked if there had been any more letters Linda realised with a shock that she had virtually forgotten about them. All day her mind had been concentrated on that phone call and what she had agreed – to meet Mr Appleton tomorrow in London. After she had rung off it had seemed like a dream. Could she really have rung him up? And agreed to a meeting? How could she be so utterly idiotic, Linda asked herself 100 times afterwards. But at least there was the let-out that she didn't have to turn up. She hadn't told him her name or address.

Michael began reading all the letters through and was obviously getting a big kick out of them. Linda tried to sound equally interested but the fact was she had now gone beyond those mere fantasies. She was contemplating the prospect of the real thing. It was an entirely different feeling – like the thought of parachuting out of an aircraft for the first time. An empty queasy feeling in her stomach.

Linda kept telling herself she didn't have to turn up – but she knew she would.

* * *

In the morning Linda's head felt as if it was going to split. 'Why don't you take the day off?' she asked Michael as she got his breakfast.

He looked up in surprise. 'Why?'

'Oh I don't know,' she said forlornly. 'We could go out somewhere. All those letters – they're a bit much really.'

He grinned. 'You shouldn't have sent that ad off then, should you? I bet there'll be a lot more yet. Anyway I can't take today off, I've got a lot to do.'

Why Linda had suggested it, of course, was that it would prevent her keeping the appointment. Without that to stop her she knew she would go. She kissed Michael goodbye and ran a bath. She felt awful – all excited and scared at the same time. Linda had her bath and then, rather like a condemned person who has no control over his life, she began to get dressed.

A rather sexy set of mauve underwear: bra, French knickers and a lacy suspender belt; not that he was going to see it. Was he? Trying to keep calm she drew on a pair of shimmery grey nylons and fastened them. A white blouse and then her blue-grey suit. It had a quite short but tight skirt, too tight to be pulled up. But she wasn't going to get into that, was she? She was only going to the restaurant. If she even did that. Linda put on some make-up; not much, a little pink lipstick, some eye-shadow. She slipped on her high-heeled court shoes and her light coat. She felt awful.

Linda found the restaurant without trouble, in a busyish West London street. Looking at her watch she saw she was right on time as she entered. Short blonde hair, she had told him, grey coat, blue shoes and handbag. He came up to her immediately.

'Hello... uh, Linda? We forgot your surname on the phone. But I think I'm meeting you?'

He looked all right. There was silver hair but no moustache. Tallish, average build, a sort of ordinary face, quite pleasant. Not the face of a rapist or murderer – but could you tell? Linda heard herself say Hello. He directed her over to a corner table. His hand on her arm was firm, masculine, masterful. Linda shivered.

She sat down. 'Really I can't stay long. It... It's all been very foolish, the whole thing. I don't know what got into me posting that ad.'

'So you posted it, not your husband?'

The waitress fortunately arrived at that point but as soon as she had left he repeated the question. Linda heard herself mumble a Yes.

'Spanking?' He had rather nice biue-grey eyes but they had a way of seeming to look right into you.

'Look...' she pleaded.

'Spanking? And caning?' His voice had a precise quality, the voice of someone used to being in charge. In charge of what, though? Silly-minded young females? His eyes were looking right into her again and there seemed no way she could deny it. 'Had it from anyone besides your husband?'

'No!'

He smiled: a look of pleased anticipation. 'You really are a very pretty girl, Linda. And I must certainly be a very fortunate man.'

* * *

A good meal and a taxi ride later Linda was entering Mr Appleton's flat. She didn't know how she had let herself be persuaded, but she had. Here she was, her heart in her mouth, her head spinning. Mr Appleton closed the door and took her coat. She was led into a room, an attractively furnished lounge, but Linda's eyes hardly saw it. Her mind was incapable of taking in anything beyond the central fact that somehow she was here alone with Mr Appleton.

By the very act of coming here of course it now had to be accepted that something would happen. Mr Appleton himself clearly accepted that. He had done all the persuading that needed doing and now he was in control. He did not invite Linda to sit down because he didn't want her sitting down. Instead as she stood on shaky legs he put a possessive arm round her waist. And then slid his hand down to cup the cheeks of her bottom.

Linda gave a jump like a scalded cat. Mr Appleton laughed: a confident masculine laugh.

'No need to be jumpy, my dear. You know that's the part of you that has to be attended to. Now then, this charming skirt does seem rather tight. I think you'd better take it off, don't you?'

'Look...' she began.

'No, you look, Linda. You've come here for something even though you may not like to admit it. A little adventure? Well I'm going to give you the adventure. All you have to do is exactly as I say.' His hand came up to Linda's chin forcing her to look at him. 'Take off your skirt. And then your knickers.'

The full mouth started trembling, the eyes filled with tears. Now the crunch had come she only felt sick and scared.

Mr Appleton laughed again. 'What pretty tears. But if you won't take them off I'll do it for you.'

His hands moved to her waist. Linda stumbled away, hesitated, and then scarcely knowing what she was doing began fumbling at her skirt. She stepped out of it and stood forlornly in her sexy underwear: the mauve French knickers, the slim straps of the suspender belt tautly fastening the grey nylons.

'Lovely,' observed Mr Appleton. 'And now the panties, my dear.'

Linda gave another despairing look. This couldn't be happening, could it? Please let it be a dream, a fantasy, one of those lovely games. But somehow she knew it wasn't. This was real. She had taken the parachute jump. She was in the hands of Mr Appleton, for him to do with as he wanted. Feeling faint and very shaky she fumbled her knickers down. Down the nyloned legs and off over her blue court shoes. Mr Appleton took her arm.

Linda was over his lap. His hand was fondling her bare buttocks. Not a fantasy hand but a flesh-and-blood stranger's hand. Fondling and then abruptly spanking. Hard jolting smacks on her quivering bare bottom. The panicky thought came that she was actually going to be sick.

Somehow she wasn't. She simply yielded herself up to him for discipline and let him do what he wanted. Some time later Mr Appleton was hauling her to her feet. Linda's legs didn't want to support her, they felt like jelly and she had to hang on to him. Her bottom was glowing red hot. Her face was wet with tears.

'Did you enjoy that?' Mr Appleton asked.

Linda shook her head. It meant she didn't know, couldn't answer, rather than simply No. She was utterly devastated.

'Now the cane,' he said crisply.

In the state she was in it took some seconds for it to register. When it did Linda again shook her head, this time violently.

'NO... NO! It... It'll mark me. Michael... my husband... He'll see...'

Mr Appleton, sharp eyes glinting, considered this. 'All right. Certainly we don't want unnecessary problems at this very start of our relationship. I'll strap you instead. Strap marks don't last.'

From somewhere he produced a strap. A frightening-looking two-tongued brown leather tawse. Linda's eyes fixed on it, mesmerised. Michael had never used a strap.

'Lie over the arm of the sofa. And get your bottom well up.'

For a few moments the world stopped. She had her face in the cushion of the sofa and it felt cosy and reassuring. You could forget that your bare bottom was arched up. Waiting.

SPLATT!..

It was as if she had been slashed in two. Linda let out a banshee-like yell. The pain was of quite a different order of magnitude from anything she had ever experienced before. Nothing at all like Michael's canings which did no more than produce a moderate sting. Linda was still gasping in shock and disbelief when: SPLATT!.. the strap landed again.

'NO!' she heard herself gasp. 'No. I can't take it!'

But the strap simply splatted down again.

And again. And again.

* * *

6.15pm. Michael's car turned into the street to pull up outside Number 27. Inside, Linda was silently waiting, trying to keep calm, to act normal. But how could you? After that. She glanced again in her compact mirror, sure that something of what had happened must show on her face. Her bottom would certainly be showing it for the next 24 hours at least – but hopefully she could keep that out of sight, say she didn't feel well. That would be no more than the truth. She felt shattered, flattened, as if a steam-roller had run over her.

Perhaps if I can get through this evening I can sort things out, she thought. After a good night's sleep, if she could get to sleep, she could try to think it all through with a clear head. If only it had all been in her mind, one of those delicious games. But Linda knew it wasn't: it wasn't a game, a fantasy. Mr Appleton was very very real. And now he had her name and address and phone number – and anything else you cared to mention.

She heard Michael's key in the door.

Bell, Book and Candle

Story from Blushes 04.

Bell, Book and Candle

The pretty blonde girl lies on her back on the bed in the luxurious bedroom. Her long slim legs slope down to the floor unsupported. Her ankles are crossed neatly, one heel sank into the thick carpet. Her arms are tacked beneath the small of her back; both her hands are out of sight. She has an expression of mild alarm, blue eyes big and wide.

* * *

The bedside clock-radio shows the time as 9:20 p.m.

She lies there relaxed, but quite rigidly; not daring to move. Her shapely breasts move slightly as she breathes shallowly and rapidly, displaced fluidly sideways by her position, nipples uptilted pertly.

She has a marvellous figure; slim and shapely, with a narrow waist that flares out to full hips. Apart from her very brief lacy knickers she is quite naked, though she wears a heavy gold chain round her neck. Her toenails are neatly painted deep red, and brightly varnished.

She lies there in the warm, dim room with only a subdued bedside light on. The curtains of thick velvet are drawn together. There is no sound but the tick of the clock and her soft breathing. The soft light throws exciting, deep shadows on her softly curved body. She rolls her head slowly, until she can look to her left...

The man she stares at stands in front of her dressing table with his back to her. He looks down at the things he has there, considering them carefully, smiling coldly. He takes no notice of the blonde girl, beyond giving her a quick glance in the mirror to see that she stays still, as he has arranged her. He knows she dare not move very much, if she dares to move at all! He will hear her merest wriggle, it is so quiet – and she knows it. Such obedience is a fine character builder!

Finally, he turns and strides silently over to look down at her. She is so tense now that her full lower lip is clenched tight between her teeth to force herself to keep quiet. She is not allowed to make any noise either. And she knows this well! Any noise or movement means she'll have to take more punishment. She stares up in silence, pleading eloquently with her eyes alone. This is all she can do!

The man smiles, but takes no notice. He extends his hand away from his side, but doesn't speak. She knows what she has to do now, but for a long moment she refuses, then she raises her feet and lets him grip her crossed ankles, closing her eyes hopelessly as he does so.

Now she has no chance at all! She shudders knowing she is about to be spanked into total submission. This is to soften her up for a caning later. After this she's not sure what may happen, though from the mood her husband is in, and the way she feels already it will probably be frantically sexual and terribly exciting for them both. It often is!

She feels him grip her ankles more firmly as he raises her legs until her feet point helplessly toward the ornate ceiling. She daren't bend her knees now. Seconds, and her legs are vertical, her feet pointing now to the wall above the bed headboard. Her hips are beginning to rise a little now, but still he moves her legs slowly, further exposing more and more of her attractive bottom. She lies quite still and allows him to do this to her. Paying for her small sins, as he tells her.

Finally, he tucks her ankles under his arm and sits down on the bed with on foot under him. Now she is forced to stare up at her own legs and feet. Sudden hot internal reactions start her long legs quivering even before he begins to spank her. He puts his hand across the backs of her knees to make sure he has a firm hold on her legs.

She sighs softly in anticipation as he raises his hand high, pauses, then slaps it down to connect with her defenceless buttocks making them bounce attractively. She refuses to make a sound. Her breath makes a sharp hiss as she breathes between her clenched teeth in a single sharp gasp of pain and surprise. This is allowed, fortunately for her. He begins to spank her defenceless bum steadily, smiling.

This goes on for some time, during which her pale shapely bum-cheeks change from their normal pale satiny sheen, through a blotchy pink and red, to a much deeper pink with bright red fingermarks, to an almost uniformly angry crimson colour. Her eyes are closed tight as she fights to keep still and quiet, to keep her spanking as short as possible. Again her full sensual lower lip is firmly between her teeth.

Deep in her mind she is pleased he hasn't put the main bedroom lights on. She knows she must be pouting down there already now; her hot pussy aches and galvanic impulses run from her punished bottom through the whole of her pretty body. Luckily, the low light makes a deep shadow there.

He stops spanking her before she makes herself too obvious. One tangy whiff of hot arousal from her and he'll spank her to a conclusion – until she's forced to her peak and climaxes hotly. This is the final humiliation she hopes to avoid. Later, probably – but not yet!

She feels him submit her to the next shameful indignity as her tiny knickers are tugged gently back over her hot bum-cheeks. They cling moistly at the top of her thighs. She tries to hold them there, but he pulls them down almost to her knees, as far as he can. This reduces her almost to a naughty little girl having her knickers taken down for a spanking. But little girls are not spanked as she is being spanked. Or for the same reasons; none of which she can help.

"Now, you little witch," he growls, "have you had enough?"

"Mmmm!" she replies instantly. "MMM-mmmm!"

"You can think about that now, for a while."

She nods warily, says, "Mmm," very softly. Tonight she's got off much better than she usually does; either that, or she's getting used to being spanked – probably a bit of both. She still lies there, with her pants round her knees and her feet pointing toward the headboard of her bed. Her hands are still trapped beneath her back with almost all her weight on them. Apart from rolling her head and waggling her feet she still cannot move at all. Nor does she try!

He shakes his hand quickly. He's spanked her so hard it's stinging. He grins, trying to guess what her curvaceous bum must feel like. He is a big well-built, rangy person; wide shoulders a deep chest. And very big powerful hands, as she knows only too well.

He sighs deeply, stands up and eases her legs back until they can see each other and they are resting on his shoulder, still pointing up to the ceiling. Again his hand rests on her knees, forcing her to keep her long legs straight. Bending her knees isn't allowed her.

"I think you're about ready now," he says softly, smiling coolly down at her. "Will you do as you're told?"

"MMM!" she agrees quickly, nodding rapidly.

He lowers her feet, still holding her ankles in one hand. His other hand pulls the panties further down. She uncrosses her ankles and takes one foot out. He slips the whispy garment free of her other foot and lets her go. She lowers her legs and recrosses her ankles, one heel again deeply sunk into the soft carpet.

He stands there above her now, with her panties dangling from his fingers, thinking about something. Nothing to her advantage, of course.

"Kneel up on there." He points to the long narrow bedding chest at the foot of his bed, then strides to it and pulls it out into the centre of the room. She gets up from the bed and meekly kneels up on its upholstered top without a word, though she hates the undignified pose.

She takes up the required crouched pose carefully. There isn't too much space on the narrow chest for this, but she does it; feet hanging off one end, her forehead barely on the other, and her sleek back nicely arched so that her bottom is presented perfectly for his attention with the cane later. Her hands are at each side of her head, with her arms bent at her elbows. She takes her weight evenly on her hands, elbows and her knees. Now she is naked apart from her heavy golden chain which is not visible having slid down under her curly blonde hair.

He stands by her side, positioning her as he wants her, noticing how her firm, full breasts swing and jiggle as they hang freely suspended now. Her nipples barely clear the top of the chest when he's finally satisfied. She sighs softly again. Now she'll have to hold her wickedly exposed crouch until he chooses to cane her, later. She's in no discomfort, apart from her blazing bottom, but the thought that she is displaying all her secrets, no longer in the shadow cast by the bedside lamp, but in his full view now, makes her madly indignant.

He loves to put her into these very humiliating positions and make her hold them, any movement meaning she collects further strokes later.

"Comfortable there?" he asks his usual ridiculous question.

"Mmmm," she says, wondering how he can expect her to be comfortable after the spanking he's just given her.

"Anything to say?" he asks in a soft concerned tone.

"Handkerchief, please," she says in a pleading tone.

He walks away opens a drawer and comes back with a clean handkerchief. A big one of his, she sees from the corner of her eye. He folds this into a thick short cylinder and holds it down for her, by her head. She raises her head, opens her mouth and he slips it between her nice, big even teeth. She clamps her teeth on it firmly and subsides again. Tonight she's very lucky. The handkerchief makes it much easier for her to keep quiet. Often he refuses to allow her to have one.

"Just to make sure you don't move," he says softly, and places something cool on her back in the centre of the flat area at the base of her spine, above the swell of her buttocks. This is something new; he hasn't done this to her before. She feels its weight but has no idea what it may be. She crouches, silent and apprehensive, waiting...

"Wriggle!" he says sharply. "Go on, let me see you squirm."

She does, waggles her bum slowly from side to side; all she can do in that position. Her nipples brush the upholstery lightly and a small silvery bell begins to tinkle to surprise her. This is a new trick!

"Stop!" he says, and chuckles icily. "Now I'll hear you move!"

She stops wriggling. He's put a bell on her and she daren't take it off. Nor can she move without ringing the damned thing! A hot flush of shame runs through her. And now she can't even complain, or she'll lose the handkerchief he's allowed her to have.

"Head up, now."

Slowly she raises her head; stops staring down at the carpet and sees the skirting board, then the wall, finally her dressing table. And feels another small weight on the back of her head! When he moves away she sees in the mirror she is balancing a thin book on her head! She fumes in silent anguish.

"One extra, if you ring the bell. Three more if you lose the book. Okay?" He chuckles softly, knowing she can't even nod now, to agree, or even say her usual, Mmm – not that this matters – he's got her and there's nothing she can do about it now.

"Waggle your feet" he tells her, trying to keep amusement out of his voice. "Left for yes, right for no," he adds drily.

Stubbornly she refuses; keeps both feet still.

"That's mutiny!" he says, surprised. "You know what you'll get for that, don't you!"

Reluctantly she waggles her left foot, feeling absolutely ridiculous with a book balanced on her head. At least, when he's gone she'll be able to settle down carefully into a more relaxed position. He always leaves her to think over her small misdemeanours, convinced this turns her on.

"That's better-r-r," he says, chuckling. "You don't mind me calling you my little witch, do you?"

She waggles her right foot, wondering what he's driving at now. "Good! We'll fix you up like one, then."

Now what? she wonders.

He goes back to the dressing table. She hears the flick of his lighter and sees a small yellow glow a few seconds later. He comes back holding a tall candle in an antique-looking brass candlestick. The candle is lit! She tried to imagine what he can possibly do with that!

"Knees further apart." She sees him in the mirror, behind her. And feels instantly very vulnerable indeed. "Come on!"

She eases her knees apart reluctantly.

"More!" he snaps. "Don't be so modest; it doesn't become you!"

She gives up and moves her knees much wider apart, hopelessly.

He stoops quickly and puts the candle down out of her sight. She can't see where in the mirror, but she knows it won't be to her advantage. She waggles her right foot furiously, but he doesn't even notice. He brings another book from the dressing table and stoops to balance this one across her legs just above her heels. This is a much thicker, heavier book. The weight stops her from raising her feet.

"There you are! A real witch." Again he chuckles wickedly. "Bell books, and candle – it suits you marvellously. "Move now, witch!"

She stays quite still, not that she can move very much in any case.

"Go on – try!" he urges her in an amused tone.

Slowly she waggles her bottom. And feels the small heat of the candle at the tops of her thighs! The candle is right behind her! The bell rings softly. A warning!

"Settle down a little. Make yourself comfortable; you may be there for a short while. I think I've earned a coffee, now."

She has no alternative but to do as she's told. She allows her knees to bend slowly. And feels the low heat building up – ON HER PUSSY!! She jerks up again, tinkling the bell. Another soft warning! She seeths silently, heightened by the way he stands by her side looking very smug and clever, chuckling that wicked chuckle of his.

To add insult to injury he stoops and runs a slow fingernail down her spine, until she sets the bell tinkling helplessly. Luckily the bell itself stops him from going further; running his finger on down her cleft and to her hot aching pussy as he often does when she can't do a thing to stop him. She groans deep in her throat, very softly.

Suddenly the doorbell rings!

"I'd better go and answer that," he says, adding blithely, "I wonder who it is."

He goes out, but leaves the door open. With her facing away from it!

She crouches there helpless. Afraid to move! So tense her curls are quivering and slipping down over her face. She moves her hands cautiously; one to steady the book on her head, the other behind her to keep that bell quiet. Increasing heat on the underside of her hot, sensitive bum warns her to keep it up high. She raises it higher, fuming.

Downstairs she hears him open the door, talking to someone. A light FEMALE voice answers him. No, it's not her Mother, thank heaven! Who can it be, at this time? She has no idea of the time, now, but knows it must be fairly late. She hears voices, but not their words. He laughs lightly. She joins in!

She gasps as rapid feet come up the stairs softly. The door opens and he's caught her! Her hands should be flat, by her head!

"That's cheating!" he says softly. "Good thing I came up."

She puts her hands back where they should be as quickly as she can.

He leaves her. Water runs in the bathroom. In no time he's back. She can't see him! Where is he?

Suddenly he grips her wrist, says, "Give me your hand," in that odd sharp tone he uses. She does!

He straightens her arm, so that it points behind her, then slips something cool and fairly heavy and smoothly round into her hand, saying, "Hold that, and don't spill it. Two more if you do!" He very quickly does the same thing with her other arm, leaving her clutching, she realises, two glasses of water.

The only thing she can do is to move her arms so that they rest against her hips, to steady them. He's gone back downstairs before she's done this. Now she is truly helpless and dare not move at all in any way! She is reminded in the midst of her self-pity and humiliation, by the mounting warmth on her bottom, to stick it up higher.

She hears him coming upstairs again quickly, she is still in the same humiliating helpless position, bottom very high now. He opens the door and she feels the cool air on her hot bum which is facing it.

"Helen's here." He says, teasing. "She wants to see you." She waggles her right foot frantically. He says nothing. In shear desperation she spits out his handkerchief and gasps, "No! No! I don't want her to see me like this!"

"Okay, lady-witch," he says, "please yourself – but I can't see why. You look terrific from here. So calm and obedient. And so damned sexy!"

He goes back downstairs and Kath feels sweat trickling into her eyes. More low conversation downstairs. Helen calls up, '"Bye, Kath."

The door is closed, and locked. His feet come up the stairs again, slowly. He comes into the bedroom, and says, "She's gone."

He gazes at the object of his fondest interest, softly lit by the golden light of the candle below it. Kath's exciting curves appeal to him strongly, as does the hint of moisture in the attractive golden hair below her shapely cleft. He's never known her look so damned enticing. She looks ready to take her caning now, quivering and sighing softly, both glasses of water still full, with not a trace on the carpet below her unsteady hands. A few strokes of the cane will provoke her into hot arousal – especially if she takes it as she is now. Helpless she always responds furiously.

"Please?" she asks mildly.

He perches on the edge of the dressing table she faces. "Pardon?"

"Hanky!" She gazes up at him wide-eyed, pleading, not wanting to have to take any more than the three strokes they agreed on. He often agrees to three, knowing she'll make it double, or more, by yelping. Tonight he's been so successful, she'll only need three. He picks up the hanky, refolds it and puts it between her teeth.

She waggles her hands carefully, so as not to spill her water. He knows she wants to be rid of them, and why not? He takes both glasses from her and puts them on the dressing table. Obediently she puts her hands by the sides of her head.

"Ready?" He chuckles wickedly. "That's four now, for talking."

The book rocks precariously as she tries to nod, accepting this calmly.

He takes out the cane and swishes it to and fro, slashing the air. The sound it makes seems to agitate her nicely. He chooses his spot on her fascinating bum that is offered so nicely still, and lays the cool cane to her hotly sensitive skin.

She clenches her cheeks instantly, until she's quivering slightly.

Just for fun he stoops and moves her candle a bit closer and her bum rises a little. He moves it back a little, only teasing.

'Shwit' – and the pale line appears instantly. Her hips squirm slowly as she lowers her bottom instinctively, only to raise it as she feels the mild heat of her candle. She makes a low husky sound, deep in her throat. Her fingers twitch tensely. She doesn't need to hold the two glasses of water now. The bell on her back tinkles softly, but doesn't ring, amazingly. Nor when he gives her another fiery stripe!

He waits for her to calm down, then 'Shwittt!' and another instant fine line appears across her full, bouncy cheeks, and she claws her fingernails into the material she's crouched on, using her thumbs to keep her head steady so that she doesn't lose her thin book.

Small beads of sweat are showing on her back before he reluctantly raises the cane again. He waits until she crouches quite still, now looking much more moist as she reacts hopelessly, her golden-blonde pubic fleece much darker and less crisply curly.

"One to go!" he says, making her cringe, waiting for it.

'Shwit!' – another thin pale line glows across her offered cheeks, and again she dips her bum by instinct, only to raise it yet again. He drops the cane and stands behind her, watches her last line turn bright red to match her others.

She spits out the hanky and pleads "Oh, please!" She wails huskily, "Ple-e-e-ease!"

She is exactly the right height and in the perfect position. He takes the bell from her back, throws it on the bed. The two books hit the carpet with dull thuds, and he gets rid of the candle. She spreads, ready for him; wet and musky, writhing desperately.

He steadies her hips. She is so beautifully warm and wet he enters with no drama.

She squeals softly, giving herself unreservedly.

He leans over her, panting, matching her urgent breathing. His hands find her firm breasts. Her nipples are as hard as small ripe berries. One gentle touch and a little friendly squeeze is enough to start her off again. He pays no attention to her soft squeal.

He whispers innocently. "Let's see if I can do that again?" In due course, she finds that he can do just that.

Knicks Down And Bend

Story from Swish Vol.7 No.1

Knicks Down And Bend

John and his sister-in-law, Amanda, are both ex-school Heads and both have a penchant for hot bottoms. As you might have become aware in Spanking Pleasures last month, it looks as if John's daughter, Judy, might be in for a spanking yet. For the time being, though, Amanda is teaching John the finer points of indoor discipline in concert with her ex-pupil, Linda.

* * *

'Good heavens, she's humming up there!', John exclaimed in amazement as Linda moved around in the bathroom upstairs. Considering that between them they had given the sexy twenty-two-year-old a pretty thorough spanking, he couldn't believe it — but that, as Amanda saw it, was just John's problem. After all the boasting about how many girls he had caned, she was beginning to realise that until now he had lived in a world of dreams and hopes.

'Linda isn't a BEGINNER, dear, though she is quite capable of putting up a good imitation of one. Her nice tight bottom first tasted my cane four years ago. I almost had to tie her ankles at first, but I soon got her tamed. Before she came into my hands, though, she HAD been spanked, but by no means successfully. Bull-at-a-gate stuff — and girls hate that. You've never done that, John, have you?', she asked cunningly, while her brother-in-law quickly shook his head.

'Why, heavens, no', he bluffed, 'I always lectured them sternly first before they went over my desk. If they — herrumph! — failed to remove their panties, then it was necessary for me to do it for them'. — 'Yes, of course, I understand, John, but here, with Linda, we have a more domestic atmosphere. You will have seen that she has become accustomed to it — up to a point — but she still needs her coaxing. I think she is putting on a very brave face by humming up there now while she freshens herself up, don't you? One must encourage that. I suggest a very light spanking in an hour or two. One must find an excuse for it, of course'.

'Ah, yes', John replied vaguely. After his astonishing experience with Linda — who had played the coy one to perfection — his penis still thrust up in a hard stalk under his trousers, as Amanda could see. Perched on the arm of his chair as she was, she leaned sideways and brushed her fingers across it. — 'What a time you must have had with the senior Sixth Formers', she sighed, 'But I think that in a more domestic situation, we do not want to scare them off, do we? When Linda is ready for her second dose — say after tea — I think it best that you handle her as though she were a beginner like.... well... like any other girl of her age whose bottom needs attention'.

'Well, I say, yes. I have only formally caned girls before', John said self-excusingly, and while wishing fervently that he really had.

'Exactly, dear. For domestic spanks, the best posture is supposed to be across the lap, but I have never agreed with that. It is much better to induce the miscreant to straddle your thigh. I mean that you keep your legs apart and bring hers astride over one. The upper part of her body is then held down under your free hand. Naturally, one stockinged thigh comes close in between your own, and hence it cannot be said to be your fault, John, if in squirming — as she is bound to — she rubs it against your prick and gives you a hard-on, to put it crudely. That is surely her doing, is it not — deny it later as she may'.

'My goodness, yes', John answered chokily. — 'Good. I knew you would agree, John. The very first spank you give should be quite a firm one, but NOT an impersonal one, and by that I mean that it does no harm to caress a hot, naked bottom gently and soothingly for a few moments after you have given a last big smack. A little finger-tuning, I call it. You may even murmur to her — while ringing her waist and listening to her sobs — that you will not spank her so hard next time if she is good. Soothe her bottom with your palm as you speak and give her a little hug. Then move her off your leg gently and draw down her skirt in a very gentlemanly fashion, feeling her thighs up as you do, but not too blatantly. Tell her, sort of playfully, that the next one won't feel half so bad'.

'But she may feel so resentful.....', John began. — 'Not entirely, no. A mixture of emotions and thoughts, John, and that's what counts. That's what you will induce in her if you do as I say. Be both firm and gentle until she becomes used to it. No heavy stuff — especially on the second occasion when you find it necessary to spank her. The second spanking is very critical. Don't announce it beforehand. Take her entirely by surprise, swing her over, flip up her skirt and give her a first one or two through her panties and hold her over hard.

John swallowed. 'But.... but I don't think I could......', he murmured, but Amanda appeared to ignore him.

'After that second smack through her knicks, cup her bottom and glide your forefinger under her cheeks just enough to give a butterfly touch to her slit through her knicks. Don't do it blatantly, but just enough to let her feel it. Oh yes, she'll probably squeal out then, 'Don't do it!', and she will be referring to the touch-up, but as far as you are outwardly concerned she means the spanking.

'Ah......', John uttered. His prick was, if anything, sticking up even more by now into the cloth of his trousers. He gazed up at her with admiration.

Amanda suppressed a sigh. Men were so unsubtle. It really did take a woman to teach them how. — 'Your next words, John, should be to tell her that she has had it before and is going to again. You can cheerfully fib, too. Tell her that she didn't really struggle before. She'll yell that she did of course. Right — another SMACK! for that. Let's suppose she was standing and that you've bent her under your arm. Next, you rip her panties down and give her another. Then you CAN use a warning. Tell her to be quiet or she'll get a real one'.

'You mean only to give her a sort of medium spanking again?', he asked. — 'THAT, my dear, has to depend entirely on your judgement of her and of the situation. Medium to hard, I would say. Let her bare bottom really feel that mastering palm of yours until she's wriggling it redhot. She'll never confess it, but she'll want you to cup it firmly then. Do so. Lead her to the sofa doing so. Just as if you were comforting her afterwards. Indeed, utter some comforting words and bring her to sit on your lap and hold her strongly there. Keep talking softly — that's half the trick of it'.

'Good lord, yes!', John exclaimed, just as if he had suddenly thought it all up for himself. He could see the whole scene. The gates of Heaven were opening. If it worked. And Amanda seemed so certain that it would. — 'And then?' he asked.

Amanda knew what he wanted her to say. 'Poke her, darling — get her on her back', he wanted her to say, but that wasn't how it was done, or at least not in her rule book. It had to be a slightly longer process than that. A girl had to be made to feel that she had somehow melted into an act of ultimate naughtiness, and had not simply been mounted and plugged.

'Why, dear, then.......', Amanda begun, but at that moment Linda entered the room again and gazed at them hesitantly and enquiringly as she knew Amanda wished her to. Linda's pert cheeks glowed a little still and felt terrific. She had rinsed her face and done all her make-up again. Her blouse was neatly buttoned and her skirt smoothed down. Both fitted her very tightly, for John had filched Judy's old school outfit from her wardrobe and had brought it over. A striped tie dangled in the valley between Linda's prominent, firm tits. Her black stockings were taut again and banded tightly around her thighs, as John could see. There was an enticing two-inch gap between the hem of her black, pleated skirt and the tops of her sheer nylons.

'If you lived here — if this were your home, Linda — you WOULD be an obedient girl, would you not?', Amanda asked smoothly, getting up and walking to her. Linda knew exactly what was expected of her and bit her lower lip and hung her head. — 'Yes; yes I would; I would try', she answered hesitantly. — 'And just supposing that you were difficult sometimes, would you expect to be spanked?', Amanda asked.

Linda pouted. It was something she could do beautifully, and she did it as she looked past Amanda at John whose heart thudded though he did his best to appear nonchalant. — 'Yeth', she lisped deliberately, and felt Amanda take her hand. Little did John know it, but Linda's own pulses raced at that moment. — 'Well, Linda, we will just see if you mean it. Let's suppose you have just sworn at him and that you think you've got away with it', Amanda said, giving the girl a little push so that she slouched towards John and then stopped a few feet from him. Behind her back, Amanda gave a silent signal with her hands to John as if to say, 'Slowly — slowly!', and in fact it was with a great effort, suppressing his eagerness, that John rose and made as if to turn away from Linda towards the fireplace.

'What did you say?', he asked quietly with his back to her as if he weren't really too worried. — 'I said — I said you were an old sod and.... NEEE-OW!', Linda squealed realistically. Spinning suddenly about, John looped one arm around her waist, and rammed her full against him so that both Amanda and Linda thought he was about to kiss her pouty mouth. Perhaps John himself did, too, for a moment. Like many men, he wanted to break all barriers at once as her thighs and tits slammed against him, but the momentarily greater desire in him made him spin her around like a top and bend her over under his arm with such strength that Linda could not have straightened up even if she had wanted to.

Something broke in Amanda, too, at that moment as she watched John scoop up the back of the short, pleated skirt. — 'Wait, darling — let's suppose that I approve of this, in this instance. Hold her while I get her knicks right off', she breathed excitedly. Linda would react with perfection, Amanda knew, and she did. — 'Stop it, no! It's not fair!', she squealed as Amanda came behind her and scooped her tight blue knickers down to her ankles. — 'Oh yes it is, my pet — I told you that you would go too far one day. All right, John!', uttered Amanda, sitting back on her own bottom so that she had a perfect view right up under the tight, warm globe of Linda's bottom.

'Oh no, please don't let me! I'll be good, I'll....... YEEE-EEEEEK!' came from Linda in the next second to the accompaniment of the juicy smacking sound of John's broad palm up under her naked hemispheres. Even as his arm sprang up again, John made to give her another, but Amanda stayed him with a gesture and crooked her forefinger suggestively up under Linda's globe.

'You.... you didn't howl before', John uttered breathlessly to Linda, and almost forgetting his script. — 'Did, did, did!', sobbed Linda, twisting her waist helplessly in his strong, looping arm and then uttered a surprised 'THOOOO!' as his hand groped right under her orb and tasted the slightly oily lips of her quim in their nest of curls. — 'Stop it, stop it, it's naughty! Don't do it!', the girl sobbed.

'What? Of course I intend to spank you, young lady!' SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! sounded John's palm as he entered into it with excited enthusiasm, causing tears to squeeze into Linda's eyes, though she had had it often enough before in such circumstances. — 'YOO-HOO-HOO-HOOO!', she sobbed, her throbbing botty rotating deliciously, 'Oh, please stop him, please! It's not fair! YEEE-OW!' Her up-thrust hemispheres really glowed now. Amanda could see that he had laid it in rather harder than she had coached him to. A deep red had spread right over Linda's moon. John's face was just as flushed. Amanda's hand shot up in silent signal to him again. It moved slowly up and down, and John blinked at her and nodded.

Linda's black-stockinged legs quivered as he began then smacking her juicy young cheeks rather more gently. — 'BOO-HOOOl' she sobbed at each rhythmic descent of his hand, but her cries were noticeably quieter now and — to John's utter delight — she held her hips steadier.

'You see what a good girl she can be, if she tries? Wait, John, I think it best to have her knickers right off', Amanda breathed. This wasn't what she had told John at all, but the moment was too good to miss. — 'Oh NO! You mustn't! YEEE-EEEEECH!', screeched Linda as simultaneously her most intimate garment was deftly worked down over her high heels and John's hand came down in a much heftier and warming SMACK! on her heat-blazoning cheeks. This time, however, his palm did not bounce off but stayed, allowing his forefinger to feel right under the glowing orb to the now oilier crevice of her furry nest.

'WHOO-HOO-HOOO!', squealed Linda. Her hips squirmed madly as his fingertip caressed the rolled lovelips and then the upper part of her body suddenly went limp — rather to John's dismay. Had he overdone the spanking? But Amanda had got up and put a finger to her lips. — 'John, I think you had best deal with her on your own. I'm going upstairs to have a bath. Now, you be a good girl, Linda'.

'BLUB-BLUB-BLUB!', came softly from Linda. Amanda quietly made her exit, not winking at John as he expected her to, but leaving it to him. Linda waited expectantly then, though he did not know it, and felt herself moved sideways awkwardly, so that with a moan and an upward jerk of her hips she was suddenly plonked down on to John's lap, feeling something like a hot, hard poker under her heat-swollen bottom.

'Sh...sh.....shouldn't!' she sobbed, hiding her face in his shoulder so that he could take any meaning from her words that he wanted. — 'Shouldn't spank you? I must if you're naughty, mustn't I?' soothed John, insinuating one hand up to her hard tits whose nipples poked through the blouse. Linda gave a little start as he did, but then buried her face deeper and uttered mewing, babyish sounds as his fingers slid down into the vent of the thin garment and found the silky, palpitating flesh beneath.

'Shouldn't I?' he repeated in a choky voice. Linda wriggled petulantly. His thumb was brushing across her perky nipples. She could feel the crest of his stiff prick nosing up through his trousers between the seared cheeks of her bottom. — 'I s...s...s'pose so', she admitted. — 'Well, then — kiss and make up?', John husked. For a long moment he thought she would not move, but slowly Linda raised a faintly tear-streaked face to his. — 'Only a likkle one', she murmured, but then an insensate thrill ran through John as her peachlike lips parted and the pink tip of her tongue peeped out hesitantly to his..........

But John has got to train himself too, as you'll discover next month.

The Other Side Of The Tracks

Story from Janus 40.

The Other Side Of The Tracks
by Andrew Grantham

SALLY looked out of the window of the Assessment Centre. At the bottom of the vegetable garden ran the railway line back to the city she came from. A train, made up of several diesel multiple units, clattered past and temporarily obscured her view of two teams of schoolgirls playing hockey.

'Hockey!' snorted Sally. It's not as much fun as playing hookey!'

'What are you on about?' asked her room-mate dreamily.

Rose lay on her bed smoking a cigarette made up of substances definitely not provided by the Imperial Tobacco Company.

Tall, blonde Sally didn't reply to Rose's question. Instead, she sniggered as a big, busty sixth-former got herself caught up in an opponent's hockey stick and fell headlong into a patch of sticky mud.

The girls playing hockey on the field across the railway lines were not from the council-run Assessment Centre. Far from it, they were all pupils of High View College, a private boarding school for girls. It was ironic that the two establishments were so close and yet worlds apart.

It had been that way for years. The Assessment Centre had formerly been a remand home — a grim reminder to girls at the College of their good fortune in life. Now it was simply a reminder, no longer grim. It was merely a place where naughty girls got sent to. No girl from High View would ever be sent to the Assessment Centre. The discipline imposed by the Headmaster and his staff saw to that!

'I'll bet they're all snooty, stuck-up bitches,' scoffed Sally.

Rose finished what she was smoking and joined her friend at the window. The blonde girl opened it. 'That pot stinks the place out!' she complained.

Sally had many vices, but smoking pot was not one of them.

Bleary-eyed, the red-haired Rose surveyed the couple of dozen girls in white shirts and navy blue pleated skills expending their energies on the playing fields.

'Jolly 'effin hockey sticks,' she snorted. 'I can think of better ball games to play than that, can't you?' she sniggered, digging the other girl in the ribs.

'Hey!' exclaimed the taller girl, suddenly noticing the referee. 'I wouldn't mind playing with him. He's a bit of all right, he is!'

'Yeah,' agreed Rose. 'He's a fit-lookin' feller all right.'

The two teenagers watched the college girls enjoying themselves. A psychologist might have said that Sally and Rose were envious of the other girls' freedom and at the same time jealous of the fact that when God had shuffled the cards, the females on the other side of the railway line had come up with the trumps.

'I've never seen a posh school before,' remarked Rose.

'Nor me,' said her room-mate. 'The one I went to.' Here Sally paused and laughed. 'When I went to it that is, was a council school. It was all horrible glass and concrete. I hated it!'

Rose mumbled her agreement. She seemed to be miles away. She returned to her bed and lay down.

Sally maintained her vigil by the window. There was precious little else to do. Tomorrow, they would be taken to court to learn of their fate. They both expected to miss a custodial sentence, but only just!

Her high, firm breasts pushed against the window panes as her big blue eyes devoured the young man in the track suit on the field. Her lip, however, curled in contempt for the girls who had had a better start in life than herself.

Sally was in fact quite a pretty girl, except when her lip curled; which it did quite often. She was inclined to blame everyone else for the fact that she had a petty crime record. Everyone, except herself of course.

She never questioned the fact that she had been the only one in her class to be in trouble with the law. Her parents were decent, hardworking people who had been too lenient with her and Sally had taken full advantage of their leniency.

'There's no graffiti on the walls!' she suddenly realised and shouted out to Rose.

Indeed, the old walls of the school were covered in ivy and not in painted slogans.

'Why don't we go over and write something, then?' drawled Rose, running a hand through her dark red hair. It was only a half-hearted suggestion, but Sally's eyes positively gleamed at the thought

'Yeah! Let's!' she exclaimed.

If anyone had said to her that she was like a silly schoolgirl, the blonde would have slapped their face, or worse!

'Come on, Rose!' she cried, clapping her hands. 'Let's sneak out!'

Rose, still a little high from her joint, propped herself up on her elbows and nodded. 'Anything you say,' she agreed.

Sally kept her eyes on the establishment that was so near and yet so far away from her whilst she turned things over in her mind.

'It's the start of a new term,' she thought out aloud. 'There'll be lots of new faces around. Nobody will know who we are. Besides, nobody here is going to bother us for the rest of the afternoon. As long as we get back in time for tea, we'll be okay.'

'Count me in,' said the redhead lazily.

'There's just one thing,' frowned Sally, looking down at her baggy sweater and patched jeans. 'We can't walk round that posh school in these clothes, can we?'

'No,' agreed Rose without offering any suggestions herself.

Sally clicked her fingers. 'I've got it!' she shouted. 'We'll make for the changing rooms on the edge of the playing fields. There'll be plenty of smart uniforms hanging up there to choose from.'

Rose suddenly began to take more interest. 'And watches!' she pointed out. 'I'll bet those well-off girls will have left quite a bit of jewellery in their pockets. We can hide it somewhere and come back for it at some time. Even if we are put away tomorrow, it's only going to be for a short time!'

Sally sniggered. 'They'll all blame one another. That'll be a laugh.'

Rose got up. She was dressed almost identically to her friend. The only difference was in the colour of their sweaters. The red-haired girl wore grey and Sally's was dark brown.

The blonde girl opened the window and poked out her head. As she thought, the drainpipe was in easy reach. She was used to climbing up drainpipes in furtherance of theft so it was no hardship for her to go the other way for a change.

Soon, both of the inmates of the Centre had their feet on the ground and, under cover of bushes and trees, they ran to the bottom of the garden. The fence that met them was made of old railway sleepers and it presented no challenge at all.

'Watch out for 'effin trains!' warned Rose. 'I don't want to end up as mincemeat!'

The girls scurried over the metal rails and crawled under one of the wire strands that bordered the High View College playing fields. Now, they were in a completely different environment and somehow they felt the change Even the grass smelted heavenly from the recent rain.

'Nice 'ere, ain't it?' smiled Sally.

They hurred to the changing rooms which were no more than wooden huts on the edge of the field. The blonde looked all round to make sure they hadn't been spotted and that there was no one inside before they went in.

'Take your pick, Rose,' declared Sally, sweeping her arm around to indicate the array of uniforms carefully hung on pegs.

Laughing and giggling like the schoolgirls they were going to pretend to be, they tried on all sorts of blazers, skirts and socks before finding anything that fitted them.

'All this gear is tailor-made!' Sally informed her friend, trying on a brown-and-yellow striped blazer. 'It must cost the earth for their parents to kit them out.'

Rose laughed as she looked at her colleague from the Assessment Centre. 'I'll bet your boyfriend wouldn't mind seeing you right now,' she told her.

Sally laughed as she looked at herself in one of the full-length mirrors. The brown pleated skirt was halfway up her shapely thighs and her bust pushed out the tight cotton blouse. The striped yellow-and-brown tie was askew and the white socks were down around her ankles.

'Actually, my boyfriend gets turned on by girls in school uniforms,' she confided to her friend.

'A good job he's not here then,' smiled Rose. 'He might want to put you over his knee.'

'Huh!' snorted Sally. 'Fat chance! I'm not into that sort of thing, thank you very much!'

Rose had managed to find clothing more her size, but it did not have quite the same effect on her as the attire borrowed by the blonde.

'Let's see what we can nick,' she grinned.

'Wait!' warned Sally. 'Someone's coming!'

Quick as a flash, the two hid behind a door. A member of the staff walked in, a stout woman of the tweeds and brogues brigade. She strode purposefully towards the showers, obviously looking for girls hiding away from the physical activity going on outside.

Sally and Rose took the opportunity to make themselves scarce, although the red-haired delinquent complained about missing out on the loot. Sally assured her they would get it on the way back as the girls would be on the hockey pitch for another hour at least. Also, on their way back they would find some paint and write on the nice clean walls!

They walked into the main building and only just managed to keep their feet on the highly polished parquet flooring. Their first test came when a formidable-looking mistress walked towards them.

She pointed at Sally. 'Fix your tie, girl!' she ordered and strode on her way.

Instinctively, Sally did as she was told and the pair of intruders carried on with their inspection of the old school.

'This place is even older than my gran!' joked Rose as she looked up at the paintings of former heads and benefactors lining the oak-panelled walls.

Suddenly Sally clutched hold of Rose's arm. 'Listen!' she hissed. 'Can you hear what I think I can hear?'

Rose nodded, a smile on her face. 'Someone's getting a walloping!'

The unmistakable sound of wood on flesh came from a nearby room, the door of which was partially open. They peered round and their hearts stilled at what they saw.

In fact the first thing that met their eyes was the sight of a pink bottom already adorned by two red horizontal stripes. Its owner was bent over a large desk, her shoulders heaving with sobs and her panties caught up in her feet.

It was only after the third stroke and resultant screech that the two uninvited observers realised that it was a man who was wielding the cane.

The chastiser was tall, athletic, in his mid-thirties and he was very good-looking.

'Stay still, Miss Jones!' he admonished the stricken girl squirming over the top of the desk. 'You only have one more to take, but if you persist in moving about, you'll get more!'

A chill came over Sally. The sight was absolutely awful yet, at the same time, it was utterly compelling. Something inside her wanted the poor girl to get more as the teacher had threatened.

Miss Jones managed to control herself and her angry, pained bottom shuddered to stillness, although her cheek muscles were obviously tightly clenched.

Whapp!

The cane sank again into the soft cushions of her rump. She yelled out aloud and waggled her rear end from side to side.

'Pull up your knicks and off you go!' ordered the teacher.

'Yes, Mr Bridges,' was the tearful but eager reply.

It was at this moment that the two inmates of the Assessment Centre chose to leave. They chose to, but they didn't actually make it. Roughly, they were pushed into the study by the tweeds and brogues mistress they had seen in the changing room and inside they tripped over each other.

'These two girls were peeping around your door,' explained the matronly woman. 'They must have been watching you cane the Jones girl.'

Miss Jones, her face buried in her hands, quickly left the scene.

'Ere! What's the game, you bitch!' demanded Rose, her natural hostility to any kind of officialdom rapidly rising to the surface.

'How dare you speak to Miss Russell like that!' roared the man who had just laid the cane into the meaty bottom of the recently departed Miss Jones. He yanked the two girls to their feet by the collars of their blouses and shook them like two rag dolls.

'Piss off!' shouted Rose.

'- - - - off!' hissed the blonde, coming out with the full Anglo-Saxon expletive.

'Oh, Mr Bridges!' shrieked a shocked Miss Russell, putting a large hand to her mouth.

'I've a good mind to smack both your faces!' hissed Mr Bridges. He quickly, however, brought himself under control. 'Instead I'll give you six of the best — the very best, I assure you!'

The two girls struggled in his grip and even aimed kicks at his shins. However, he solved that problem by letting go of their blouses and twisting their ears instead.

Sally suddenly stopped struggling as realisation came over her. They were supposed to be pupils of High View College. If it was found out they were from the place across the railway lines, they would be unceremoniously handed over — with a full report of their loutish behaviour and foul language. Their assessments would be rapidly altered and they would be incarcerated at the court hearing for sure. It was better to grin and bear it. Okay, so they would certainly be baring it, but it was hardly likely they would be grinning!

She managed to convey the message to the other girl with a few whispered words and Rose, too, gave up the struggle.

'I'm sorry sir,' whimpered Sally, looking at Mr Bridges with wide, appealing eyes. She could turn on the charm whenever she wanted to.

'No doubt you are!' Mr Bridges was not impressed. 'But your sorrow will not stop you from getting the six of the very best I promised you!'

The girls looked at each other. They hadn't bargained for anything like this. They were out of their depth with this kind of discipline. There was certainly no such thing as corporal punishment at the Assessment Centre!

Which was the lesser of the two evils? A very painful dose of the cane with a sore bum for a while afterwards, or several weeks or even months in some kind of a penal establishment. There really wasn't any choice!

'Perhaps you would be so good as to wait outside with one of these er young ladies, Miss Russell,' smiled Mr Bridges grimly.

'Yes, Headmaster,' said the big lady smugly.

Sally's eyes widened. So the dishy bloke was actually the Headmaster of this posh place. She had never had a Headmaster like that. She had never had the cane either!

A dejected-looking Rose was led out by Miss Russell, leaving Sally alone with the Headmaster. She felt absolutely helpless. She didn't even go to this silly school and yet she had to pretend that she did. It was going to be a painful pretence!

The blonde knew it would be a waste of time flaunting her obviously nubile body. Mr Bridges was going to use the yellow crook-handled cane lying on the desk top, no matter what she did.

He started off by giving her a sharp lecture about all the things a young lady should be and not be. One thing a lady should definitely not be — and that was foul-mouthed!

'You won't forget this in a hurry!' he promised, taking up the cane.

Sally was sure she would never forget it!

Mr Bridges tapped the shiny desk top with the tip of the cane. Eyes downcast, Sally took a few paces forward cursing Rose under her breath. It had been her silly idea in the first place! She was glad she had someone to blame, other than herself.

She lay across the surface, her arms outstretched in front of her, her feet steady on the carpet and her bottom poking up in the air.

Sally was frightened, although she did her best not to show it. There hadn't been many times in her young life that the pretty blonde had been frightened, but this was one of them. Her knuckles showed white under the skin as she clutched the edge of the desk.

Mr Bridges, the cane tucked under his left arm, began to bare her bottom. The so-short skirt had ridden so far up already, he merely had to lift it out of the way. Her briefs were so skimpy, they were little more than a snatch patch.

She jumped at the sensation of his warm hands on her flesh. For any other purpose the sensation of male hands down there would be very pleasant, but not for what she was about to receive!

Very delicately, the Headmaster eased her panties over her rump and he let them flutter down to her ankles. For all that Sally was an experienced young woman of the world, she felt strangely embarrassed.

She tensed and waited.

Mr Bridges took time to get his mark and his stance correct. Sally jumped several times as the cane tap-tapped on her offered globes, seeking the perfect range. She had already witnessed just what he could do with the cane and she knew he was going to lay it on much harder for both herself and Rose than he had done for the errant Miss Jones.

Sally heard the cane whistling down for what seemed like ages before she thought her bottom had been bisected by a red hot wire.

'Oooohhh!' she cried out.

Her plump, ivory cheeks shuddered and she wondered where her breath had gone to. A red stripe instantly lit up her pale bottom.

'I don't have to tell you to keep still, do I?' questioned Mr Bridges.

Sally shook her head and buried her face in the sleeves of the striped blazer.

Crack!

'Yeeeoww!'

Sally's head jerked up as the second stroke of the expertly wielded cane struck home. She started to cry. Her bottom seemed to be making frantic efforts to minimise the pain and discomfort.

'Keep still!' warned the Headmaster.

Sally had a sudden urge to kick off her panties and run away. Then she remembered the menacing figure of Miss Russell who would be lurking outside, no doubt savouring every sickening sound that came from the study. There was just nowhere to go!

Whoosh!

Whapp!

Sally screamed and twisted violently. Her bottom blazed with fire.

Mr Bridges viewed with great satisfaction the contorting arse that still had three more stripes to bear.

The sleeves of Sally's 'borrowed' blazer became sodden as the tears flowed unremittingly. She had never known her body could be in such agony. And the awful torment was still only halfway through.

Still, how much worse was it going to be for Rose. She would be able to hear the explosive cracking impacts of the cane upon her bare buttock flesh and all her screeching and shouting, and still have the awful punishment to bear. At least whilst the redhead was getting it, she herself could rub her hands over the inferno that was her battered bottom.

The fourth slice of cane stopped Sally from thinking about the girl waiting her turn outside. Her piercing shriek echoed around the study and the jellied mounds of her bottom showed up her suffering.

Sally's throat was dry and sore from yelling. Ever-increasing waves of hurt seemed to engulf her all over. Her shoulders shook and so did her bottom.

'Keep this still!' ordered Mr Bridges, prodding her buttocks with the tip of the cane. Even that hurt!

Desperately fearful of getting extra strokes, Sally concentrated hard on keeping her bottom absolutely still. Despite the torrent of fire that seemed to have been poured over her arse, she managed it. But not for long!

Kerack!

'Ay-yee-aagh!' roared Sally.

She began thrashing about with her head back and her eyes clamped shut. Her arms were rigidly extended and her fists tightly clenched.

Her crimson, castigated bottom humped up and down frenziedly. She could hardly believe such an awful thing was happening to her.

'This is the last one coming up,' said Mr Bridges. His voice betrayed the fact that he wanted to carry on and give her much, much more.

Whack!

The cane again found its mark on the bottom that squirmed and floundered over the desk top.

'Yarrooohh!' roared the tortured delinquent. Her feet bicycled in the air.

Mr Bridges had used all his energy in delivering the final stroke to the cheeky blonde. She had most certainly deserved the thorough hiding he had given her and he hoped it would be a salutary lesson to her.

Keeping hold of the cane, he crossed the carpet to the door and beckoned a trembling Rose to enter.

'Oh God!' cried the red-haired girl stopping in her tracks.

Sally, her body shattered with the punishment it had absorbed, still lay sprawled over the desk, sobbing her heart out.

Rose screwed up her eyes as she surveyed her friend's backside, ablaze with fiery red criss-crossed welts.

Mr Bridges stood in the doorway and permitted Miss Russell a quick peek at Sally's bum. Her smile showed her satisfaction.

'I suppose these girls think they are the first ones ever to cross the railway lines to see what they can thieve,' she whispered.

Mr Bridges nodded. 'No doubt they do,' he said quietly. 'They aren't the first and they certainly won't be the last!'

The Soreness of a Finishing School

Story from Roue 10.

The Soreness of a Finishing School

Mrs Caroline Storey recently unearthed fragments of her grandmother's diary. The diary recounted tales of canings. Caroline was naturally intrigued; for her husband often finds occasion to chastise her. Those canings her grandmother wrote of, when a young lady at finishing school, apparently caused similar sensations to the ones undergone by Caroline's own naughty bottom.

We are grateful to Mrs Caroline Storey for submitting the following extracts of this diary, extracts describing incidents which must make every young lady's bottom squirm with discomfiture.

* * *

October 23rd., 1905
I had not wished at all to come to a finishing school. I should have been quite content to allow my elder sister to show me the arts required of young ladies. Alas, that is not it appears 'the thing', and so here I am, isolated in the depths of Sussex. I can but hope that the establishment will prepare me correctly for the high society in which my mother desires me to take my place. And yes, I wish it too. To go to the balls in town, impeccably dressed, with those handsome young men... Indeed, my sister Rosamund has described so vividly to me the night long dancing she has met with in Vienna, and the charming young cavalry officers.

Such wonderful happenings must remain, alas, but a dream during my period here. I resolve to be industrious at the classes. What the future will then hold in store for me, I can only look forward to with delight.

I must admit that this establishment is not entirely uncongenial. Some of the other girls are perfectly to my taste in female companionship. However, they have warned me that I must beware of the strict discipline enforced by the school's mistresses. For the first day, I thought the girls must be joking and teasing me. "Are we not young ladies here?" I enquired. One girl laughed, saying that no, that young ladies are what the mistresses are teaching us to become.

This afternoon, I saw some evidence of what I had been told. Alice and Jane, two girls most elegant in their deportment and sweet in their manner, had their knuckles rapped with a ruler. The offence was that of chattering together in the sewing class. It was humiliating for them. Their faces were as red as their hands, and I believe their fingers stung exceedingly. I endeavoured to look away to spare them further shame. The punishment seemed quite unfair and unnecessary. The embroidery which they produce is exquisite, and they chatted merely because they had already finished the pieces for the day.

October 27th., 1905
These last few days have passed quite pleasantly. I find that I gained much from having had a French governess, for my command of the language far exceeds that of the other girls.

Needlework I dislike, but I fancy that the master was not displeased with my efforts in the drawing class. He is a man of, I think, about fifty years, and has somewhat of a corpulence. Yet he appears a good man for all that. There is, however, an incident which has marred my pleasure here, and has caused me to comprehend that I must indeed be on my guard.

Today I was out walking in the village with several companions. We looked in the shopwindow of the milliner, and wished that we might wear the beautiful hats which were on sale. A mistress, Miss Rochester, had accompanied us. She is young, sometimes high-spirited, and at first seemed more like a friend than a watcher of our moral conduct. How wrong we were! Suddenly, on the other side of the square, I spied a young man. He was gazing directly at us, but it seemed that his eyes lit especially upon me. I found my cheeks flushing up. When my companions moved, I remained still. I did not wish to lose my modesty, yet I gave what I hoped to be a demure smile in his direction, for really he was an exceedingly handsome young man.

My friends told me later that I had stood enraptured for a whole minute! I blushed on hearing this. How could I have behaved in such a foolish fashion! To the girls, it was a joke, and they have been continually teasing me about that young man. Miss Rochester, however, did not find the matter amusing in the very slightest. Indeed, she made her feelings quite clear to me. It was she whose hand I suddenly felt upon my arm, rousing me from my dream-like state. She informed me, somewhat crisply, that as I was but recently come to the school, she would let this incident be but a warning to me. However, she added that any further such immodest behaviour and foolishness would merit a severe caning.

I could not believe my ears. A caning? Was it possible? I became conscious of my drawers against my lower regions, as my companions assured me that most certainly a caning was possible! Dark-haired Emma, a pretty girl, was even willing, upon our return, to relate to me the tale of her own chastisement and the pain she had suffered. I had no wish to hear of it. The very idea of physical punishment makes me shudder, and while I write, I still feel a terrible awareness of my delicate nether regions.

A cane! I have naturally heard of such instruments of chastisement, but never have I come into any more intimate contact with them. My mother is a gentle person. She is the image of pure womanliness. My father loves his daughters too much to punish them in such a horrid manner. Such instructions must have been passed to our governesses, for we received no threats of that nature. When a child, there was the occasional slap against my legs, but no more than that.

All the girls here, though, have not come from such homes. It might be because they have been brought up with brothers in the family. Ruth, a friend of mine here, informed me that her mother frequently smacked her bottom when it was bared, and Elizabeth spoke of her governess employing a birch.

I believe I shall not sleep easily tonight. Indeed, I am beginning to feel almost delirious. Before me still moves the face of that young man. Oh, dear, I do not know what is to become of me.

November 2nd., 1905
I determined that after the conversation with Miss Rochester I should maintain control of myself. I thought it would be possible. Sadly, I am beginning to learn the hard way. I must surely be as stupid and thoughtless as she asserted. Oh, why can I not drive that man from my mind? I feel that my affection for him is going to cause much trouble. Indeed, that trouble is already starting. I do not like to think of the consequences.

Today, as I sat in church, I spied him only a few feet away from me. Despite myself, I had already gleaned that his name is 'George', and that he is home from Oxford University.

I tried to maintain my face averted from his direction, but then I glanced and saw between him and Ruth a secret smile being exchanged. The intimacy in that brief look stabbed my heart. Whether it is more because I desire the young man's affections myself or because my friend has kept the secret from me, I do not know.

My bottom twitched against my drawers, as I sat on the hard pew. I was longing to stare at Ruth and George more closely, but the memory of what had been promised my poor nether cheeks stopped me... for Miss Rochester was at the end of our pew. I felt as if she already wielded a cane in her hand and was waiting for the moment to strike me with it. It would hurt my tender flesh very much, that I assumed, but I must needs confess that my dread of a caning is now mixed with a slight measure of curiosity.

That is a foolish thing to write. Truly, I do not know what kind of creature I am turning into – a thief even! My face reddens as I note this down.

When Ruth was out walking, I searched her cabinet. In it was a locket. It was inscribed by George Markham and contained a lock of his curly brown hair. In a frenzy of jealousy, I stole the locket, and it is with me even now. I do not know if Ruth has observed her loss. She could not mention it, without terrors heaping upon her head. At the moment, she is preoccupied by other matters. Her mother has sent a new corset. When she is laced into it, I must admit Ruth's form looks truly womanly. She tells me, however, that the tightness of the corset causes her much discomfiture.

Today, I received a letter from Rosamund. Her waist is how so tiny one can but imagine how uncomfortable must be the lacing which makes it so. It is 17 inches! What torment we ladies must go through to make ourselves look the mode. I wonder if we are glad we suffered, when we reap the prize of our hands being taken in marriage. If my husband should be as handsome as George though... Oh, dear! How this locket is weighing upon my conscience. If Ruth had told me herself about George, I do believe I should now be bearing no grudge.

November 4th., 1905
I wish that I might die of my shame, and of the pain which accompanies it. The stings in my posterior cause my writing to be so uneven.

My downfall came about during the deportment class. Why had I not returned Ruth's locket? My envy made me cling on to it. There is a wickedness within me. I even believe that perhaps I deserve what I have suffered. No! The pain is too great. Retribution herself cannot be so cruel.

We were being shown how a lady must conduct herself when out visiting. She must stand, unless requested to sit, and should hold herself in an upright manner, never portraying any signs of weariness. Miss Bingham praised my posture. Indeed, all was well until we were told we could leave the room. In my haste this morning, I had failed to tighten the locket's clasp correctly. It fell to the floor before Miss Bingham. Fortunately, I was last to leave the room, so neither Ruth nor others who might tell her witnessed the event.

Miss Bingham retrieved the locket. My cheeks blushed exceedingly, while she carefully examined it. She asked if it was mine. I fell into a state of confusion. Which crime would be considered the more awful? To steal, or to own such a love locket? I said that the locket did belong to me. I felt a surge of pride, for I was thus protecting my friend, Ruth. Miss Bingham stared at me. I sensed she knew I was lying, but I tried to retain some composure.

She locked the door of the classroom, and from a cupboard on the wall, she produced a long thin cane. My lower regions palpitated with fear. I could not justify my possession of the locket. Miss Bingham forced me into confessing that it was not in keeping with a young lady's modesty to carry such an object of desire.

How I quaked and trembled! The swishing of the cane was truly nightmarish.

I was ordered to bend across a desk. Every detail is so horrific that I must write it down to unburden myself. There is no girl whom I can tell, especially Ruth. My conscience burns as furiously as my bottom. I can think of no means of assuaging either.

I held on to the desk as if my very life depended upon it. I was sure that otherwise I might jump up and incur yet more wrath. I knew that I was about to undergo a most painful ordeal, but I was unprepared for the full shame which awaited me. How my heart sank, when I felt Miss Bingham's hands upon my dress and petticoats. She pinned them securely around my waist. She seemed to stare at my drawers for an eternity. I was so ashamed at being exposed so intimately. My drawers are, furthermore, plain and unfashionable, with their open flaps at the back, and not a touch of lace or embroidery. Mama considers them suited to a girl of my age. Sometimes, I think she does not realize quite how old I am, but that is by the by.

There was a hideous swish through the air and then a crack! My cheeks convulsed as the cane fell right across them. Much to my shame, I screamed out, for it hurt so. Harshly, I was told I was not a child and must take my punishment without complaint. I tried to obey.

Swish! Crack! The noise made by every stroke of that cane will never erase itself from my mind. The instrument fell twice across the same line, and then Miss Bingham caused it to criss-cross over the stinging area. I was crying and sobbing, but it brought me no pity.

My drawers flapped apart, and the vicious bamboo cut into my bare feminine flesh. I was appalled. The smarting was unbearable, but there were no means of escape.

I do not know how many strokes I received, but it was no small number. The whirl of pain caused me to collapse. Feebly, as I raised myself, I was confronted by a stark choice. Miss Bingham said she would deliver six more strokes of the cane, with my drawers pulled off, or – and here her eyes bored into me – I could tell her the truth!

I stumbled over my words. The pain of the rising weals on my bottom made me succumb. I confessed that I had lied. Worse: I admitted that the locket belonged to Ruth, and said I would return it surreptitiously so that she would not suspect that anyone knew of her secret. Miss Bingham appeared satisfied and permitted me to adjust my dress and depart. I rushed straight to my bed-chamber so that I could collect myself before joining the other girls at tea.

I felt like an outcast with my terrible mission of returning that locket. I could not explain that I had only a little earlier been chastised. I sat on the hard bench, trying to hide my agony. The girls gave me puzzled glances, for I was quiet, though normally I believe I am considered to be a talkative girl.

I avoided company afterwards and I have come to bed much earlier than usual. My nightgown rubs against my burning bottom. I find I must lie on my side, fanning the gown away from my sore skin.

November 7th., 1905
The last few days have been torture. The smarting from my bottom is much eased, and the weals have become bruises, but it is not that which causes me such anguish. It is Ruth. I am aware that the mistresses are watching her movements like hawks, and yet she is ignorant of these observations. I have discovered when she and George meet – it is during the afternoons which are our recreation periods. We are allowed to wander freely in the school's grounds. They occupy a large area of field and woodland, and consequently a mistress thinks nothing of it, if she does not come upon a particular girl easily. Ruth makes use of this opportunity to escape into the arms of her George.

Have I no honour? It is my duty to warn Ruth, but I cannot. It is all the more painful, for, in other respects, we are such close friends. She is very dear to me, and yet I am letting her walk into a terrible chastisement. Indeed, I find myself wanting her to be punished for her luck and deception over George!

November 9th., 1905
My mind and body are so restless, I know not what to do with myself. Today, the Headmistress, Miss Gibson, caught Ruth and George walking in the fields together. Now, at this very moment, Ruth has chosen to confide in me, because I am her closest friend. She has told me she is to be punished in public on the morrow. I feel as if it is my own posterior upon which the strokes should fall. Indeed, it seems almost as if that is the case.

Ruth informed me also of her relationship with George. If only she had done so before – before I was filled with anger and jealousy, desiring my revenge.

Before she left me this evening, she shed a few tears. I comforted her, while my own nether regions pulsated with fear and guilt.

November 10th., 1905
I wish that the earth might swallow me up. After Ruth's horrific punishment, it was to me she came. I rubbed soothing cream into her raw reddened skin. I was filled with hypocrisy and torment, for I was so much a cause of what she had suffered, and is still suffering. I long fully to comprehend my own feelings.

The school met for evening prayers as usual. Ruth's chair was that next to mine. Her face was a deathly white, and she clutched my hand for support. Everyone was about to leave, when Miss Gibson rose. She summoned Ruth to the front, to the surprise of the other girls. Her crime was read out, but I was so overcome, I did not hear the words, save that the punishment was the alternative to expulsion.

Ruth was bent across a chair. Her skirts were lifted by a maid, who then handed a cane to Miss Gibson. The school stared silently at Ruth's drawers. They were of fine and delicate linen. Miss Gibson unlaced them, exposing the rounded buttocks of my friend.

Ruth trembled as the Headmistress raised her arm with the full length of the cane quivering above the vulnerable bared nether regions. The maid clasped Ruth's shoulders, keeping her still. There was an almighty crack! The cane bit into Ruth's bottom. "Seven more to come!" Miss Gibson announced, and then the cane was speeding to its target once again.

How Ruth suffered the humiliation of being dealt with in such an undig-position and in public, I do not know. The cane cracked down against her, bringing tears to her eyes. It made me flush with shame. I closed my eyes. I could not bear to watch any more.

When it was over, the maid tightly laced up Ruth's drawers over the welts which were rising from her posterior. Ruth could barely walk, and as we were told to go, Miss Gibson herself took Ruth's arm and led her out. I believe that she had not intended to punish her quite so severely.

The ghastly punishment causes me to shake. Ruth felt at if she was on fire. As I soothed her bottom, I could see the raw cheeks tensing together, making her wince. Yet, when my fingers stroked tenderly over the curves, I was suddenly aware of a strange excitement, and so was Ruth. I blush even more as I think of it. I must resolve to become virtuous and to ignore these feelings. I must also erase the envy in my heart. It is most assuredly a sin, as is all that I have done on its account....!