Stepping-stones

Story from Blushes Supplement 06.

Stepping-stones

My Dear Clive,

Thank you for your timely and instructive letter which arrived at a most appropriate moment! I agree with you entirely about grading girls and am pleased to learn that under your advice they are introducing the system you suggest at the newly-opened Academy for Young Ladies (delightful title!) which appears to be so conveniently sited for both of us.

The stepping-stones in your letter – if I may call them that – are very well placed. As you say, it does very little good to simply haul a girl over one's lap occasionally and redden up her bottom till she howls. There must be a certain delicatesse about it. On the one hand the pupil (for I believe it is proper to call her such in every respect) should be strictly disciplined, while on the other one does not want to scare her off. There is an element of conditioning in it all that you rightly point to. And, I suppose, in the broadest possible sense we ourselves are subject to it also.

The cruder schools of thought will not agree with this – which is of no matter anyway. They appear to me (and I am sure to your goodself also) to be divided between the outright sadists and those for whom the first gliding-down of a girl's navy blues – if such she is rightly made to wear – represent the short fuse towards a sexual orgy.

One must undoubtedly tread the middle path. 'Softly-softly catchee bottom', you once said to me, but we were both younger then and have learned much since. In particular, I think, we have learned (and I later in practice than you) that a loudly-squalling girl upsets all if she is taken roughly and rudely. 'There is an element of coaxing', you say, and this I wholly agree with. The coaxing, if I may so put it, is the velvet surface of the iron glove. Rough seizing and rough spanking are not at all conducive to the final quiet that should follow disciplinary measures. 'The softly-breathing peace that wafts like dusk between the disciplinary sessions', as you say.

I must say, though, that the first squeaks of surprise they utter are devilishly attractive. I admit that one finds oneself repeating the same words over and over again until they become like a sort of incantation, but then they themselves are the same. Is there a girl who does not squeak, 'Don't! Oh no, don't!' when one first flips up her skirt?

You say that the first spanking should be reasonably hard – authoritative – and I agree entirely with that. I admit to dealing with Suzy thus when I first spanked her some ten days ago. I admit, too, that there was a bit of a wrestling match to begin with. It helped, I believe, that she initially thought that I was being unaccustomedly libertine, for I had occasion to 'talk to her' anyway and had her seated on the sofa beside me – admonishing her, as one used to say. Her skirt being as appropriately short as I like them to be, I stroked her leg above her knee while talking to her.

She appeared not to notice this at first, having her hands clasped together and her head bowed a little. Quite idly, I do assure you. I discovered the top of her stocking with one fingertip whereat she appeared to come to herself and jumped. She then had the impudence (I believe you yourself would call it that) to thrust my hand down, and thereat the vital struggle began.

I recall that you once told me that in the otherwise difficult position when two are sitting together, one must swing one's arm swiftly up over their backs and haul them down without hesitation across one's lap. Well – I must say that good as that advice is it does not help much when a silky nylon blouse is worn! It rucked up under my hand – slid and slithered up. A rather desperate grabbing of my fingers into the evasive material forced it even higher – to her shoulder blades, in fact – whereat, in the act of getting her well over my lap two unbrassiered twin globes exposed themselves all too briefly to my view and then were hid as she hung down.

My dear chap, yes, of course she shrieked out 'No!' – and far too loudly for my liking. Dammit, the lounge windows were both opened at the top and her cry must have floated across the garden. Do they never realise that such invites a first and very hefty smack to quell the noise – or so one hopes!

On that first occasion I failed to peel down her knickers. Too hasty, you would say, but there are circumstances, dear boy, when haste must prevail. Deirdre was due back within the hour and would hardly take well to it to find her favourite niece with her knicks crumpled on the floor. Even so, the view was exquisite! As much as there is to be said for blue serge knickers so there may be also for these translucent panties that girls are nowadays wont to wear. Suzy's lustrous apple gleamed through admirably, allowing me a delightfully close and first acquaintance with that tightly inrolling cleft of hers. Long legs she was for a seventeen-year-old, but then you always said she had.

She was the very devil to hold, I must say, wriggling like a fish across my lap as I gave her precious bulb a second and a third smack which – guardedly – were not quite so hefty as the first. What a sensation it is to bounce one's palm off of such a bottom! – 'No, please – no, please!', she squealed and beat her fists upon the floor, her titties swinging now and then into my view. I said, 'Yes, my girl, you're going to have it' – though with no great originality on my part (whereat you will surely shake your head and say wisely enough, 'It does not really matter'). I added then, 'You WILL he obedient, Suzy', which I suppose comes under the heading of an oblique instruction, for she could take it either as referring to my talk with her or the mostly-accidental movement of my errant hand which had sparked off this particular fire.

I could see her right hand clawing into the rug as I briskly spanked those sweet, resilient cheeks of hers – remarking with approval the tightness of her suspenders as I did so. Her nether cheeks were half exposed, of course, and reddened quickly as my palm swept down. She howled, she pleaded, sobbed and then – to my amazement – suddenly went limp. One leg slipped sideways and she almost fell. That parting of her long slim legs did me no good at all, I must confess!

I told myself, of course, that this was her ploy to escape from further bottom-heating – but I admit that I wasn't sure. She sobbed and mumbled as I hauled her up, balling her squirming bottom down into my lap. I had a feeling that I was intended – consciously or not by her – to ask her if she were 'all right', but I resisted that. I made to let her shoulder fall against my chest. A cuddle afterwards, I thought, but she resisted that, jumped up and ran out of the room, saying I was 'a beast – a rotten beast'.

'Go to your room!', I called up after her. – 'No, shan't! I'm going to have a bath', she yelled back down and sobbed a huge great sob and slammed a door.

Well, old chap, what should I have done? Gone up and given her seconds? Was she ripe for it? On a matter such as this I do need your advice. She swivels quickly past me when we are alone now, hasn't referred to it at all. I felt at first that I had made Grade One, but seemed to have achieved nought but a minus point! Perhaps they could handle her better at the Academy. I believe that I could just wait out a term!

Sincerely,
Mark.

* * *

My Dear Mark,

In truth you have done better than you think, dear boy, and I would point to two things therein – the first being that a screechy and totally resistant girl would never have allowed you for a second to bring her bottom down into your lap where surely there were some stiff signs of eagerness by then? The second, and more subtle, is that 'bathroom cry' of hers. Take heart from that. Females rush to the bath when they're disturbed emotionally. Had she felt deep resentment (as you fear, perhaps) she would have locked herself in her bedroom and even screamed at you that she would tell her aunt.

It seems to me that, quite by accident, you HAVE begun to grade her, actually. It's early days. The next time, though, will count the most. I suggest you tell her that you want to talk to her. You are quite right about 'the words'. They come by rote, but therein offer signals and so have their value. She will almost certainly appear to flare up for a moment and will ask you blankly, 'What?'. Then I suggest you take her hand and lead her to the selfsame sofa where you sat before. Repeat the scene, repeat the scene; they have to get to understand routines, old chap.

Of course she will struggle. I want you to say to her, 'Now, Suzy, only a small one this time'. Yes, of course, you'll get all the cries of dismay, the squeaks, the protests – all of it. Repeat the words, 'A little one' – then spank her briskly. Not too hard at first. A sixer, quick and sharp: attend to both her cheeks. She will be sobbing, 'Let me up!' (or some such thing) but take no notice. Ring her waist and peel those panties down. Show firmness and determination. Keep the words a flowing, though. Yes, cut across her cries and moans, then spank her bared cheeks with a 'middle stroke' that's not too hard, but neither is it light.

A dozen? Yes! You'll be surprised at how they take it when they're tightly held and have their maidenly modesties unveiled. Then, tell her she is to have her bath. Routines – I do repeat – routines! She'll squeal and sob and kick, but carry her bare-bottomed up the stairs, give her a final smack and send her in. Tell her this time to come down afterwards, and say it firmly. Should she cry out rebelliously, do not reply but wait till she comes out (naked as she may be – girls often are) and bear her to her room and make her dress in front of you.

The reverse of what should be? Not quite. She will be so surprised that she'll obey. She has to, anyway, if naked then she is. Don't fondle her or touch her. Merely wait, reminding her to pull her stockings taut. She will be tearful, pouting – all of that. Speak to her firmly: 'Pull your knickers up more' – things like that. 'Now, let me look at you; there's a good girl'. The phrase does wonders, I can tell you that! Take her hand then and lead her out and close the door as if her single bed did not exist. It will be soon enough for both of you if you are patient, Mark, and she will know that too, but will not say.

The next step when she is 'safe' downstairs is to fondle her clothed bottom gently and tell her when you will spank her once again. Yes, difficult maybe, but then you must. I suggest you say it tonelessly – not with a crack of hope to show! She probably will blink and lick her lip. Then say no more about it afterwards, nothing at all. I know the urge is strong, but it is really better thus. To talk about it is to drool – or so they think. A single word or two is quite enough.

You will come then on the next occasion as to whether she must take her knickers off, or you. There are different schools of thought on that. I lean to neither one. Both are 'correct'. A fully-graded girl will always have herself prepared, with clean white socks or stockings taut, a bath beforehand and her knickers tight. The delicious apple must be slowly peeled, dear boy!

I wish you well. From what you say I believe it will be so. You will always have a little fretfulness. They believe it right to show it, I believe. Jackie displays herself to me with the same timidity she always did – the hesitant bending over and the legs together till they're nudged apart.

I will mention, too, that which you may not wish to ask about: to wit, the cane. Obtain a slender one and bend it much both back and forth before you use it. Weals? My goodness, no, I hate the word! There is little need for such to show if it is trimly, crisply used. I suggest you do not show it to her first, but bring it from a place of such concealment as you can once her obedience is such as to make her 'offer up'. By that I mean of course her darling chubby bottom and her knees apart a regulation twelve or eighteen inches at the least.

The first stroke should be laid out about an inch below the centre of the bottom, biting into both her cheeks. Ah yes, she'll squeal all right, but 'shush' her firmly if she does. Position her anew for every stroke, her back well dipped, her apple bulbed. Even if such is not necessary, yes. It helps to bring an interval between the swishing of the cane which – once again – should not be too hard nor too light. Six is enough at first, and then some gentle taps. 'Guide' her to such positions as you wish thereby. The taps are made to teach her to obey, and she will come to know that soon enough.

Keep your word, too, on all you do. A six is six and never is a seven! For her first caning her knickers should be down around her knees. And why? Because she is to pull them up a moment after the last stroke. She will be topless, yes, of course, and must get up and turn round for a moment's comforting, your palms assuaging the deep, quivering heat through that translucent nylon while your lips just momentarily touch hers, or brush the corner of her mouth. Praise her then, praise her. A few words wilt suffice, but say them clear. She will blubber on and let your arms enfold her, I believe. The medium becomes the cane becomes the message, don't you see.

You will want to spend more words on her than I do suggest, but don't. The temptation is to be avoided for good reason. Let her own thoughts do far, far better work than stumbled, over-eager words on your part would. Have her dress quickly, hold her hand and lead her back downstairs. She will be full of wondering – and that is mostly what you want. Her palm will be less hesitant to yours, and moist. A moist palm is the pointer to a nearly-fully-graded girl, the which I hardly need explain to you!

'But wait!', I hear you say. You search for more 'instruction'? Surely not! Take Jackie, now. I hear her upstairs in the bath. Occasionally she hums, then stops, remembering it is Friday night. She takes her time. I do not mind. In half an hour she will trip (clothes clutched in front of her) into her room and there begin to get into her uniform. It fits now where it touches, as they say, but still she looks the more appealing for it thus, the skirt too tight by now around her waist, the hem that barely reaches to her stocking tops. The buttons of her old, worn blouse will pop the moment that she kneels up on the bed: a cheekiness of nipples in the dusk, thrust forward slowly by the milky gourds from which the blouse will peel reluctantly. Their weightiness will come into my palm a little later on, but Jenny needs the cane at first, and knows she does. Silence is golden. You may find that, too – save for the hissing of the cane, of course, the broken cries, the moans – all that precedes the final crumpling of the sheets, the last moist kisses of obedience, the final pumpings of the hips (her upper lip curled back beneath my own).

I will leave her afterwards, half sleepy, wriggling still, fulfilled. Grade Three, dear boy – I trust you reach it soon!

Sincerely,
Clive.

Bottoms Up

Story from Color Climax 77.

This choice can seem strange because, first, Color Climax – magazine not from Britain, and secondly, this magazine does not concern a category ' Spanking Mags'. It is a classical Danish porn magazine. But it seemed to me interesting that in one of numbers I have suddenly found out the story which can be carried to spanking stories – so I was not kept and I spread it in a blog.

Bottoms Up
by Adrian Johnson

Mr Madsen, the draper, was sitting in his tiny office at the back of his shop, gazing through the peephole at the well-made young sales assistant who was just new dressing the shop window. He watched her graceful movements with obvious displeasure, and his podgy little fingers stroked the stubbles on his chin.

Finally he got up, opening the door. "Ah, Miss Hansen," he called, "could you spare me a moment."

Lone Hansen let the fabric fall down on the counter with an annoyed movement. Damn, she thought, what does the old duffer want now? Her thoughts moved in a more than usual disrespectful direction because it was nearly time to knock off and she had made a date shortly after. No doubt the old fool wanted her to work over time.

Sulking demonstratively she walked over to the boss, her seventeen-year-old back radiating defiance and her long shapely legs swishing provocatively.

Out of the corner of her eyes she saw the other apprentice and the sales assistant putting their coats on and walking out of the door, into freedom... The boss had seated himself behind the desk, pretending to look through some papers. He did not look up at her.

She got impatient. "Well, what was it?" He leaned back in his chair, his tiny eyes staring directly into hers and he slowly snapped his fingers. "Well," he said slowly, pushing the tips of his fingers against each other with a sanctimonious look, "I regret very much that I have to say this, but..." He paused and his eyes took her in, hard and questioningly.

Lone leaned against the door frame, one hand on her hips, and her mini skirt seemed to slide a little further up while the muscles of her thighs tensed. Her boss did not miss the extra flesh that suddenly got exposed, and his eyes rested on the smooth thighs a little longer than necessary. Without thinking about it he stuck out his tongue and licked his lips.

Somehow Lone felt as if she had won a victory over the fat ugly little man who might be her boss but who certainly was not immune to her attractions. She further accentuated her pose by turning her hips a little more and her eyes looked straight into his.

"OK, what is it?" she said with a voice which clearly expressed her impudence and arrogance. Mr Madsen was obviously trying to pull himself together, and without looking straight at her he quickly said, "The other day, Miss Hansen, I saw one of your friends meeting you here after work. She was wearing a dress which I thought I recognised as one of our models." He made a pause and tried to look at her. Lone did not answer but looked straight ahead, and her look grew less arrogant.

"Afterwards I went over the stock," the boss went on, "and that particular model gown was not there." His voice had an edge to it now, and his awkwardness had disappeared. "You're a thief, Miss Hansen," he said abruptly. Lone gave a start. "How are you going to explain that precisely your friend came into the shop in a model gown which is only sold in my shop, and which has not been sold?" Madsen raised his voice and went on. "Why don't you answer, the rest of the staff do not know anything about the gown, so it must be you who sold it!"

Lone was still silent. But slowly a deep flush covered her face. Hell and damnation, she thought, what do I so now?

How was she to explain to the old duffer that her wages were not nearly enough for all the things she wanted. And that the theft of the gown had been an impulsive, desperate act to get out of an acute financial difficulty. And that Bitten had been more than willing to buy the gown. She was seething with rage at Bitten who had been so daft as to walk into the shop in the stolen gown. And even more she damned the boss and his fat little cheeks and his sneaking eyes and his podgy little fingers that sometimes pinched her bottom slightly when he was in a friendly mood. Damn it all... The tears came into her eyes, not in remorse, more in a sort of childish vexation at being found out... And to deny it would be hopeless.

She looked openly at her boss but he misinterpreted her tears and thought he had defeated her. He suddenly became almost paternal and kind. "Of course you understand," he said, "that..."

"I'll pay it next week," she blurted out.

He gave her a long look and suddenly all his kindness vanished from his eyes. Was she tougher than he had thought, was there no remorse behind the tears, was she after all the damned bitch she looked like when she had leaned against the door frame and nearly had made him come in his pants.

"Pay," he almost sneered, "do you think you can be let off a theft just by paying. Do you think you can get off free by offering to pay the next time, too, or what, Miss Hansen? No, I am afraid I shall have to turn you over to the police..."

He looked at her to see the effect of his words. Lone looked down. If the police was informed about this she might be sentenced to prison, she thought, and in any case her parents were bound to know. She trembled at the thought of her father's reaction. He'd be furious, bawl at her, and perhaps beat her up. Just as he did the other day when he had surprised her and Orla in her room. Her father had entered exactly at the moment when Orla had been putting his dick into her hole. The old man had gone completely berserk and had slapped Orla's face, too.

Mr Madsen followed his victory up. "Perhaps you'll be sent to a detention centre... perhaps this is not the first time you have stolen, I am sure we can look forward to a lot of interesting stories."

Lone was utterly dejected. "Won't you please let me off, I'll never do it again." Her voice was faint and her shoulders drooped. "Please don't hand me over to the police, dear Mr Madsen..."

"Well..." Madsen enjoyed his role as judge, his short body seemed to grow in the chair. "I really don't know what else I should do, had you been my own daughter I would have preferred to settle the matter with a spanking, but this seems to be out of the question." He shook his head regretfully. Now he could watch the girl freely, her impudence having vanished instantaneously. She was a lovely piece and in spite of her seventeen years she could boast some highly grown-up curves: her taut arse stretched the short mini skirt to bursting point and her breasts looked firm and large. He loosened his collar and untold possibilities rushed through his brains. This could be it, the possibility of laying his hands on some tender flesh, and not just pinching a fat little arse. His mouth dried up at the thought... and if he played his cards properly this would not be the only time. She was completely in his power. "You must understand," he said, "that I have to do something, I can't just for..."

"You may smack my bottom, if you want to!" Lone was hardly able to get it out, her eyes were still glued to the floor and she had to swallow hard. "As long as you undertake not to tell anybody..." Madsen rubbed his hands underneath the desk in an ecstasy of lust. "Do you realize what you are saying," he asked. Lone nodded and looked at him for a moment. Saw his round face with the flushed cheeks and the greedy eyes. She began to suspect something... would he stop at smacking her?

Madsen took a sheet of paper from one of the drawers. "I'll just draw up a statement that you are doing this voluntarily," he said, "and I must ask you to sign it. We might also find a solution as to the price of the gown," he added, "you must bear in mind that I have lost money on it."

He placed the statement on the table and handed her a ball point. She slowly came closer, then bent over the desk, hesitating to sign.

Madsen leaned back, watching her closely. Not a single curve escaped his eyes and as she bent he had a tantalising glimpse of black panties underneath her skirt. Her face was streaked with tears and her usual pout had tensed into two tight lips. When she raised herself after signing the document, she was humble and fearful, and her lips quivered when he locked the statement up in one of his drawers. He gave her a smile and said, "Well now, Miss Hansen, I hope you won't regret that you have signed. Besides, a smacking won't harm anybody, and perhaps you should have had more. Who knows, some day you may be grateful to me!" He laughed an oddly sneering laugh.

Lone took a step back when his fat hands reached out for her hips. "Come on, little lady," Madsen said, "let's get it over." He wheeled his chair back, pushing his arse forward to make room for her across his knees. He patted his thigh, "Come on," he said with shining eyes.

Lone shivered. She stepped forward hesitatingly. Looking at his bulging thighs she was filled with loathing. She almost screamed and nearly rushed out of the door. Madsen seemed to sense her feelings. He reached out and clutched her arm firmly. "You are not going to make trouble, are you!" he said madly, "Get your knickers off!'' He released her arm and she remained dull and motionless in front of him. "Please, not on my bare bottom, please, please..." Lone sobbed and her body shook violently.

"Will you get started, you bloody bitch," Madsen bellowed. His rage was deliberate. He was going to bully this saucy tart into doing every thing he told her. He did not give a hoot for the gown and the money he had lost. But he was going to teach that impudent little hussy that he would not tolerate her slighting looks and remarks any longer. His manhood would soon make her cry with pain.

Lone began to pull down her knickers. She felt her boss's greedy eyes burning into her flesh. The black, gossamery knickers were now below the edge of her skirt.

"Please, won't you let me off?" Lone pleaded as if it were her life. But the fat little man was immovable.

Lone gave up and with a deep sigh she let her knickers flutter on the floor. A helpless tool in his hands she stepped up to him. Her hands were hanging down passively and her face was devoid of emotion. Madsen's, on the other hand, was flushed a deep crimson, his expectations were soaring higher and higher, his fingers were restless and his cock seemed to be ready to burst through his trousers. He exulted at her submission and her fear, not for one second did he realize that he might be doing another human being irreparable harm. Or perhaps he enjoyed the thought...

He suffered from a disease common to many short men: he loved and feared tall women at the same time, and this one... goddamn her, he would put her in her place.

"All right, across my knees!" he ordered abruptly and hoarsely, pinching her thigh. "Ah, those lovely legs," he said, "get down before I begin to use other methods."

Filled with loathing Lone lay down across her boss's knees, closing her eyes when she felt his stiff cock pushing against her belly. He smelled, of sweat and urine.

With happy eyes Madsen watched the incredibly delectable arse that pushed against the skirt. Although her charms were still covered up, he sensed her deep cleft and he could clearly smell the intoxicating scent of young woman. His voice cracked when he told her to pull up her skirt. But Lone was still passive, her eyes were closed and she was on the point of fainting.

"Then I have to do it myself." Madsen slowly removed part of the skirt, exposing the taut white skin. One hand slid across one of her buttocks and he gave a tentative push with one finger up her arsecrease. Lone started and raised her head.

"Don't, please don't," she said.

Now she became aware of her uncomfortable position, her head almost touching the floor, and she tried to get up but Madsen shoved her back. "Here we go," he said. He raised his right hand, hesitating just a few seconds before he hit the buttocks with a stinging slap. He could clearly see the marks of his five fingers on her white skin. Lone gave a painful moan. "Shut up!" Madsen screamed, "I'll teach you to steal from me, I'll teach you to answer back!" He screamed at her defenseless body which only moved whenever his hand hit the rounded buttocks. She sobbed silently, hating this tiny little man who humiliated her in this brutal way. She managed to grasp one of his legs with both her hands and tried to bite him. But a stinging smack made her stop and she reverted to her former passive state.

Madsen was now in a state of euphoria, his hand moved up and down and he called her all the foulest names he could think up.

After a while, however, his arm grew tired, the angry smacks lost their force and his face took on a saner expression. Lone had not moved, she was still lying across his lap like a lifeless doll. He wheezed and puffed. "Well," he said, "have you had enough?"

She seemed to wake up and began to move. Her bottom was burning as if it were on fire, but she did not answer. She could still feel his big tool pushing against her belly. She raised her head and tried to get up. But her boss shoved her down again. "Oh no, we're not finished yet," he said. "What was your age, now? Seventeen, isn't it? I think I'll just check whether you're still a virgin." With one hand he pushed her thighs apart so that her cunt crease appeared. The other hand slid under her and tried to slip into her pussy. Without realizing what she was doing, she raised her belly and thus helped him find her clitoris. The short, fat fingers screwed into the tight little hole and to her surprise Lone felt a sensation not unlike lust...

Madsen reacted violently. "So you've tried it before, you dirty bitch!" A stinging smack made her shift her arse and he tried to get all five fingers round to her cunt.

Lone felt drawn towards the strange blend of pain and beginning pleasure. She wanted more and screwed her cunt against Madsen's hand, while at the same time she tried to avoid his slaps. "Bitch, bitch, bitch!" he screamed. He let go of her cunt, tearing madly at her skirt, ripping the material to pieces. Lone could not control her feelings any longer. The pain from her crimson buttocks mingled with the randiness from her cunt. She almost liked it better than when Orla touched her up, he was far too considerate. She rubbed her belly against Madsen's stiff prick and felt his vehement reaction. He moved his hips to and fro in rhythmical shoves. Then he suddenly stopped and pulled her on her feet in front of him. She had closed her eyes, standing with her legs apart and her cunt gaping randily.

The boss encircled her thighs and hips with his arms, and screwed his mouth into her cunt, his tongue lapping at her slit till she panted with lust. He was no longer a disgusting little man, he was a lover who sent delicious thrills through her body.

Her cunt was soaking wet and she was approaching her climax when Madsen stood up. Leading her across the room, he made her lie down on a couch. As she watched him tearing his cock out of his trousers, she forgot all about his ugliness, she only had eyes for his stiff cock.

He bent over her and she spread her legs in expectation but he roughly pulled her round till she was kneeling on all fours.

He stepped behind her and she felt his hot hands groping on her tender arsecheeks. She whimpered softly when she felt him pulling her buttocks apart and pushing his mouth against her arsehole. Just as his fingers had moved in and out of her cunt, now his tongue penetrated her tiny tight arsehole. He panted but continued to push his tongue into the sensitive orifice. She was surprised and a little nervous... she had never thought of using her arsehole for making love.

Madsen leaned back, pulled the buttocks even further apart and eyed the glistening little hole with glee. "Oh, what a delectable arsehole!" he exclaimed.

Lone was not prepared when she felt the knob of his cock pressing against the rim. "But it's the wrong hole!" she screamed and tried to pull away. But Madsen's fat cock was already buried in her arse. She thought he was splitting her bottom, she opened her mouth to scream, but suddenly the pain changed... His fingers were frigging her cunt feverishly and the feeling of having his balls rubbing against her buttocks made her just as randy as had he stuck the cock up the other hole. Madsen moved faster and faster and his hands tickled her cunt at the same speed. Black spots appeared before her eyes when she felt the orgasm swelling inside her and at the same time she felt her boss emptying his cock in long spurts into her twitching arsehole...

She collapsed on the couch and did not even notice that Madsen withdrew his prick from her.

Half an hour later they were sitting together on the couch. Madsen had found a bottle of sherry, the mood was friendly and Lone had got her saucy look back. "You're a dirty old man," she said, but she said it almost with love in her voice. "And it's very nice of you that I may choose some new clothes instead of those you tore up." Madsen spread his arms, "Just take whatever you fancy, my dear, only tell me when you do." Lone smiled across the brim of the sherry glass. "Cheers," she said, "don't worry, I'll tell you." And her smiling eyes held sweet promises. Madsen could not help patting one of her maltreated buttocks and she moaned a little but added, "I like to get new clothes often!"

Lonely & Far From Home

Story from Februs 36.

Lonely & Far From Home
A Short Story by Colin Weaver

The quarrel seemed to spring up out of nothing. Sharp words passed and then the bosomy Latin beauty slapped the smiling young man's face. He seized her and pulled her face-down across his thighs as he sat down on a handy tree stump. Her straight skirt stretched tight across her opulent rump and his hand smacked down on it six times, with the girl showing no response beyond a startled squeak. Then the scene faded and was replaced by the two of them walking along a woodland path, apparently on the best of terms.

Gina sighed and aimed the remote control; the screen went blank as the video stopped. The rest of the film, a musical comedy made in 1932, was of no interest to her. Should she rewind and watch the spanking again? Gina shook her head. Four times in one afternoon, she decided, was enough. Instead, she lay back in the armchair, closed her eyes, and played the scene through again in her mind, with herself in the girl's place.

It would have been much better, of course, to have had the real thing, to have gone thrillingly, breathlessly across the hard thighs of Jeff, instead of fantasising about an actor who, by this time, was certainly too old lo deliver a good spanking. But even if Jeff had been here it would have been useless to hint at her desires: she had learned that in three years of marriage. Not that Jeff was sexually selfish or, within his own limits, unimaginative, but any suggestion that a spanking would be an exciting change would be greeted with a roar of laughter. 'You don't want to bother with that kinky stuff!' he'd say. There's nothing like a bloody good screw, Gina my love!' – and in fact it was always very good indeed. But Jeff was not here and would not be for another three weeks. When he got back from the oil rig there would be love and laughter and whatever this cold Northern town could offer in the way of riotous celebration. But for the present he was there and she was here, and she was lonely and bored, and there was this irrational craving to have her bottom tanned!

Back home – she still thought of Oxford as home, though God knew when she would go back – she could have gained satisfaction and relief from her secret hoard of CP magazines and videos. But she had scrapped the lot, afraid that they might be discovered during the hasty packing when they had had to move North so abruptly to seize the career opportunity which might never come Jeff's way again. All she had now was the one old film with its brief spanking scene, taped from the TV.

Gina jumped to her feet and started to pace the room, pausing to scowl in self-mockery at the mirror on the wall. The face in the glass grimaced back at her, even wearing that discontented expression it was an extremely attractive face, with it's short, skilfully cut fair hair, well-proportioned features and the dimpled chin which made her look younger than twenty-six.

'You should be ashamed of enjoying such kinky thoughts!' she scolded the reflection. 'What would a psychiatrist say?'

Despite her ill-temper, Gina smiled at the mental picture of herself reclining on a couch while some solemn, bearded figure hovered over her, note-book in hand.

'Tell me, Mrs Morgan, when were you first aware of these desires for – ahem – correction?'

'Well, Doctor, when I was in my teens there was this Youth Leader...'

No! No! No! She could never tell anyone about Marjorie Fenn! It would be betrayal, treason, profaning the memory of a happy, loving though often painful relationship which had lasted until Gina was almost twenty. Gina was not the only one, of course. After the twice-weekly meetings of the Youth Club it might be Caroline who was invited to go home with Mrs Fenn for coffee and a chat. Or Kim or Melanie, Christine or Denise. Gina was never jealous of the others. There was a kind of invisible bond, an unspoken understanding between "Mrs Fenn's girls" although they never discussed their experiences except for careful hints and oblique allusions. They certainly never compared marks!

Gina's turn had come every three or four weeks, and she still remembered vividly the quivering mixture of fear and excitement as she went with the handsome, black-haired widow in her secluded bungalow. There had been coffee, certainly, and relaxed friendly chat, giggling together like schoolgirls despite the twenty year age gap, about the gauche young men of the neighbourhood and their clumsy attempts at romance. Marjorie could give good advice, too, about problems arising in Gina's first office job, or about parents who sometimes seemed unreasonable.

But then Marjorie's tone would become more serious, and Gina would wriggle uneasily on her chair under the older woman's steady gaze.

'Even though you're such a grown-up young lady, Gina, I think you still need to be spanked, don't you?'

Marjorie always said "need", never "deserve". Somehow that made it easier to stammer out, 'Y-yes, Marjorie, I suppose so.'

'Very well, Gina. Come upstairs, please.'

In the bedroom, with its subdued pink lighting, cheerful floral curtains securely drawn, it seemed so natural for Marjorie to sit on the end of the bed and smilingly beckon, for Gina to submissively take her place across Marjorie's lap, her slim young body resting securely on the plump thighs beneath the neat black skirt. Then there had been the uncontrollable fiery blush, the little mewing noises, half protest, half appeal, as Marjorie calmly turned Gina's skirt up waist-high and took her knickers down. The incomparable, unforgettable mixture of shame and fear and excitement as the pretty teenager meekly awaited the spanking which she would never have dreamed of accepting from her parents.

Marjorie's spanking were always extremely thorough, even when she had a girl across her lap for the first time and knew that the pertly rounded teenage buttocks bouncing and burning under her firm hand had never experienced the sting of punishment before. She had once remarked to Gina that the expression, "a playful spanking" was as great an absurdity as to speak of a dry shower or a cool fire. Since Gina had just spent five extremely painful minutes having her bare bottom soundly smacked, and was tearfully pleading with Marjorie not to continue the spanking with a slipper, the comment had been impressed on her memory.

The uncomplaining acceptance of a well-smacked bottom placed a girl on the first level, so to speak, of Mrs Fenn's exclusive little group. After she had taken half a dozen spankings she would be considered ready for promotion to the second level, which meant punishment with a substantial, three-tailed leather tawse. Gina winced and reminiscently caressed her shapely posterior as she recalled those occasions in Marjorie's bedroom, the feeing of the candlewick bedspread under her hands and knees as she knelt there, waiting. Marjorie strapped with a vigour and enthusiasm which would have won warm approval from an old-time Scots schoolmistress. The blubbering young lady who had endured a dozen of the scorching best across her crimson, welted backside invariably vowed, 'Never again! Never, never again!' and yet, only two or three weeks later she would be impatient for Marjorie's next invitation.

For the girl who reached the third level there was the cane, not only across the bottom but upon the sensitive flesh of the thighs, with a spanking before or after the caning. 'How she used to make me howl!' thought Gina, in rueful recollection.

Gina had invariably arrived home late from an evening with Marjorie, but oddly enough her parents never complained. Nor did they comment when her reddened eyes showed that she had been crying or when she obviously found it uncomfortable to sit down. At the time, Gina had thought them unobservant. Now it seemed clear to her that many of the local parents, her own included, knew more about Marjorie Fenn than their daughters suspected. Presumably they were, for their own reasons, grateful to her. At any rate, Mrs Fenn was still a popular and respected Youth Leader without a breath of scandal about her.

Gina shook her head. Memories were all very well but she needed more than that. Was it possible, she wondered, to buy CP magazines here? She had not seen any since she came to Bannerston but there must be a demand for them here as elsewhere. Then Gina remembered a shop on the outskirts of the main shopping area, which she had once entered to buy sweets. There had been a lavish display of top-shelf girly magazines. She had not looked at them closely – there could have been CP mags too.

She reached for her handbag to check that her car keys were there, but then she hesitated. Parking space in the centre of Bannerston was always hard to find during the working day and she couldn't think of anywhere near the shop in Todhunter Road where the car could safety be left. Better to trust to the local bus service.

Half an hour later she stepped off the bus behind the Arndale Centre and made her way down Todhunter Road until she found the shop she remembered. She hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath and entered. There was only one other customer, an old woman buying a lottery ticket at the counter. Gina walked over to the wall where the magazines were and started to look along the top shelf. She felt half indignant, half amused. She had often been aware of such magazines in one shop or another, but this was the first time she had deliberately paused to inspect them. She had never realised that there could be so many different poses for the display of nineteen year old breasts, bottoms and thighs. Gina was gazing with astonishment and a little undeniable envy at a particularly explicit issue of "Big Tits" when a voice in her ear said, 'Looking for anything special, love?'

She couldn't help jumping and blushing as she looked round into the face of the shop owner, a gaunt young man with prematurely receding hair and two front teeth missing. For the life of her she could not bring herself to ask, 'Have you any spanking magazines?' On the other hand it would be absurd to pretend that she was looking for a copy of Good Housekeeping. She took the first magazine which came to hand without looking at it and said as calmly as she could, 'I'll take this one please.'

The man's scanty eyebrows twitched briefly, but he just said, 'That's five pounds, please. I'll put it in a bag for you, shall I?'

Walking out of the shop, fare burning, Gina felt like the startled person in a National Lottery commercial who finds an enormous finger pointing down from the sky. Common sense told her that passers-by could not be aware what was in the plain brown paper bag but when she came to a small snack bar she was glad to go in and order a cup of coffee to give herself a chance to recover her self-possession. There were no other customers and the girl behind the counter disappeared into an inner room as soon as she had served Gina.

When Gina took the magazine from the bag it was a relief to find there was no lurid picture on the cover. Just 'Contacts! Contacts! Contacts!' in bold black type, plus the month and price. Gina opened it to see what she had wasted her money on. It contained many small advertisements from friendly young ladies who wanted to meet generous, good-natured older men with various forms of entertainment in mind. An editorial note warned primly that entries from ladies seeking financial gain would not be accepted, but Gina was in no doubt that she was holding what she thought of as a tart's shopping catalogue. She shook her head as she looked at the photographs which accompanied many of the adverts. Like many women who occasionally entertain brief fantasies about "going on the game" she had never realised just how low a standard of physical attractiveness was needed to make a living of sorts in that way.

Then Gina realised that some of the women pictured were holding canes or whips. They tended to be more mature than the others, their homely, middle-aged housewife faces sometimes combining oddly with plump bodies squeezed into tight basques and black-stockinged legs poised uneasily on high, stiletto heels. Others were dressed more conventionally: a combination of full-sleeved white blouse with straight black skirt seemed popular. Their advertisements varied in style. Some were commanding: 'Madame Domina orders slaves to report for strict discipline. No wimps tolerated.' Others favoured a milder approach: 'Aunty Rose will teach naughty boys a lesson. Firm but understanding. Special consideration for first-timers.'

Gina found herself blushing again and was grateful that no-one else was there. The idea which had come to her took a little getting used to. The women who advertised were, after all, professionals. So long as they were paid, would it matter to them whether the bottoms they chastised were male or female? And what did they charge anyway? Gina had drawn a hundred pounds from a bankcash dispenser, intending to pay a couple of bills and do some shopping. Surely that would be enough.

Gina knew that if she spent too much time thinking about it she would lose her nerve. Men did this kind of thing all the time, didn't they? All right, she would take a chance too. Passing over both Madame Domina and Aunty Rose, she decided on, 'Sandra. Discipline in all forms, mild to severe. Full equipment available.' Gina made a note of the phone number and rose to leave.

Once outside, she headed for the nearest phone box. With shaking fingers she inserted the money and called the number. The phone at the other end was lifted but nothing was said. 'Hullo? Sandra?' said Gina.

'Yes, I'm Sandra.'

'I – I'd like to pay you a visit,' said Gina.

'Look,' said the wary voice, 'if your man's been to see me, that's something...'

'No, no!' protested Gina. 'It's nothing like that. I just want to come to you as a man would. For – for the same kind of thing. I saw your advert in a contact magazine.'

'Oh! Oh, I see!' The voice sounded faintly amused now. 'You know you have to pay, don't you?'

'How much?'

'I usually charge the men sixty pounds,' said the unseen Sandra. 'I don't know, perhaps you should get a special rate.'

'Sixty will be all right,' said Gina. 'Now, how do I get to you?'

Half an hour later, having followed precise directions, Gina was approaching the front door of a house in one of the older suburbs. She felt very nervous. Suppose the woman tried to blackmail her afterwards?

Or perhaps Sandra had a male protector who might rape and rob her! Gina told herself firmly that Sandra couldn't stay in business if that kind of thing went on. She rang the doorbell.

Sandra had not been one of those who included a photograph in her advertisement. When the door opened, Gina saw a pleasant-faced, middle-aged woman wearing black-rimmed glasses and soberly dressed. She looked, thought Gina, a little disappointed, more like a respectable librarian than a tart.

'Come in!' said Sandra, smiling. Gina caught a glimpse of a neat, clean hall with flower pictures on the wall. 'Upstairs, please, and turn right at the top.' Gina followed the instructions and found herself in a conventionally furnished bedroom. The curtains provided privacy but admitted adequate light.

'Well,' said Sandra. 'This makes a nice change from podgy middle-aged men playing at naughty boys. Do you want to tell me your name, dear?'

'I'm Gina.' She laughed, shakily. 'I – I suppose I'm playing at being a naughty girl. Do women come to you?'

'Sometimes,' said Sandra, 'a man and a woman come together, and I punish the woman while the man watches. I always talk to the woman first, thought, and make sure she's here of her own free will and knows what to expect. You're the first one who's come on her own. I should tell you, I usually ask for the money in advance.'

'Oh yes, of course.' Gina handed over the notes.

'Thanks, Gina. Now, what did you have in mind? Shall I just go through the motions to give you a thrill without really hurting you? Or shall it be the real thing? I can be quite strict, if that's what you want.'

Gina licked her lips. Now that the moment of decision had been reached she found herself shaking, but the idea of backing down now was unthinkable.

'The real thing, please, Sandra. I should warn you, I'm not sure if I can keep quiet if it really starts to hurt.'

'Go ahead and yell!' said Sandra, cheerfully. 'The old lady next door is a good friend and she's stone deaf anyway. Hadn't we better agree on a code word, though?'

'I don't understand,' said Gina.

'When I began in this business,' explained Sandra, 'I used to stop whacking a man as soon as he asked me to. They used to be furious, say I shouldn't have taken any notice. Then once or twice I half-killed some poor sod who really did want me to stop! So, now I get them to agree on a special word to use when it's definitely getting too much, instead of 'Please' or 'Stop' or 'Don't!' One of my regulars always says 'Banana!' when he's had enough.'

Gina laughed nervously. 'That sounds like a good idea. But – when I used to be punished, I just had to take what came, there was no way of stopping it. I think I'd rather leave it to you.'

'As you like,' said Sandra, serenely. 'Now, one more thing.' She opened a wardrobe and Gina gulped at the sight of the canes, straps and whips within. 'As you can see, I've a fine assortment of equipment and it's liable to leave some spectacular marks. Could that be a problem for you?'

'There mustn't be any marks three weeks from now.'

Sandra nodded. 'I'll bear that in mind. Well, are you ready?'

'Yes, Sandra.'

'You will call me Miss!' There was no trace of good-nature in the tone now.

'I'm sorry, Miss.'

'You will be! Take off your clothes.'

Gina kicked off her shoes, removed her expensive black jacket and matching trousers, took off her burgundy silk shirt. Timid and hesitant in bra and briefs, she glanced at Sandra.

'That's pricy underwear, Gina. Where did you steal it?'

'But I didn't...'

'Don't you dare argue with me, girl! I told you to strip!'

Naked and shamefaced, Gina watched as Sandra moved to the dressing table and picked up a short leather paddle before sitting on the bed.

'This comes a little later, Gina, after a good hand-spanking. You'll find I can smack a lot harder than Mummy used to do.'

'It wasn't my mother!'

'Don't answer back! And I told you to call me Miss. You are making me very cross indeed, Gina. Come here!'

A few moments later Gina was face down across the older woman's lap. Her position brought back memories of her evenings with Marjorie but the humiliation was worse than anything she remembered. Sandra, she realised, was an expert in making her clients feel guilty, in convincing them they deserved correction. Gina remembered the intimidating contents of the wardrobe and she squirmed unhappily.

'I'll give you something to wriggle for, young lady!' said Sandra, with obvious enjoyment. Gina felt a hard, stinging slap on one cheek of her defenceless bottom, then, a moment later, on the other. 'It's quite a long time since I had a naughty girl to deal with and I'm going to make an extra special effort for you.'

Then the stinging hand descended again and again, settling into a steady, methodical spanking rhythm with extremely painful results for Gina's quivering buttocks. Gina was sure that Marjorie's spankings had never hurt so much, severe though they had seemed at the time. The fact that she had paid to receive such treatment seemed to make it all the harder to bear. As Sandra spanked, she scolded, reprimanded, reproved, not for any specific faults but for Gina's alleged bad character and shameless behaviour. Gina found that she was crying, not just with the pain of her smacked bottom but because of the injustice of being so unfairly lectured. When Sandra realised that Gina was weeping she began to tease her cruelly.

'Oh, poor Gina, have you got a sore botty, then? You shouldn't be such a naughty girl, should you? You needn't think I'm going to let you off because you're a cry-baby! It's time for the paddle now.'

There was a momentary pause, then Gina yelled with shock as tough leather thwacked down on the smarting flesh of her tender bottom. Sandra's hand had stung badly enough but the paddle inflicted a scorching pain which had her howling and wriggling across Sandra's lap in utter indignity, pleading and imploring.

'Your poor bottom does look sore, Gina,' mocked Sandra. 'Shall I smack your legs instead?'

'No, don't!' sobbed Gina. 'Thai's enough! Please Sandra, that's enough!'

'You know I can't take any notice of that,' said Sandra, sternly. 'It's your own fault, you should have agreed on a code word. And you're forgetting to call me Miss, aren't you? Right my girl, it's red-hot smacked legs for you!'

With resounding whacks of the paddle Sandra methodically worked her way down Gina's right thigh from bottom-curve almost to the knee and back again, then punished Gina's left thigh in the same way, ignoring Gina's frantic entreaties. For the rest of the spanking she alternated the paddle-smacks between Gina's roasting bottom and her scorching, scarlet thighs.

'All right, Gina,' she said at last. 'You can get up now – but don't think I've finished with you.'

Weeping bitterly, Gina scrambled to her feet, clasping her tormented buttocks. She could hardly believe that this relentless disciplinarian was the pleasant lady who had greeted her.

'I've got a brand new cane here,' said Sandra, turning to the wardrobe. 'You shall have the full benefit of its first use.'

'Please, Miss,' whimpered Gina, 'I'm so sore already. Do I have to be caned?'

'When you used to be punished,' said Sandra, 'were you never caned after a spanking?'

'Yes, Miss,' admitted Gina.

'Then you can certainly take it from me! I'd make you touch your toes but I doubt if you could stay down. You'd better lie face down on the bed.'

Gina miserably obeyed. 'How – how many am I going to get, Miss?'

'Sometimes I let my naughty boys off with six,' said Sandra. 'But you're such a bad girl I think you'd better have twelve.'

'Oh, but Miss...'

'And three more for arguing! Now, will you have them all on your bottom or shall I give you some on your legs?'

'All on my bottom please, Miss,' said Gina, squirming unhappily. She was aware of Sandra moving round to the side of the bed and then she felt the cane drawn lightly across her glowing buttocks.

'Don't you wish you'd been a good girl, Gina?' teased Sandra. 'I'll do better, Miss!' said Gina, desperately. 'I'll try so hard, I promise I will – Aaaaaah!'

She writhed, gasping, as the searing weal rose upon her shapely rear. 'Good intentions are not enough, Gina,' said Sandra, severely. The cane descended again, and again, the carefully aimed strokes dealing out their blazing admonishment in slow, deliberate sequence. The weeping, writhing woman on the bed, the flushed, bright-eyed woman wielding the cane, performed the age-old ceremony of stern retribution and agonised repentance. And then, at last, it ended.

When her sobbing had died down a little, Gina became aware that Sandra had joined her on the bed, that the other woman too was naked. Raising a tear-stained face she blurted, 'Sandra, I'm not gay!'

'I didn't say you were,' was the soft answer. 'But when you used to be punished, didn't anyone comfort you afterwards?'

Gina remembered Marjorie's gentle kisses, her consoling caresses, the long, skilful fingers which rewarded Gina's endurance with ecstatic delight.

'Oh, yes, Sandra!' she said. 'Oh, please!'

Hot Afternoons

Story from Blushes 24.

Hot Afternoons

Looking out of her bedroom window Amanda could see at the end of the garden the two workmen. They were putting in a drain or something. Yes it was a new drain, she remembered her mother saying. It was a warm afternoon, September, the end of summer, and they both had their shirts off. One older, her father's age perhaps, with a beer belly, but the other one was different: mid-twenties, trim and muscular. He was the one Amanda's eyes were fixed on: the muscles in that back, those shoulders. A body like that could make a girl feel slightly breathless. When you were seventeen, and it was a hot, sultry afternoon and you were supposed to be working. Writing that essay.

Amanda reluctantly turned away from the window. She had to concentrate her mind on the essay. Her full lips mouthed an expletive. She sat down at her desk, trying to think about the essay. But there were all the other thoughts crowding in her head that she would much rather consider. The man with the half-bare body at the end of the garden – and by extension that unbelievable thing her friend Sarah had told her. And of course Mr Tillot. Mr Tillot who was tutoring Amanda in English, who had set the essay which she had yet to start. Mr Tillot who had said that thing two days ago that had made her quite as breathless as looking at and thinking about the man out there with the rippling muscles.

Mr Tillot had said he would cane her. If Amanda didn't get on and produce a decent essay. He would give her the cane on her hare bottom. Mr Tillot's shocking words had caused a hot flush and the feeling of being suddenly weak at the knees. The mind-boggling thought of it: a whippy cane in Mr Tillot's hand, whipping in onto her bared bottom. Presumably Amanda's skirt up round her waist and her knickers lowered. As she bend over something; the table perhaps – or her bed. The imagined scene caused Amanda's knees to feel suddenly as if they might give way. And as well as that there had been that other thing: the hot tingle between her legs. Her pussy.

Hot-faced she had blurted, 'Don't be silly, Mr Tillot. You... you... that's not even a funny joke.'

But Mr Tillot had just put his face close to hers and in a hard gritty voice said, 'I'm not joking, Amanda. Just you try me and see.'

Amanda picked up her exercise book and fanned herself. It was too hot to work anyway but thinking about Mr Tillot and his silly threats made it ten times worse. She stood up again and walked over to the wall mirror. Did she look all sweaty? Not really. Maybe a little flushed in the face. When he had said it she had wanted to say: I'll tell my mother what you said. But Amanda had stopped herself from saying such a childish thing. At seventeen and in your last year at school you didn't threaten to tell your mother, you could look after yourself.

She had told Sarah though. Sarah her best friend. Sarah had said it was because Mr Tillot fancied her. He wanted to get at Amanda's bare bottom. Caning her was all part of his lustful desire. Sarah had got this book from the library which had stuff like that in it, she had meant to lend it to Amanda but it had to go back.

Amanda didn't believe it. She was sure it was just something for Mr Tillot to say, to try and scare her into doing the essay. She certainty didn't think he fancied her. He was a bit weird: not old, not really, he had long hair and a little beard. A bit like a hippie, except he wore a jacket and tie. Probably he wasn't the type to fancy girls; not even the delectable Amanda Carlew. Amanda laughed at the girl in the mirror. Sarah said Amanda was really something, dishy. The blonde-haired girl with the ripe lipped mouth laughed back. She was wearing her school uniform because her mother said she had to for Mr Tillot and the uniform blouse and skirt certainly curved out in right places. Was she too fat: her boobs, her bum? Again the knowledgeable Sarah (who was slimmer) said no, men liked girls with flesh on them.

Amanda went back to her desk. She had to concentrate. Mr Tillot was coming this afternoon. In about half an hour now. And she had nothing written. In half an hour Mr Tillot would be here... with that threat... It had only been a joke, to scare her. But... what would it be like? To be caned. On your bare bottom. Sickening no doubt. Killingly painful and humiliating. But also... a turn-on. Mr Tillot seeing her bare bottom... and probably a bit more besides. And the cane. A man, a strange man, whipping it in on her nude flesh. Mr Tillot...

'You must tell me all about it. Promise!' Sarah had said. 'I told you remember...'

Amanda still didn't know whether to believe what Sarah had told her. Had she made it up? Those sort of things certainly happened but they were difficult to believe when it was someone you knew, someone who was your best friend. What if Sarah had said she had been raped, would Amanda had believed that? But it hadn't been rape. It had been the man taking out his thing. Unzipping his jeans and taking it out. His big stiff thing with its big purple-mushroom head, Sarah said. And then telling her to hold it.

Could you believe it? Sarah, seeing the disbelief in Amanda's eyes, had sworn it was true, every word. He had taken it out and made her hold it. This man who was there fixing their fence. He had made Sarah stroke it. Pump it. He had wanted her to have it in her mouth but Sarah had said no and he hadn't made her. Because she was prepared to do what he wanted with her hand. Sarah had demonstrated to Amanda a pumping motion with her cupped hand. After quite a short time... the stuff had all shot out.

Amanda got up again. She couldn't concentrate, there was no way she could. All these thoughts in her head. Sarah must have made it up. She went over to the window again. The two men were still there, but not digging now, they were resting.

Leaning on their things, the pickaxe and shovel. The young one with his back half towards the house, that really swoony back with those muscles. Amanda suddenly pictured him coming to the house, with some query like the man at Sarah's house. She would let him in and then in the kitchen... he would do what Sarah's man had done. Unzip those chalk-stained jeans. Show it to her. His big stiff thing. And she would take it in her hand.

Amanda turned away from the window. She glanced at the clock. Oh Christ! Mr Tillot. And she hadn't written a thing.

* * *

Andrew Tillot arrived at the smart front door of Number 23 Bramble Lane sharp at 3 o'clock. His arrival would be unobserved by the two trench diggers, Ron and Stan, at the rear of the Bramble Lane houses. They were taking another break from their labours and were in fact discussing the young lady whom Mr Tillot had just arrived to instruct. Ron and Stan had been working along behind Numbers 21, 23 and 25 for two days now and so had had the opportunity to see something of the inhabitants. The pretty and shapely young blonde at Number 23 had in particular caught the attention of Ron. Once more he was now wondering to Stan how old she was. She had to be 17 or 18, didn't she? No more than 18 because they had seen her in her school uniform; but she had to be 17, with that figure. Those tits and that bum. Those sexy looking legs.

'Why don't you ask her?' suggested Stan. 'Go in and ask for a glass of water, say you're dying of thirst. Then casually ask how old she is. And to set your mind at rest ask if she's started doing it yet. Probably has I should imagine. From the look of her. From the look of that lovely bum and tits. Anyway they've all started by 17 these days, including these hoity-toity ones in big houses.'

Ron, leaning on his shovel, looked thoughtful.

'Actually,' continued Stan, 'I actually rather fancy her mum. She's got a real nice arse too. And a woman that age can really love it.'

'You'll have to go in and ask her for a drink then,' observed Ron. 'In the morning.' Because they had observed that Amanda's mother was out in the afternoons.

* * *

Yes it was Mr Tillot, standing on the door step. Right on time. Amanda hesitated, then stood aside to let him in. 'Oh! Mr Tillot. I... uh... sort of forgot the time.'

'Oh really Amanda? But not, ha-ha, forgotten your essay I presume?'

Amanda felt slightly sick. She had really intended to produce something. Mr Tillot had been joking but nonetheless... She didn't answer. She wanted to say she had to go out, she couldn't have the lesson this afternoon, but of course she couldn't say that. She felt tongue-tied. Finally she asked Mr Tillot if he would rather they stayed downstairs, in the sitting room. Somehow the close intimacy of her own room seemed more scary. Somehow Amanda could imagine Mr Tillot... actually doing it there. Doing that unbelievable thing.

Mr Tillot gave a little laugh. No, her room would be fine. So Amanda reluctantly led the way upstairs.

In her room she said weakly, 'I... ah... actually I seem to have misplaced it.' Mr Tillot had lost no time, homing straight in on the subject as soon as they were there. Her room somehow seemed a lot smaller then before. Tiny, like a tight little prison cell. With no escape.

'I... I have done it of course.'

'You're lying Amanda.' Mr Tillot's voice grim. 'You haven't done it. OK, so you'll get what I said. I am going to cane you. Right away. And on your bare bottom. You can take your knickers down and bend over the desk.'

'Look...' Amanda felt herself sweating. He couldn't really mean it, could he? She backed away.

'Look... If you... you try anything I... I'll tell my mother.' There she had said it, like a baby. Maybe she'd start crying next. Oh Christ.

'You tell her.' Mr Tillot's voice was calm but his eyes had an excited look. 'And I'll tell her why. I've told her already that you're not working. She said I was to be firm with you. So that's what I'm doing. Stay right here. I'm going out to get my cane from the car. Don't you dare move.'

Oh Christ! Oh Jesus! He did mean it! Unless right at the last moment he was going to let her off. But Amanda didn't think that. What could she do? Nothing. Distractedly she went over to the window. The two workmen were still there. The younger one seemed to be looking in her direction. But Amanda had no inclination now for heady thoughts about his body. Mr Tillot would be back in two minutes with a cane. Oh Christ! She wanted to pee. What if she peed herself, it just came out. When she was bending over the desk. Her bare bum and wetness trickling down her thighs. Oh Christ! Please, he couldn't really do it.

But Andrew Tillot could. Oh yes! Did he fancy Amanda, as Sarah had surmised? Yes of course. Nicely rounded Amanda, bulging out her school uniform in all the right places: how could a normal heterosexual male not fancy her? Yes Andrew Tillot fancied getting that ripely rounded bum bare and then he really fancied caning it. And after that if she found the hot sting of the cane too much – she might just beg for mercy. Beg for maybe something else. Anything else except more stinging red-hot stripes. And if she did... well there was no doubt that sexy but lazy Amanda Carlew deserved anything she got. She was bone idle. She needed the cane. She really needed something else as well. A good screwing.

He grabbed her, to the accompaniment of desperate yelps. She was clearly not going to get her knickers off herself so... Getting his hands on Amanda's firm-fleshed body was a fantastic turn-on. Probably Evelyn Carlew hadn't meant this when she said 'be firm' but Andrew Tillot would worry about that if and when he had to. Amanda was squirming like an eel but he had her skirt up. Silky-smooth teenage thighs! The bare flesh like cream. And above the thighs brief and tight navy blue knickers. Jesus Christ!

'Keep still Amanda. If you fight it... you'll just get more. Twice as many... and twice as hard.'

'No! No... ooo...'

But the tight little knicks were coming down. Yanked down over the ripely rounded curves of Amanda's bottom-checks. His hands on the hot bare flesh of her bottom.

Amanda thought she was going to be sick. With the awfulness of what was happening – but also the excitement. It was really awful but also thrillingly exciting. Mr Tillot taking her knickers down. His male hands on her trembling bare flesh. Her bottom bare... and her pussy bare... Oh God!

'There. OK. Stand up straight Amanda. Holding your skirt up. Do as I tell you. Or I'll really cane the daylights out of you.'

Amanda after a moment's hesitation doing it. Holding her skirl up round her waist. Showing herself to Mr Tillot. Her knickers were down round her knees now. So facing Mr Tillot she was unavoidably showing him her bare pussy. The bushy mound of brown curly hair. It was shocking having to do this... but there was also tingly excitement. Mr Tillot's hot eyes were firmly fixed on her pussy.

'Pl... Please... Don't... cane me...'

'I am going to cane you, Amanda. Bui just four strokes if you behave yourself and cooperate. Otherwise... you won't want to sit down for a week.'

That didn't leave a lot of choice. Mr Tillot was such a fiend Amanda had no doubt he would carry out his threat. So weakly whimpering she stumbled to the table and bent herself over it. Her fear and excitement were almost overwhelming now. Fear of that dreadful cane but excitement at being here in her room with her bottom and pussy bare in front of Mr Tillot. His hot eyes on her soft flesh.

'Ahaah... Ooooh...'

Mr Tillot's hand on her quivering bare bum. 'Just keep still Amanda. I'm just checking your position...'

The hand caressing. Groping you could say. Over Amanda's ripe rotundities. And then briefly sliding in underneath. A hair's-breadth from Amanda's womanly headquarters. Her throbbing pussy. She felt sick.

THWATT...!!

Oh Sweet Jesus! The cane had sliced in on her poor bare bum. Like a red-hot poker! She heard herself squawk out, a banshee-yell. Her bottom rolling and clenching.

'Keep it still Amanda. And stop that awful racket.'

THWATTT...!!

A second cut just about on top of the first. 'No! The pain was impossible!' Amanda jerked upright, clutching her stricken red-hot bum.

'Get back down! I haven't finished! You've only had two.'

'No! No more! I can't take any more. You... you...' Amanda was still clutching the throbbing cheeks of her bum.

Andrew Tillot came in behind her. He was feeling hot, light-headed. He had put down the cane and his arms came round Amanda. His hands cupped her tits through her blouse. She gave a shocked gasp.

'I should give you another dozen or so. And really hard ones.'

'No! No... ooo..!!' Amanda still had her hands on her bum and now Mr Tillot was there pressed close in too. And she could feel him. His thing. It was big and hard, pressing against her hands. Mr Tillot's own hands were still cupping her tits. Squeezing them. What with all this and the continuing hot sting in her bum... it was all too much.

'You know what you really need, Amanda.' Mr Tillot's voice was tight, croaky with excitement in her ear. 'What you really need... is down here.'

One of his hands left her tits and slid down. To where Amanda's skirt was now only halfway dragged up. At about the tops of her thighs. Her pussy. That was where Mr Tillot's hand went. In under the bunched skirt to cup the hot dampness of Amanda's furry mound.

'You... need something here. What you need Amanda is a good screwing.'

* * *

Amanda lay on her bed, looking up at the ceiling. Mr Tillot had gone about half an hour now but she didn't feel like moving. Running over once more in her head the truly momentous events of earlier in the afternoon. Being caned over the table. The really awful pain of it but at the same time that hot excitement of having her bottom bare and thrust out in front of Mr Tillot. Her bottom and also no doubt her pussy, with her legs she knew sliding apart as she struggled with the hot pain. But there had only been the two strokes, and then... the other even more fantastic thing. Could she tell Sarah?

She would tell Sarah about the caning, that the pain had been killing but also yes, it had been a real turn-on. But the other? That Mr Tillot had screwed her. Bending over the table again, this time with her knicks right off. So that Mr Tillot could get properly at her. Her legs apart and his big thing there at her wet and ready pussy. Nosing at it. Finding the entrance. And then thrusting up in. Stretching her but no problem. Filling her. In and out.

Amanda on the bed had her hand there now. Her knickers were still off and her hand was between her slackly open thighs. Her fingers in her pussy. In the parted puffy lips and stroking her firmly aroused clit. Could she tell Sarah about that fantastic thing? That Sarah had been right. Mr Tillot had fancied her. And now... he had done her. Screwed her.

It had been her first time, to have done it properly. There had been that boy on holiday, that last evening lying on a blanket with him in that place in the sand dunes. He had got her knickers off and had his thing right there, sort of in her but not really properly up inside. She had been cooperating but he hadn't really managed. But Mr Tillot... he had not had any problem. He had known exactly what to do. Where to put it... Amanda gave a shuddery groan. As she came. Her fingers at her clit bringing herself off. As she had come with Mr Tillot. A big gasping orgasm. Mr Tillot had come but not inside her. He had slid it out right at the end when he came. She had felt it spurting out, hot and wet on her thighs. Some of it on her skirt. She had sponged it off afterwards and hopefully it wouldn't leave a stain for her mother to see.

Amanda groaned again. Turning to look at the clock. Oh Christ. She had better get up, her mother would be home soon. She couldn't just be lying here. With her mother coming in. 'What's the matter Amanda? Did you have a good session with Mr Tillot?' 'Oh yes. Marvellous. He screwed me, Mum. He caned me. On my bare bottom. And then he screw me. Fucked me. With his enormous thing. He had it in me, so far up that...'

What would her mother say? She wouldn't believe her. She would think Amanda had gone mad or something. Call the doctor: Please came at once Dr Enbury, Amanda has had a very funny turn. And Dr Enbury would take her temperature. And then maybe look between her legs. Examine her. And see somehow that she had just had intercourse. And she would whisper to him: Don't tell mother, Dr Enbury. If you don't tell her I'll let you do it as well.

With another groan Amanda rolled off the bed. It was all like a fantastic dream. But it wasn't a dream, it had happened. And probably she would tell Sarah. It would be difficult not to, to keep it back. Cripes! When Mr Tillot went she had said in a little-girl voice, 'Have I still got to do my essay, Mr Tillot?' And he had said, 'You know what you'll get if you don't, Amanda.' And then he had given her a sexy kiss. His tongue going in halfway down her throat.

She found her knickers and pulled them on. At the window she saw the workmen still out there. Could they ever guess what had happened in the silent house on this hot and sultry afternoon? Was it something that one with the muscles wanted to do? Maybe she would go out there, in the garden where he could see her. Not just a schoolgirl now but a grown-up woman almost, a girl who had done it. But Amanda forgot that thought as she heard the sound of her mother coming in. Looking frantically round for any tell-tale signs of the afternoon's unbelievable happenings. Was there a mark on her skirt...?

He came to the house the next afternoon. Another one of those hot and sultry afternoons. Ron his name was, she found out. The workman with the back, the shoulders. Those muscles. Only now when she went to the back door in answer to the knock he had his shirt on. His shirt and his jeans that were chalky from digging the trench. Did her eyes dart down to the front of his jeans, after her first startled look of recognition? Thinking of his thing. He had an empty Tizer bottle in his hand.

'Uh... we were wondering... if we could get some water. Please. It's really hot again.'

Ron was conscious of his nervousness and the words didn't come out easily. It had been an effort to come and do this but here he was. And here she was. Well, she might not have been in. Not in her uniform today, she had on a blue-and-white flowery dress. Tight-bodiced with a full skirt, it showed off her ripe young body. He could imagine the soft flesh under there – in just brief little knicks and a lightweight bra probably.

Momentarily stunned by his presence Amanda unconsciously ran her tongue over her full lips, then gave a nervous smile. 'Y... Yes of course. Come in...'

'OK. Thanks.' He felt more confident already. Stepping inside. 'No one else in? What's your name?'

Yes his name was Ron and the other one was Stan. He told her this in the kitchen, filling the bottle at the tap. Amanda feeling surging excitement now. Here he was in the house. Just the two of them. Yesterday Mr Tillot, screwing her. And now today this Ron. Had he really just come for that water?

'I... uh... do you want it for a drink? It is awfully hot, isn't it? Because we've got some beer in the fridge. I think.'

'Beer?' he laughed. 'I don't know about beer. Your mum might come back.'

'No. No she won't. She won't be back for ages.'

Amanda met his eyes. She had told Sarah last night. About Mr Tillot. The whole thing. Sarah wouldn't believe her, not at first, but then she did. And now... this Ron, with the muscles. Amanda had told Sarah about him, just that there was this bloke, one of the workmen, with super muscles.

She imagined pulling his shirt off and running her hands over the muscles. And then... pulling open his jeans... Taking his thing in her hand.

'Well thanks, I'll have one if you'll have one,' Ron said.

Amanda shook her head, with a little giggle. 'I don't really like it. Just a sip perhaps.'

They took the can of beer into the sitting room. Ron looked round. 'Nice... Really nice. Can I sit down in these chalky jeans? And are you going to sit on my lap?'

Amanda said a giggly no, but she did. It was fantastic. More exciting than Mr Tillot. Well almost. Squirming herself on his lap. Thinking of his thing under her bottom. His arm came round her.

'I... I could see you out of the window,' she breathed. 'You've got really big muscles.'

Ron didn't answer, just grabbed her tits. Both hands, with the beer now down on the table. Amanda fell like she was going to suffocate. Partly the sultry heat but mostly of course it was Ron's big hands grasping her tits. And then one hand came down, to go under her dress. Pushing up again between her hot thighs. Amanda's thighs parted... and Ron's hand slid right up. To feel her pussy. His finger rubbing her hot and throbbing slit through her thin knickers.

'Hey, you're really hot! Really hot for it!'

'No... ooo... I'm not...' But she was. Amanda squirming her cunt against his fingers. She did want it. Her cunt felt red hot. 'Please...'

The other one wanted to do it as well. After Ron told him. Amanda had made Ron promise not to tell anyone, not his mate Stan or anyone, and he said he wouldn't but of course then he did. He told Stan. He said he didn't tell anyone else, just Stan who was his mate. But then of course Stan wanted to do it to Amanda as well. Stan who was older and with a fat beer belly. Amanda naturally didn't want to do it with Stan but... he kind of made her. Persuaded her. Another hot afternoon in the house. Amanda didn't like doing it and it certainly wasn't something she wanted to tell Sarah. She told Sarah about Ron, that was fantastic. Ron with his fantastic body, all those muscles. And Mr Tillot was a bit fantastic too, a weird hippie character. Bui Stan... No not Stan.

Amanda told herself it was just the once with Stan. She certainly wouldn't let him do it a second time. It was something she would forget. But of course Stan told Ron he had done it. And Ron then wanted her to do it some more with Stan... He wanted Amanda to do it with both of them. Because they were mates.

END

Dirty Tricks

Story from Schoolgirl Spanking Vol.1 Issue 1.

Dirty Tricks
by J. R. Hartley

The two boys - "young men", as they were constantly being told they were - both looked resentfully across at the direct cause of their strife. Each was reacting differently in a physical way, but there was no mistaking the anger and desire for revenge emanating from them.

Andrew Davies, the taller of the two, brown-haired, dark-eyed and unmistakably athletic, glowered openly, his thin lips and strong jaw set to exact retribution. He had taken his punishment stoically, refusing to cry out even through the six stinging swipes he had taken from the cane were about the harshest he had ever received. He had simply braced himself, grasped the wall-bars as instructed and chanted silently to himself, 'I'll make them pay; I'll make them pay.'

And that was his intention.

William Fowles on the other hand, whilst just as anxious for revenge, was visibly more affected by his recent ordeal. His blond hair was matted with sweat and his eyes had a humanising sheen of threatened tears that was emphasised by the slight tremble of his full poetic mouth. He had not been so brave and his howl of pain and attempt to place his right hand between his buttock and the vicious rod had earned him two extra stingers on his palms.

The girls had watched in slack-jawed amazement at a scene they thought belonged strictly in the realm of television classic serials about Victorian education. Neither of them had ever seen a real cane, let alone witnessed its application. They were stunned by the meek acceptance of their fate by the youths and the ritualistic way they had gone to don sports shorts and vests to receive their punishment. They knew of nobody in their circle of friends who would have agreed to undergo such treatment, especially as the Master who had meted out the flogging was only of slight stature and either William or Andrew could easily have flattened him with one blow!

Don Buxton stood in silent contemplation of the four miscreants adding to the unease of the girls and the humiliation of the boys. He didn't regard himself as overly severe in his dealings with young people, but he did believe firmly in the use of corporal punishment, when the occasion merited it. And this was most certainly one of those occasions!

He had happened upon the four in that clichéd haunt of naughty schoolchildren, the back of the bicycle sheds, performing some rather adult acts. Of course, it was the girls who instigated it, and not for the first time it seemed. Apparently, Saturday jobs in chain stores were not as lucrative as the relief of sexual frustrations experienced by healthy young males in residential educational establishments. There was a word for girls of their type and he had used it, loudly and liberally, as he frogmarched them and their erstwhile clients into the gym.

His first inclination had been to telephone the local comprehensive to inform the Head of her girls' extra-curricular activities, but one look at the ludicrous excuse of a uniform and the fact that they had been plying their trade at his school for some considerable time made him think twice. He would show them what discipline was in a proper school.

So they had stood in the gym in embarrassed defiance, hearing themselves described in terms even their roughest friends would not have used in mixed company, listening to the boys being reminded of the school's expectations of them and then watching their punishment being administered. It was made clear that it was not just their actions that were wrong, it was their class. Had the females in the dalliance been from the Girls' Academy on the other side of the county, it seemed the matter would not have been so grave. Indeed, if the instigators had been other boys in the school it would apparently have been less heinous. The crime was to have been caught in the act with girls of lowly origin.

The gym master watched them watching each other, seeing the realisation of the true nature of their felony.

'And now, men' he said, finally breaking the silence, 'you have had time to contemplate your mistake, you have taken your punishment and it remains only to deal with the instigators of this afternoon's debacle before we can put the episode behind us and move on.' He paused and as if at an unseen signal, the boys stepped aside so their Master could wheel vaulting horses across the room.

'Of course,' he continued conversationally, 'you are curious about the female of the species, that's only natural. And, as the only women you usually encounter during term time are Matron and the cleaners, it is just as natural that when a couple of sluts from the local comprehensive throw themselves at you, you will take advantage of their offers. Any red-blooded male would behave in exactly the same way.'

The boys were almost preening themselves in the glory of their vindication, their eyes flashing scorn at the would-be Jezebels.

'So, as they're so keen to augment our sex education programme, we'll let them do exactly that. As well as seeing that they are appropriately punished for their wanton behaviour.' He addressed the girls directly for the first time: 'Strip'.

The two stared at him, blinking in almost-comic unison, then turned to gaze in silent amazement at each other. Shelley Morris and Kim Noble were not what the gutter press would describe as 'stunnas', but they were both attractive enough in an off-hand, artless kind of way. Shelley was a few inches taller than her friend and had a clear-skinned, well-proportioned comeliness. Her dark-blonde hair sported highlights that had obviously been acquired in someone's bathroom not too recently and with black mascara being the only cosmetic she wore, she had the look of a rather startled panda about her. She had hazel eyes and a pouting mouth with sharp, even little teeth that flashed whenever she smiled or spoke. Her token uniform of black skirt and white blouse was clean enough, although a little rumpled from her earlier activities. The skirt was stretched tightly across her flat stomach and rounded bottom and long, lightly tanned legs tapered into the ubiquitous uniform of youth, namely baggy socks and outsize training boots with the laces deliberately undone.

Her friend was almost too thin, with a salon perm of dark corkscrew curls framing her elfin face. Everything about her seemed small and frail, until she spoke with her loud, abrasive local twang. Despite the warm weather, she sported a heavy black cardigan, longer at the front where she had made it sag with her habit of thrusting her hands deep in her pockets. She, too, wore the dirty white footwear favoured by that generation and, like her friend, she toted her schoolbooks around in a pastel leather sports bag.

Shelley and Kim, femmes fatales, were very worried. Kim spoke for the first time since they had been caught out. 'Get lost,' she spat, 'you can't tell us to take our clothes off in front of them.'

'Young woman, I can do a lot more than that' the Master replied ominously. 'The time for modesty has passed. You were willing enough to expose yourselves and indulge in all kinds of intimacies before. At least you're indoors and in relative comfort. I say again,' and he let his glance take in Shelley as well, 'strip'.

Kim removed her cardigan, then made a great show of folding it and placing it on her bag. Then both girls stood silently motionless once more, trying to decide whether they should obey the instruction or not. The boys were watching them keenly and the teacher rocked slowly on his plimsoll-shod feet, tapping the cane gently against his calf.

Shelley undid the buttons on the cuffs of her shirt, then kept her eyes firmly on the floor as she unfastened those down the front. Kim started to do the same as her friend threw her blouse defiantly on the ground.

With a similar time-delay they removed their skirts and chucked them aside and then paused once more as they tried to decide which undergarment to remove first. Kim's small, barely perceptible breasts were sheathed in a cotton cropped-top decorated with tiny pink hearts. She wore matching panties and the ensemble gave her a misleading air of wholesome innocence. She slipped her thumbs in the hem of the top, then changed her mind and began to remove her briefs. Again she paused, hoping for some kind of instruction.

Shelley shared her predicament, but was determined not to give Don Buxton the satisfaction of exacerbating their embarrassment. She reached behind her and deftly unclasped the single hook of her wispy white bra. She was well-rounded without being heavy, and the bra was obviously for modesty or show rather than support. She flicked the garment off and swung it in a wide circle over her head before letting it fly into the far corner of the cavernous room.

Being slightly in awe of her friends more generous proportions, Kim opted to reveal her lower parts before her insignificant bumps. She yanked down her knickers then hopped about clumsily as she manoeuvred the small garment over the clumpy shoes. Shelley did a similar lurching dance as she removed her own panties while Kim finally bared the large pink aureolas surrounding the pinprick nipples that were all that constituted her breasts.

Neither of them thought to remove their footwear, as though the large leather appendages were welded to them. Don Buxton decided he rather liked the effect and did not force them to take them off. They lent a pathetic air to the otherwise debauched minxes and almost evinced a hint of sympathy from him.

'Right then,' he said to the enraptured boys, 'let's see what it's all about shall we?' He turned to Shelley. 'Come on, Blondie, pop yourself up here so we can get a good view.'

He had her straddle the horse at the square end, her back resting against one of the handles and her feet drawn up and resting on the very edge of the contraption. Roughly he pulled her bent knees apart so that the suede surface stroked her roughly as she adjusted her position. Her hands gripped the sides to stop her slipping.

'And you,' he told Kim, can you rest your pretty little form along here.' He had her stand where the horse sloped down, grasping the handle closest to her and resting her naked belly along the incline. She felt her ankles being grasped and spread wide apart and then rough, stubby hands tugged at her hips so that her bottom jutted out away from the horse and just her upper torso, chest and chin touching the worn nap.

'Come along then, lads, feast your eyes,' he bawled jovially. Andrew and William advanced warily but the Gym Master continued to encourage them with words and gestures as though he were auditioning for a holiday job as a fairground barker. In a no-nonsense businesslike way he led them around the horse, stopping by each girl in turn and drawing attention to their skin, their hair, their buttocks and genitals. Just as he had earlier spoken crudely of their morals, so now he verbally attacked their bodies. Roughly he manhandled them, exposing their intimate budding feminine folds, pinching and slapping at the flesh of their buttocks and insolently tweaking their soft breasts.

At first the boys were embarrassed, but the locker-room language and total antipathy he showed the girls lulled them into showing at least an academic interest. At his urging they too probed at the moist receses now fully open to them instead of encumbered by clothing. Rod Buxton watched them getting more involved in their pleasures and judged when the time was right to move on.

'So now you know what you were groping after outside, why don't you show the young "ladies" what you think of teasing little slags who try to exploit their betters?'

He passed his cane to Andrew and said sarcastically, 'Choose your partner.'

Kim's behind was already proffered, but it was Shelley who had got him into this situation so he grabbed her ankles and tipped her over so that she was lying over the width of the horse. He gave her feet another shove so that she hung head low, feet barely skimming the floor. He drew back the cane and brought it down loudly and heavily across the full expanse of her bottom cheeks.

Nothing she had ever seen, heard or felt could have prepared her for that moment of impact. Unable to get off her perch, she arched her back and swung her arms and legs in wide arcs, screeching on a long intake of breath. Andrew looked at his teacher, reluctant to stop but worried about the girl's capacity to take the kind of punishment that was routine at his establishment. Kim made a move to go to her friend, but Rod Buxton placed a restraining hand on her back. Smiling reassuringly at his star pupil he told him to continue. 'If the girlies want to play our games, they must be willing to pay our forfeits,' he said matter-of-factly.

Andrew needed no further bidding. A long parabolic curve brought the weighty rod down hard and flat across the small of Shelley's back. The impact knocked the breath from her and a deep mulberry bruise line began to emerge immediately.

His next swipe came in low from a long way back. It caught the tender flesh enfolded between bottom cheek and thigh. Her whole body juddered and she emitted a series of high-pitched yelps like a scalded puppy.

The fourth and fifth cuts came in rapid succession, crossing diagonally, reducing Shelley to helpless, choking sobs. Her skin was coated with a fine film of perspiration, rendering it even more vulnerable to the cruel sixth bite. It came close to the first, a pale mauve weal that would soon reproduce the maroon tramlines that its predecessor now sported. Shelley had lost count of the number of strokes being delivered but Andrew had automatically stopped after the sixth and in truth was full of admiration for the way she had received them. Admittedly she had bawled but, after all, she was a girl and it was obviously the first time she had received a flogging.

He passed the cane to William who took careful aim before scoring Kim's rump with a scalding streak that drew a crimson stripe the moment it touched her lean flesh.

'NO!' she screeched. 'No! No, I can't. I really, really can't take it.' She leapt up and rubbed at her barely-fleshed behind. 'I can't,' she reitereated and burst into a torrent of tears.

William was dumbfounded and searched the faces of the other three for guidance. In an instant the Gym Master had loosened and removed one of his own plimsoles and passed it to the puzzled boy.

'She may not be able to take the cane, but she's not getting away with her whorish tricks. Use this.'

He grabbed Kim's slender wrists and held them in place on the horse's handle while William took aim. Kim continued to bawl, which he found somewhat off-putting, so he quickly delivered six stinging swipes with the rubber-soled shoe, putting an end to the girl's ordeal and his own unease. The noise reverberated around the high-ceilinged hall and produced a strange almost mystical harmony with Kim's sobs. When it was over, the males left them alone to dress and leave in their own time. They could hear the deep baritone banter coming from the changing room and knew it was about them and somehow, that was even worse than the physical pain they had endured.

THE END