A Class Of Her Own

Story from Janus 59.

A Class Of Her Own
by Andrew Grantham

DENISE looked out of the window, attracted by the high-pitched squeals and shouts in the street below. It was 'going home time'. Not for those girls the awful waiting followed by the hideous thrashing itself. Subconsciously, she pulled her Queen Mary High School blazer tightly around her lithe young body.

She rested her forehead against a pane of glass and sighed as she watched the stream of pupils homeward bound. The window steamed up and she turned away.

There was only one desk in that room. She sat on the chair behind it and tried to concentrate on the open book. Probably, Julius Caesar was one of Shakespeare's more interesting plays.

A floorboard creaked. Suddenly Ancient Rome was dispelled from her mind. She was back to the present and the punishment that was to go with it.

The curly-haired blonde felt a twinge shoot through her tummy as the door behind her was opened and closed. 'Sir' had arrived.

Crack!

Denise shrieked at the unexpected. The long, thin cane embedded itself in the pages of her book. What effect then would it have on her bottom? Of course, she knew exactly. It would not be her first encounter with that wicked wand.

'Ready, Miss?' His voice was young but full of authority. She looked up at him, tall and resplendent in mortar board and gown. He was such a good-looking bloke, it was difficult to imagine he was so stern a disciplinarian.

Denise nodded her pretty head.

'Lost your voice, have you?' he smiled. 'Never mind, I'm sure the cane will bring it back.'

He swooshed the thin rod through the air, causing her to flinch.

'You know the drill,' he remarked sternly. 'Prepare yourself.'

Denise slid out of the chair and stood upright. She shrugged out of the bottle-green blazer and laid it on the chair.

He surveyed the rounded bulges of her breasts, firm in the thin, tight blouse and the equally thin bra beneath. The material of her pleated green skirt tightly hugged her hips. White ankle-socks contrasted with the pink flesh of her long, bare, well-moulded legs.

The skirt came off, to be tossed on to the chair. Then she put her hand under the hem of her blouse and slowly inched her skimpy white knickers down her thighs until they fluttered to the ground. She bent down, picked them up and placed them on the chair seat.

'Over the desk!' he ordered. 'Bottom nice and high!'

Denise felt herself swaying slightly but she took a deep breath and did as she was told. Very slowly, she bent over the shiny desk with her breasts flattened on its top.

Her drawn-up blouse had exposed most of her bottom, but he used the tip of his cane to push the white blouse completely away from his target. Her tense cheeks, perfectly rounded and completely unblemished, were a delightful shade of pink.

Denise jumped involuntarily as he tapped her nates with his cane, lining up the first stroke.

The whooshing sound made by the descending, accelerating stick seemed to fill the room. Then, that sound was replaced by another – a solid crack as the cane thwacked right across the crown of Denise's buttocks. She yelled out instantly, her posterior vibrating.

He drew the cane back over his shoulder. There was a swish followed by the sound of wood on flesh, superseded by an almost instantaneous yelp of pain.

Although her bum-cheeks were rapidly overheating, Denise resisted the temptation to put her hands back to rub away the vicious sting.

The third stroke swiftly followed and the girl's saucy buttocks jiggled and bounced.

His teeth gleaming in a smile, he touched the scarlet-lined globes with the cane. Denise squealed, then realised it was just the cool wood resting lightly against her blazing flesh.

Sneaky, that. Just like 'Sir'.

The cane left her bottom, but quickly paid it a return visit. Pain reached her brain and flooded her body with its insatiable appetite. Two tears glistened on her cheeks.

The next, perfectly-delivered stroke made her shriek and her fingers clawed the wooden top of the desk. Her haunches jerked and writhed.

She thanked God she had taken the punishment so well. That meant only one more before the worst of her ordeal was over.

The final slash on the lower slopes of her ravaged derriere made her scream and stamp her legs. Sitting down would be very painful for some time.

She didn't have to be told what to do next. Wincing, she stood upright. Her hands tentatively explored the damage. Ridges the width of her little finger corrugated her poor bum. Somewhat stiltedly, she walked to the corner of the room. She faced the wall, with her hands on her head bunching up her golden hair.

'Sir' made her stay like that for fully 15 minutes whilst he thumbed through Julius Caesar or looked out of the window. Then he gave her permission to dress and leave.

Painfully, her bottom feeling like one burning mass, she put her clothes back on and stood by the window.

Denise rested her face against the glass and looked down on to the street below. It was empty, save for one lone girl making her way home from Queen Mary's High School. She was a tall, pretty, auburn-haired girl – obviously a sixth former. She couldn't even have been in the third form when she herself had been in the sixth.

Her still-damp blue eyes followed the girl's movements. She couldn't help but wonder if that seemingly carefree redhead would fall in love with a man like her own husband – one who had had an attic fitted out as a 'schoolroom'. One who insisted his wife make amends for any serious misdemeanours by ordering her to dress in her old Queen Mary uniform and bare her bottom to receive a salutary dose of his cane.

Denise sighed and wondered. She thought not.

Mr Night's new attraction

Story from Blushes 47.

Mr Night's new attraction

'This is the cash till, I don't need to tell you,' Mr Night says. 'The centre of operations. We'll have to watch you don't get your fingers in it, eh?' He laughs at his little joke, and pushes himself harder against Ann. Against her bottom. Ann gives a nervous little laugh. She has only started this morning, less than half an hour ago in fact. Mr Night's shop isn't open to customers yet. So it is only her and Mr Night here. Mr Night and his new trainee assistant. Ann is standing at the till and her new employer for the purposes of instruction but also and more especially for his own pleasure is standing pressed close against her back. His loins in particular are pressed hard against the jutting swell of Ann's bottom.

"You've got a nice shape, Ann. I'll say that for you. And a pretty face too. But that's why I took you on, isn't it? A pretty face and a nice figure. This nice bum you've got here.' Mr Night rubs himself against it.

George Night advertised his vacant position in the press, the National Advertiser which has a good coverage of jobs for girls. His previous assistant after a 12 month stint has left to get married, at the end of last week so Ann is starting this morning, Monday. Mr Night had quite a number of applications because there aren't that many jobs available which unmarried girls are allowed to do. And nowadays, 1995, if a girl is unemployed for more than two weeks she is sent to a Training Camp. There is none of that business of hanging idly around at home living off her parents as used to be very common. The regime at a Training Camp is such that a girl will avoid it if at all possible – that of course is the object. Hence a good crop of applicants for the likes of George Night when he has this job available.

His hands have been round on either side of Ann showing her the operation of the till. They now cease this basic instruction and instead close on Ann's tits. 'And a nice pair of these as well, eh Ann? You've got to think of the customer in this business and a nice pair of these and a nice saucy bottom are what brings the customers in. I'm referring to men customers naturally. Not that you can't get one or two ladies with an eye for a pretty girl.'

With a good crop of applicants George Night naturally had to interview a short list to ensure he was getting the best – and also to have a good look at any other attractive candidates whom he was going to have to reject (he only had a job for one girl). His procedure was simple and straightforward: some general questioning for starters and then the main object of the interview. Which was requiring the candidate to take off her clothes. Well, he had to think of the customer and the new assistant's likely effect on him, and a man could only fully assess this if first of all he had a free and unimpeded view of the candidate himself. It was in this process of selection that Ann Stannis obtained the post. She was a very shapely girl of above average height with short-cut brown hair and a pert, gamine face. The intriguing combination of this dark-eyed face and the voluptuous figure had definately appealed to George Night. Yes, this was the one he decided as soon as he saw her. Or rather as soon as Ann removed her blouse and skirt and then for good measure had to lower her knickers. She was the one – but George Night made all the others remove their skirts and blouses and lower their knickers too. Naturally.

Still squeezing Ann's tits with now some ten minutes to go before the shop door is opened at 8.30 on this Monday morning, Mr Night says, 'You'll pick it all up very quickly, I'm sure. Charlotte did in no time at all. Just make sure the prices are on everything – and they don't try any label switching. You get that sometimes.'

George Night is keenly squeezing and palming the nice firm tits as he speaks. Having a new girl in training is always an exciting prospect and he wasn't in any great distress when Charlotte said she was going to have to leave. Training a new girl means work – but what delightful work! This delightful girl to be bent to his will. And especially this delightful bottom – hard up against which George Night's erection is now in full flower – that in the early days and weeks of training will have to be dealt with regularly and often. Surely that is why girls have such appetising bottoms: so that they can be dealt with.

With his blood up as it were and his member likewise, George can feel a powerful urge to give this bottom a preliminary going-over right now. Unfortunately however the time for opening shop is rapidly approaching. Some men in the trade are happy to cane a girl in public, in front of the customers. While it is a practice which can attract custom George is not a proponent of it. The cane for him is something to be used in private. And looking at the clock it would seem that it will have to wait just a little while. But not for too long: maybe half an hour or so after he has opened up. A quick caning does not have to take very long, as he has learnt with that equally desirable Charlotte (equally desirable but different, a big-titted, blue-eyed blonde). A girl can be told to go out the back and get ready: which means get her skirt and knickers off. And then as soon as there is a break in business he can go smartly out to join his waiting assistant and get into action right away. Yes. George has a great urge to do it right now but... Yes, he can wait half an hour.

Yes, he can wait half an hour – business anyway must come first. But – George gives another invigorating thrust against the ripe bulb of Ann's bottom – it would be nice to have at least a quick look at it now. Four minutes to opening time and the opening hour is sacrosanct, the door must be opened on the dot of 8.30. But four minutes...

George lets go of the tits and removes his face from the heady scent of Ann's newly-washed hair. And his erect person from the cleft of these surging buttocks. 'Get that skirt up.' His voice is a little croaky from all the excitement. 'Let's have a quick look at you before they come in.'

Ann looks at the clock on the wall. It is almost time to open. For some long minutes now she has been standing here squeezed up against the till with Mr Night doing these things to her. Squeezing her boobs and behind her doing those things to her bottom. It has got her all hot and bothered which is not at all the way you want to be with the customers coming in any moment now. Not when you are starting a new job – your first as it happens – and are fearful anyway of making boo-boos. Ann has been afraid Mr Night was going to be like this: he had made it pretty clear at the interview. But a girl has no choice but to accept this sort of thing from a boss if he wants to do it, there is nothing she can do. Being grabbed and felt up. Also being caned... Oh God!... but he is going to cane her, he told her that at the interview. And... anything else?... Don't think about it. But now... it is only a couple of minutes before the door has to be opened and Mr Night is telling her...

Biting her lip Ann pulls her skirt up. She has stockings and a suspender belt on with her high heels, Mr Night told her he wanted that. 'A girl has to be smart in this job. The customers demand it.' Now Mr Night says, 'Hold still. Keep it up there...' And he is sliding Ann's knickers down.

The second hand of the clock continues its inexorable motion... as Mr Night's hands close on Ann's bare bottom. The ripely jutting cheeks shivering... but Ann can only stand still and obediently hold her skirt up round her waist while desperately watching that clock. Mr Night's large hands fondling and jiggling the quivering nude flesh. One of the hands slides questingly in underneath... but the clock hand is now almost on the full 8.30. And outside a customer has in fact arrived. Mr Night's hand can't resist a quick final dart... in where it really counts. Then both of the groping hands come away. The gasping Ann is told to pull up her knickers and take up her position behind the counter. Mr Night is striding to the door. The customer, Mrs Farling, a middle-aged lady, is let in. As she enters, with Ann behind the counter still adjusting her clothing, the second hand of the clock has performed an extra quarter circle. This fact is not lost on the eagle eye of Mrs Farling.

'A little bit late this morning, Mr Night.'

That gentleman is a model of self-control, notwithstanding what he has just had his hand on and indeed what else he is planning to do at the very first opportunity. 'Just a fraction perhaps, Mrs Farling. It's my new girl of course. Ann here. Showing her the ropes.'

* * *

The room Mr Night has told Ann to go to is empty of furniture except for a single item: a swivel typist's sort of chair. This is standing approximately in the centre of this smallish room which contains nothing else. Or that is what Ann's eyes tell her as she enters – but once she is inside she can see that this is not quite true. In the corner behind the door is one other thing. A cane. She lets out a whimpering sound. Because that of course is why she has been told to come here. Mr Night is going to cane her. He has told Ann to come in here and 'get ready'. Get ready for a caning. Ann is to get her skirt up and take down her knickers. Mr Night will be in here with her very shortly, when he feels he can leave the shop for a few minutes.

It is 9.15. Since opening at 8.30 there has been a steady trickle of customers of various sorts: men and women of varying ages, plus a few schoolboys earlier on. These latter proved to be universally objectionable, their eyes lighting up at the sight of this new and pretty assistant. 'Cor, look at this!' 'What's she like, Mr Night?' 'Have you given her the cane yet?' 'Can we give her the cane?' 'Has she got big tits?' Etc, etc. At one point Ann unthinkingly allowed herself to be enticed out from behind the counter by two boys and was immediately grabbed. Mr Night did nothing as Ann struggled with them and when she finally regained the safety of the other side of the counter, her blouse all unbuttoned and her skirt unzipped, he said it was her own fault for letting it happen.

The adult male customers were no better, and there could be no struggling to get away as with the schoolboys. A new assistant was a big attraction for the shop. She would bring more (male) customers in and bring them in more often. 'So this is the new girl, eh George? Let's have a look at her then.' And Ann had to come obligingly out from behind the counter to be admired. To stand obligingly still while the customer's hand patted and fondled this and that. 'Needs the cane I expect, George. Need any help in that direction?'

Mr Night shook his head with some non-committal reply. Ann didn't know it but favoured customers would be permitted this privilege. But after the proprietor himself of course. Because George Night himself had not yet enjoyed that pleasure and was indeed getting impatient to satisfy his need. Glancing at the clock and observing the general state of play in the shop. Normally after 9 there was a bit of a lull... so when at 9.15 the shop became empty he quickly told Ann to go out to that room at the back. To get ready.

Another female customer drifts in... to George's concealed annoyance. 'I thought you were starting a new girl, Mr Night?' He smiles his bland smile. 'Yes, Mrs Harcut, she's out the back. Sorting some things out.' What the girl had better be doing of course is getting her knickers down.

Mrs Harcut leaves... and she does seem to be the last for the present. George Night goes to glance outside. Yes, the street is empty. All right then.

Ann has got herself ready. Not mentally ready certainly but she has done what Mr Night has told her to do. Tucked her skirt up round her waist and pulled her knickers down to the tops of her stockings. As she was shortly before the shop opened this morning, and indeed also at that interview. But now it is not only to have her bottom fondled by Mr Night's gropy hands – though that of course is bad enough. But now... that object standing in the corner of the room. Mr Night's cane. Ann has been standing here trying not to think about it. Though naturally that has not been possible. And now...

Her eyes widen in fright as he enters. Closing the door behind him. 'Ready, are we? We seem to be free for the moment, my girl. So we'll give it a little touching up, shall we? That pretty bum.' His hand can't resist a greedy grab. 'Get up on the stool then, kneeling... and get your rear stuck nicely out...'

Ann hasn't actually done anything that might remotely be seen as deserving of a caning of course, but that is no problem. A man expects to cane a trainee assistant simply as part of her training. Indeed George Night, like most male employers of unmarried girls, will continue to cane his assistant even after she would seem to be fully trained and competent in her duties. He will cane her and he will allow others to cane her. Certain favoured customers, gentlemen whose custom he wishes to keep and who for their part will be happy to let George Night have that in exchange for access to this choice young female.

So there is going to be plenty of that cane in store for Ann. Plenty to come of which she is now to get her first taste. Kneeling now on the seat of the typist's stool and holding onto the back with her skirt up round her waist and knickers properly lowered. That ripe plum of a bottom thrust appetisingly out. To receive what George Night now whips testingly through the air. He has to be quick, a man can't leave his business unattended, but George Night has learnt with Charlotte how to be quick. It doesn't take long: a four-stroker say: but enough to get that heady thrill, that surge of the blood. Enough to tide him over for a couple of hours, and then another quickie at lunch time and again in the middle of the afternoon. And then when it's closing time of course, time for something more extended – when a man can finally take his time at it. But right now... four, say...?

Cracck!...

A gasping whimpering yelp from Ann as the cane stings the springy flesh of her thrust-out rear. Oh Jesus. Hanging onto the back of the chair for dear life as the hot pain throbs up through her. Oh Jesus... she can't...

Cracck!...

'Noo...ooohhhh...!'

* * *

Six p.m. Time for Mr Night to close shop. At last, the end of Ann's first day. A dreadful day! Those dreadful visits to the room at the back, that room with its solitary chair which Ann has had to kneel on or bend over. For those quick canings snatched by Mr Night whenever there has been a break in the action in the shop. And when there hasn't been a break in the action there has been the other thing: the customers, men customers of course, eager to grope and grab this pretty new assistant. Word has of course got round that George Night has a new girl and consequently custom has been brisk all day (although George has managed to snatch those moments). Yes it has been a really dreadful day but at last it is over.

This first day is over and Ann can now go back to her lodgings, Mrs Green's, because Ann's own home is some way away and she is only going to be able to go back there at weekends. Mrs Green, though, is all right, a pleasant lady who will have a meal ready for Ann when she gets back and Ann will be able to have a bath and perhaps watch TV or write a letter and try to forget how awful her first day has been. That is what she thinks as Mr Night puts the closed sign up in the door. She can go now...

No.

'You're going to be late, Ann,' Mr Night says, turning away from the door. 'But it'll be all right. I've phoned your Mrs Green and told her.'

What! Mr Night has come close. His hands cup Ann's tits. 'Mr Milney. You remember Mr Milney? Came in this morning. Very important customer. He wants to see you round at his place. And we can't refuse a very important customer like Mr Milney, can we?'

'No!' Ann mouths automatically. Shaking her head automatically too – though she knews there is no possibility of refusal. Mr Night's hands squeeze her tits. 'Don't be silly, Ann. It's all part of the job: being nice to customers. Mr Milney is a very nice gentleman with a keen appreciation of a pretty girl.' He pulls Ann to him and the hands holding her tits go round, one round Ann's slim waist and the other to grab at her bottom.

'I daresay he'll want to give this a little warming up. Eh? But first of all I want to give it another go myself. I always say a girl just starting out can't have too much of the cane. Come on, my girl.'

The Incident at Purple Pros

Story from Februs 23.

The Incident at Purple Pros
by Edward Masterson


'You old cow! Frig off and leave me alone!'

I heard Tammy's shriek above the thumping of the machines as soon as I came in the door. I would have been aware anyway from the girls' expressions that something was wrong. An employer has to have an instinct for that kind of thing, especially with an all-female workforce.

'You cheeky little bint. Tomorrow you're out the door. You're finished here, believe me!'

What I didn't expect to hear was Jess's strident tones issuing from my partitioned office in the far corner of the printworks. I could see her dressed in crimson through the open slats of the Venetian blinds. They were used to screen my office from the shopfloor when I felt like privacy. Half-hidden was the much slighter figure of Tamara, universally known as Tammy. She was my young PA who in only six months had shown evidence of a sound business sense.

Jess kept out of my way these days even though she was still a major shareholder in Purple Pros, our all-women screenprinting business. Our fling had finished last year, but she still kept some of her stuff in my flat. Neither of us had found a steady partner yet, so we still met for mutual support.

Although she was loaded, Jess had an inferiority complex to more than match her bank balance. Life outside Purple Pros (her choice of trading name – at least it meant we received plenty of telephone enquiries) was meant to help me unwind from entrepreneurial stress. But that was impossible with Jess and her uncontrollable compulsion to meddle.

Without a doubt she would be behind this catfight that was causing havoc with the work rate at this very moment. If they weren't careful most of the point of sale cards for the local supermarket would be worthless.

'Okay girls, minds on the job. I'll sort this out, Arlene.' I peeled off the faux Michael Kors leopardskin coat en route, addressing my anxious production manager in what I hoped was a confident manner. The lunch with a potential new customer had gone on considerably longer than planned so my mind was far from crystalline.

I pushed open the door to my office and glided in, relieved to be able to shut out the chemical ink vapours that tainted everything in the workplace – hair, clothes, food, you name it. This was despite a fortune invested in powerful air handling plant. Usually this was my inner sanctum, but not today. The two of them were still squaring up across Tammy's desk and it looked as if claws would be unsheathed any second.

'There you are, Jo. About time too!' Jess wheeled round and got her tuppence worth in first. She was determined to play the role of financial hotshot and pull some rank on me. So she lost any support I might have given her with that remark.

'Hello Jess. This is a surprise, honeypot.' We brushed cheeks ritualistically. 'Anything urgent for this afternoon, Tammy?' I turned in her direction.

Normally sweet and sensible, my straw-haired Tammy was transformed. Her usually placid manner had been severely ruffled in the attempt to handle Jess. Her sleepy grey eyes now flashed and her cheeks burned. Despite myself, my heart gave a flip. Add those rosebud lips and a retroussee nose: her angry appearance had more urchin charm than ever. She shook her head silently and bit her lip.

There was a short silence. I took the opportunity to hang up my leopardskin and ditch the fancy tote bag which weighed a ton. Then I took a seat.

'Well, you two, I take it there's been a disagreement.'

'I'll give you the full details once your secretary has left the room,' Jess snarled sotto voce, tossing her long auburn mane out of her eyes. Despite being well into her 30s she dressed flamboyantly (she could afford to) and knew she could turn heads – both male and female.

'Tammy is my PA. Purple Pros does not have a secretary on the premises, as you well know, Jess. She's also a management trainee and this office happens to be where she works.'

I sensed Jess stiffen. She knew she had rather more of a fight on her hands than she had bargained for. She perched one buttock on the edge of my desk, leaning towards me in a confidential manner.

'Whatever you call her, Jo, I can think of only one name that fits – a smelly little brown-noser.'

Before I had a chance to find out what she was getting at Jess received her reply. Showing more agility than I had imagined her capable of, Tammy flew over the curling carpet tiles to land a stinging slap across the still smirking face of her accuser. I sensed a communal gasp from the rapt audience beyond the glass.

The change in Jess's expression was so sudden as to be almost cartoon-like. She glared at me, cupping her burning cheek in one hand, daring me to betray even a ghost of a smile.

'Tammy, cool down,' I said. 'I've never seen you in such a state before. Let's have those blinds closed and lock the door. It's beginning to resemble Punch and Judy in here.'

Obediently Tammy went round the two glass walls closing each set of Venetian blinds with a gentle tug of the cords. Suddenly it felt cosier. I turned to Jess who had now begun to reassert her self-control: 'Come on, honeypot, spill the beans.'

She glared at Tammy's attractive back view but refrained from any more name-calling.

To cut a long story short, she had just popped into the flat that morning to pick up something. Since she was still paying half the mortgage I hadn't dared to ask her to return her set of keys. So in she breezed and, of course, had to take a peek at everything.

This was how Jess found Tammy's birthday card to me stuck on the pinboard in the kitchenette. Two adorable puppies in matching bows, I just couldn't take it down. And it showed a different side to Tammy that she rarely let out when she was at work.

The birthday was almost a month ago, so I had put my other cards away in a drawer, including the one from Jess, an ostentatiously arty number with a plain inside that she had filled with a load of nostalgic mush. Perhaps understandably, she had flown to an immediate conclusion about Tammy and me. As it happened she was way ahead of the mark; but, in a perverse sort of way, her words set me wondering.

Jess's breathless account eventually drew to a close. She had come straight round here in a jealous rage, expecting to have it out with me. Instead she found Tammy efficiently handling the business in my absence. So she staged a scene, threatening her with exposure and dismissal. The whole thing must have been a bombshell for my PA, since we had never discussed our sex lives or anything in that area. Frankly we both had too much on our minds during the working day.

The phone rang, making us all jump. 'Say I'll call back later then take the receiver off the hook,' I instructed Tammy.

I thought hard while Tammy took the call. I was not my usual decisive self after that heavy lunch at Pedro's. It was hard to concentrate on how to deal equitably with this situation. Both of them had over-reacted. Jess had just plunged in and made totally groundless and pointless accusation. Tamara should not have reacted so impulsively but then again she was young and probably felt threatened.

It was up to me to find a solution that seemed just to both sides. I certainly didn't want to sack Tammy. On the other hand Jess and I went back a long way and her investment was keeping the business out of overdraft. They were both standing facing me like errant schoolgirls with scowling expressions, while Jess had the fetching addition of one burning cheek only half hidden by her long hair.

I pushed my reclining chair back a little and picked up the em-rule from its habitual position beside my desk PC. It was a steel ruler just over a foot long marked off in printer's traditional em units. Why I kept it I don't know since it was a relic of hot-metal days. All type layout was done on-screen these days.

But then, as I slid its engraved surfaces between finger and thumb, I thought maybe there was a use after all. The two of them had behaved like schoolgirls, so that is just how I would treat them. In retrospect I put the events of that afternoon down to the lingering effects of that heavy Chilean claret, but at the time I suddenly saw how I could defuse the situation. And also indulge myself into the bargain. I cleared my throat and sat up straight.

'Now listen hard, the two of you. I can't have this kind of catfight going on at Purple Pros. For a start it disrupts production and secondly this is my office as long as I run the business. So I need to make an example of you both.'

'You surely don't mean to punish us?' Jess asked with a hint of sarcasm. 'I don't see why anything I've done should need to be accounted for.'

'That's exactly what I intend doing. Look a bit harder at yourself, Jess,' I could feel my confidence growing as I sensed a way of getting even with her for those months of mental torment she put me through when we lived together. 'You're supposed to be a director of this company. You come bursting in here, causing consternation to the workforce and upsetting Tammy over some fantastic notion you've picked up.'

She opened her mouth but I cut in quickly.

'And Tammy, what you did was inexcusable. No, I'm afraid an apology is insufficient and too late. I have high hopes for your career in management but self-control is an essential quality. So you need to be taught a lesson too.'

I paused for breath. Both of them were clearly puzzled at what was coming next. Did either of them have an inkling of what I was about to say? I slapped the steel rule into my palm, and I noticed Jess's jaw drop open slightly.

'You can see what I've got in my hand. And from what I've just said you must both realise your behaviour was childish. I propose punishing you in just the way children used to be punished. Six sharp strokes on the buttocks for each of you and then we'll forget all about it. Otherwise...'

'This is preposterous!' Jess burst out, 'I'm not going to take this from you, Jo.'

'In that case, I want my front door key returned right now, Jess.'

She went silent. Tammy looked thunderstruck, but then she looked at Jess with a smile playing at her lips. The little minx was always quick to grasp a situation.

I looked them both in the eye and neither found anything to say for a few seconds. Tammy was clearly taken aback at the idea of being made to take corporal punishment, but she was probably weighing up the alternatives. She was the first to find her voice.

'On the bare arse with that?'

'Yes, it will sound worse than it feels. Nobody will hear above the machine noise. As long as you don't yell the place down.'

I faced her without a smile, although inwardly I was willing her to accept.

'Okay, just six.' She whispered looking down at the floor.

'You will both be treated equally with regard to the severity of the punishment and each will watch the other receiving it. Now if you're ready, Tammy I think you should go first.'

I stood up and removed the jacket of my power-dressing outfit.

I swivelled the soft leather chair around so that its back was secure against the edge of my desk.

It was now up to Tammy to make the next move. Giving me a brief quizzical look, she slipped out of her mules and unzipped her tight-fitting jeans. Sitting on the edge of her desk she pulled these off, revealing a pair of shapely legs that, despite her slightness, looked long and smooth emphasising the whiteness of her skin.

She now wore a light tummy-length blouse and blue satin briefs which, as she turned to place the jeans on her desk, turned out to be merely a thong.

'That comes off,' Jess immediately rapped out. 'You said bare bottom and that means a total strip below the waist.'

Tammy shot her a poisonous look. But then she looked in my direction. I nodded and, noting my reaction, she gracefully slipped the skimpy satin garment down to the floor and stepped out of it. Quickly she moved past Jess to the chair where I was waiting. I noted with satisfaction that her sparse pubic hair was exactly the same shade of straw.

'Do I kneel?' she looked me straight in the eye with a ghost of a smile.

I felt my mouth going dry in anticipation. 'Lean over and rest your weight on the desk top. Now arch your back so that I can get a fine view of your bare arse.'

Her fair-skinned body looked especially vulnerable against the dark leather. Her physique was supple and she did it beautifully. By bending over her I was able to savour the faintly acrid fragrance of her sex.

'Are you ready?'

She turned and nodded. Tammy continued to look over her shoulder as I raised my hand to give her the first. It was more gentle than I had intended and Jess noticed.

'Harder, Jo. The girl is supposed to be feeling she's punished.'

The second and third strokes were more wristy, but still she kept looking. On the fourth, which I delivered with some arm muscle, she flinched and turned to face the front. I noticed that her petite rump was mottling over with angry red blotches. On the fifth stroke she let out a gasp and waggled her hips a little.

'Last one, Tammy. Come on, let's see that burning backside in all its splendour.'

Bless her, she did arch herself again and displayed those perfectly rounded haunches again for my delectation. I took a few seconds to take them in and notice the unmistakeable glistening at her fold.

'Get on with it, and make this a good one!' Jess again.

The final stroke took both buttocks with equal force, the warmed steel rule flexing appreciably as contact was made with a satisfying slap. This time Tammy wriggled much more vigorously and I could have sworn I heard a soft moan. If so, it was quickly swallowed.

Slowly she pushed herself upright. Knowing that Jess and I were rooting our gaze on her rosy orbs, she walked slowly back to her desk without any attempt to cover herself. There was defiance, pride even, in her walk. But self-control too. She quickly dressed, scarcely wincing as the jeans were pulled back on.

Now it was Jess's turn. To give her her due, she didn't hesitate. She removed her big hooped earrings then, unzipping the crimson creation at the side, she pulled it over her head in a flurry of auburn tresses. Underneath she was only wearing tights and pants, so these had to come off too if she was to be equal with Tammy. In that case she would face us both naked.

'Take the lot off,' breathed Tammy, standing with her arms akimbo, savouring Jess's discomfiture. She could hardly beg for clemency since she had shown her rival no mercy.

With her tights cast aside Jess stood in very classy high-cut briefs with lace panels. They would take away little of the sting, I reasoned, but it was only fair she should have a bare bottom too. She slipped them off without looking over her shoulder at where Tammy stood.

Undoing the top button of my silk blouse, I fanned myself. It was getting warm in here. Then I laid a hand on Jess's familiar shoulder to push her down a little. 'Now, Jess, are you ready for your share of punishment?'

She grunted, and as I raised my arm I was suddenly aware of Tammy moving stealthily towards the glass partition behind us.

But I needed to concentrate on Jess's quivering globes which clearly showed the imprint of elasticated lace.

'One'. Jess bolted upright with a hiss of indrawn breath. I pushed her down again hard and delivered the second with slightly more wrist. At that she tried to get off the chair, rubbing her haunch vigorously, but I grabbed a handful of her hair to hold her in place. Relaxed by the wine intake I was beginning to enjoy getting my own back.

With number three she swore aloud, but I held her fast by her hair. Her buttocks were now at least as scarlet as her cheek where Tammy had slapped her.

'One extra for that. This is for your own good, Jess. You're kneeling here stripped to the buff. I would have thought you'd want to get this over as soon as possible.'

I gave her number four and, while waiting for her bucking to stop, looked over my shoulder at Tammy. She caught my gaze and gave me a slow conspiratorial smile. I wasn't entirely sure what she meant by it.

Then I noticed that she held the cord of one venetian blind and was very gently opening the louvres a crack at a time.

Jess, of course, was too occupied with her own discomforts to notice.

By the time I had finished with her Jess was certainly tingling. Her glowing buttocks no longer showed the lacy trim of her briefs. But she didn't realise that she had also been granting a free show to most of the Purple Pros workforce. By the time she was on her feet again, Tammy had stealthily pulled the blinds closed.

I really should have punished the little urchin again for such a mean-spirited act. But I was now quite worn out with so much physical exertion in a single afternoon. Besides, I thought it would be prudent to save up Tammy's misdemeanours for further correction. Next time we would carry it out well away from Purple Pros.

New term at St Elia's

Story from Janus 27.

New term at St Elia's
by Johnny Chesham


PENELOPE FORSTER sat in the railway carriage looking out at the Sussex Downs with a resentful expression on her pretty, freckled face. Tomorrow was first day of term at St. Elia's High School for Girls and any minute now she would be joined by all the other schoolgirls reminding her that her freedom was over. She had enjoyed the vac and met a super boy too, but now she was back to all the rules and discipline of a strict girls' boarding school.

As the train drew into the junction she saw hordes of girls in the blue and white striped blazers of St. Elia's swarming about in straw hats, navy blue gym-slips and white knee-length socks, waving hockey sticks and satchels, reminding her all too clearly of the school life she was so tired of.

In a flash she saw the answer: 'Of course,' she thought, 'I'll get myself expelled!'

Why hadn't she thought of it before? St Elia's was full of rules and regulations that everyone tried not to break. If she set out to break them all surely they'd pack her off in no time, back home to where that handsome young man had been so interested in her uniform and even asked her to pose in it for him!

The others piled into the carriage. Among them was Georgina Worsley, a slim, attractive young lady with long brunette curls who slept next to Penelope in blue dorm. They were best friends, both fed up with St. Elia's and both keen on the boys from the village who always looked at them and whistled when they walked by in their short navy gymslips and white blouses. Georgina was form captain this term and wore a new metal shield on her blazer lapel.

'Hello, Penny!' she said. 'I spotted you looking miserable from down the platform!' she added with a smile.

'Hello, Georgie!' Penny replied laughing. 'You're right, I was down in the dumps, but now I think I've got an idea to put everything right!'

'Oh, tell me all,' asked Georgie intrigued.

'Not now,' Penny said with a glance towards a Senior Prefect in a nearby seat, 'Wait until tonight.'

An hour later the train drew into Castleton and crowds of schoolgirls leapt onto the platform. Last term some girls from Oakwood Priory, the nearby day school, had caused a row and sure enough there were a few in their uniform of grey blazers, grey pleated skirts, berets and ankle socks. There was a sudden hush, however, when onto the platform strode Miss Faversharn, Headmistress of St. Elia's, an attractive but severe looking woman in her forties with an air of authority which brought instant obedience. Surrounded by Prefects, she directed the girls to taxis and buses in a swift and orderly fashion, an imposing and elegant figure in tweed suit and brogues.

Penny and Georgie trudged up the drive to St. Elia's, a rambling but impressive ivy-covered building surrounded by playing fields. The afternoon passed in busy new term formalities and both girls were glad when it was time for dorm. They took off their blazers and gymslips, put them carefully away and sat on their steel-framed beds in bras and navy blue cotton knickers.

'Oh, I nearly forgot,' Georgina said, 'What's this great idea of yours?'

'Quite simple!' replied her friend, pausing for effect. 'I'm going to get myself expelled!'

'You're what?' cried Georgie in amazement and listened with fascination as Penny explained her plan.

'But what's more,' she concluded. 'I'm going to need your help. Can I count on you?'

Georgie looked seriously at the pretty, blonde schoolgirl for whom she had such admiration and answered, 'Absolutely, Penny.'

'I knew you wouldn't let me down!' Penny exclaimed and threw her arms around her friend. Any minute now Matron would come round for lights out so they gave each other a quick cuddle and an affectionate good night kiss before climbing into bed.

* * *

Monday afternoon was to be devoted to hockey trials which were of great importance at St. Elia's. Skipping games was a serious offence at any time but missing trials was unthinkable. Everyone would be involved and Penny decided this was her chance to slip away to the village. It was a glorious afternoon as she strolled over the Downs and she soon found herself in her favourite tea shop. She tucked into tea and toast with eclairs and vanilla slices and was thoroughly enjoying herself when she sensed a chilling presence enter the room.

She looked up and sure enough there was Eleanor Burns, the School Captain, and her friend Rosamund Grant.

Eleanor was a very attractive 18-year-old and much admired for her prowess at games, but was also dreaded as a strict disciplinarian with a rather cruel streak. Similarly Rosamund was a charming Prefect with a winning smile which many felt concealed a rather sadistic disposition. They wore striped blazers and ties but because of their seniority wore short, navy blue pleated skirts with black nylons and suspenders.

'Now, Forster,' the Captain intoned, 'Isn't it rather early in term to be breaking bounds?'

'At least Georgina Worsley's got some school spirit,' Rosamund Grant added with a knowing sneer.

Good old Georgie, thought Penelope! Now for it, she said to herself, no good doing things by half. She looked up calmly at her superiors and said firmly: 'Why don't you two piss off?'

They stood there stunned with open mouths. After a second Rosamund collected herself enough to say 'That's enough to get you expelled.'

Thank God for that, thought Penny. But suddenly Eleanor's eyes flashed and she said with a cruel smile, 'No, I think we'll deal with this young lady ourselves. Miss Faversham is extremely busy with trials and shouldn't be disturbed.'

Oh no, thought Penny! It was a rule at St Elia's that the School Captain could at her discretion administer corporal punishment. Penny had assumed she would be sent straight to Miss Faversham for an offence they all knew was worthy of expulsion, but Eleanor Burns had decided she would forgo that for the immense pleasure of herself giving Penelope Forster the beating of her life!

'Report to my study in thirty minutes,' she added crisply as the two seniors turned and walked smartly out of the tea rooms attracting appreciative glances from a parson and businessman at a nearby table.

Penny looked down at the eclairs in dismay. It had all gone wrong! She had bitten off much more than she could chew and now she would simply have to take the punishment though she shuddered at the thought.

She trudged back to St. Elia's with her head bowed and made her way through the oak panelled corridors to the School Captain's Study. She hesitated outside the door and trembled at the sound of a cane swishing repeatedly through the air. She winced as she heard Rosamund's voice say 'Try this thin one'. For a moment she thought of bunking but knew there was no escape. Biting her lip and tensing herself from head to toe she knocked on the door.

'Enter,' a firm, stern voice rang out.

Eleanor Burns and Rosamund Grant stood arms folded behind a polished mahogany desk, to the rear a mantelpiece on which stood a number of cups and trophies. Framed photos of hockey and netball teams lined the panelled walls. On the desk reposed a selection of straight and crook-handled canes, an old gym shoe and a wire hair brush.

'Take your knickers off,' the School Captain said matter-of-factly.

Penny blushed. She bent down, put her hands up her gymslip and pulled her regulation navy blue cotton knickers down to her knees, standing there in helpless humiliation with her head bowed and eyes down.

The School Captain looked at her knickers with a sneer and ordered, 'Touch your toes!'

Penelope bent down obediently and touched her toes with her fingertips. Eleanor Burns flexed a pliant, straight cane. She walked round the desk, probed the cane under the offender's gym-slip and disdainfully flicked it forward to reveal the firm, pink orbs of her buttocks. Rosamund Grant took off her blazer and picked up the gym shoe with a smile. Penelope held her breath, every muscle taut, for what seemed like an eternity.

Suddenly the gym shoe smacked into her left buttock with an almightly stinging THWACKKK!

She shrieked out her pain, but before the shock left her it hit again and again in rapid succesion. She winced in agony, biting her lip as the stinging rubber rained down on her reddening cheeks harder and harder. Rosamund hammered the shoe down with mighty blows, the smacks of hard rubber on tender bare buttock flesh ringing round the study mingling with Penny's yells and moans. Her face contorted in pain as she reached a plateau of panic that she just couldn't stand any more. As if by telepathy Rosamund Grant, by now breathing rather heavily, stood straight and stopped.

Thank God, thought Penny, slightly raising herself.

'How dare yon move without permission!' Eleanor almost screamed. 'That was just the warm up!'

Penny's spirits sank and she braced herself again in dismay. The School Captain selected a long, thin, crook-handled cane from the desk and positioned herself with legs apart and left hand on the small of Penelope's back. Penny squeezed every muscle vice-like in an agony of anticipation. She could hear cheering from the hockey field and thought what she would give to be out there now.

Suddenly the cane slashed through the air and landed like a razor on Penny's naked, red buttocks!

'YEOWWW!' she shrieked out in shock and pain. Eleanor raised her right arm high and brought the cane down with tremendous power again and again in mighty strokes. Penny's efforts to maintain some self control and dignity suddenly collapsed and she burst into floods of tears. Deep red weals crisscrossed the firm young buttocks as Penny yelled out her anguish uncontrollably, tears now pouring down her red cheeks.

Lumpy red welts blossomed under the firm, persistant lash of the angry cane, Eleanor's face set in determined concentration as she rained down blow after blow on the twin, quivering cheeks by now flaming red with thin bluish bruises. Penny yelled out in torment as each new cane stroke whipped into her agonised buttocks now red raw from the relentless bombardment.

Rosamund looked on at her friend's superb performance and flushed with unashamed admiration.

The School Captain steadied herself and suddenly transferred the long, whistling strokes to Penelope's upper legs – a new and unsuspecting target. Bright red lines immediately appeared in the firm, pink flesh below the inflamed buttocks as Penny shrieked and sobbed. Eleanor inflicted more and more flashing strokes of the merciless cane as if possessed by an inexhaustible energy. Penny's face was now a contorted mask of pain, wailing and sobbing very loudly.

The bell for Evensong suddenly rang out but Eleanor seemed oblivious as she lashed the whipping, swiping cane into the raw bruised cheeks now all bright crimson. Rosamund Grant, looking slightly concerned, coughed quietly and the School Captain looked up flushed with blazing eyes and slowly ran her fingers down the length of the cane.

'You are dismissed, Forster,' she said with a slight thickness in her voice.

Penny slowly raised herself and pulled up her navy blue knickers around the flaming cheeks of her backside which were chafed unbearably by the tight elastic. She held her handkerchief to her eyes while with the other hand she tried to give some comfort to her throbbing buttocks.

Crying openly and with her eyes fixed to the ground Penny curtsied, said 'Thank you, Miss Burns,' and ran from the room.

Rosamund rushed up to Eleanor, planted a warm kiss on her full, sullen lips and blurted with real feeling: 'Good show, Captain!'

* * *

Georgina gasped at the sight that greeted her on entering the dorm. Penny was lying face down on her bed with her knickers around her ankles, her hands clasped round her bright crimson buttocks as she sobbed her heart out into the pink pillowcase.

'Darling!' Georgie cried out in shock and rushed to her friend's side.

Penny looked at her through tear-filled eyes and slowly described the events leading to the beating of her life. Georgina laid her hockey stick by the bed and reached into her locker.

'Let's try some of this,' she said, taking out a white glass jar of cold cream. She scooped out a handful of the smooth white cream and gently laid it on Penny's left buttock. It felt like ice on a burning desert. Lovingly she spread it carefully around the delightful curved forms, bringing some slight comfort to the ravaged flesh and hard, raised welts that had now appeared.

Penny squealed as the seared nerves protested but lay passive, gladly accepting the gentle massaging palms and the fragrant viscous cream. Ceorgie's hands took on a life of their own as they gently moulded the perfect curves of Penny's bottom and thighs. Poor old Penny, she thought with deep sympathy and was about to lean down and plant a gentle kiss on the scorched, tormented flesh when the door suddenly opened and Matron walked briskly into the dorm.

'What on earth is going on here?' she exclaimed in her Scottish brogue.

Matron was a quite attractive woman in her late thirties wearing a blue tunic with white apron and hat rather like a staff nurse in appearance. Around her waist she wore a thick blue leather belt. She was a sensible, no nonsense type of nurse with very strong views about the upbringing of teenage girls.

'Awfully sorry, Matron,' answered Georgina, quickly withdrawing a hand which seemed to have strayed between Penny's thighs. 'Penelope's rather sore and I was just trying to soften her skin a little.'

Matron looked at them for a moment with searching eyes as if assessing the truth of the situation. Her frown of suspicion finally softened and Georgina breathed a momentary sigh of relief.

'That's as maybe,' answered Matron, picking up the jar. 'But what, may I ask, is THIS?'

Georgic shuddered. One of the strictest rules at St. Elia's was that all cosmetic substances were expressly forbidden and Matron was notorious for her rigid enforcement of this rule. She knew she could expect no mercy. With a look of immense distaste Matron confiscated the jar and put it in her apron.

'You will both report to Miss Faversham at 9.30 tomorrow morning,' she ordered frostily and strode purposefully out of the dorm.

'That's torn it, old girl,' said Georgie in dismay.

Still face down, Penny groaned.

'With my luck they still won't throw me out,' she responded, knowing she would simply faint if even the slightest punishment were to be inflicted on her tender, ravaged rump the day after such a beating. Even sitting down would be agony all week as she well knew.

'Chin up, old girl,' Georgie said without much conviction.

Penny stretched out her arm and their fingers entwined tenderly. Georgie knelt down and stroked Penny's soft blonde curls. She turned her head and their tired, worried eyes met in a gaze of affection. They leant towards each other and sealed this most wretched of days with the consolation of a loving, good night kiss...

* * *

At 9.30 precisely the two pretty schoolgirls stood side by side in full uniform outside the Headmistress' Study. On the oak panelled door a shiny brass plate read Miss Cynthia Faversham, M.A. (Oxon.) – Headmistress. They exchanged a last look of apprehension and dread before Georgina bit her lip and knocked faintly on the oak.

No sound emerged from the study except the swish of a cane singing through the air like a rapier, then a thinner cane whistling at a slightly higher pitch.

They looked at each other in dreadful anticipation as a tremendous thwack of the cane hitting an armchair sounded through the heavy door followed by several more in quick succession. They were both afraid of Miss Faversham at the best of times and now each could feel the other's fear as clearly as her own. Both schoolgirls were pale and trembling as Georgina tried to find courage to knock again.

But suddenly a cultured, stern voice rang out: 'Enter!'

The two offenders slowly entered the study with heads bowed and hands clasped in front of them, trembling with fright. Much of the study was lined with books; on the mantelpiece a large silver trophy with blue and white ribbons and above it a framed portrait of Her Majesty which dominated the room with an air of regal authority.

In the centre of the study was a large mahogany desk which had been cleared but for the jar of cold cream, three crook-handled canes of varying lengths and thicknesses and a heavy two-foot ruler with an ivory edge. An armchair of well worn leather was to the left of the desk and to the right French windows looked out onto the playing fields.

Framed in the windows was the tall figure of Miss Faversham flexing a long, straight cane elegantly in front of her with an air of imperious authority. Under her black academic gown she wore an expensive tweed suit, black stockings and stilettos with rather high heels. Her brunette hair fell in neat curls under the tasseled black mortar board. The fine features had a certain aloofness and a rather cold, hard expression was natural to her beauty.

The two offenders stared shamefully down at the carpet in total submission to her supreme authority.

Miss Faversham's eyes bored into them through her green tortoiseshell spectacles as she pursed her lips preparing to speak.

'It has been brought to my attention that in flagrant violation of a school rule you, Worsley, have seen fit to introduce this noxious substance onto the school premises,' she announced gravely whilst indicating the cold cream with a look of grim contempt.

Blushing with shame Georgina bowed her head further and answered in an almost inaudible voice, 'Yes, Miss Faversham.'

'It would appear,' the Headmistress continued, 'that you, Forster, were an accomplice in this serious offence.'

Penelope cast down her eyes and swallowed, 'Yes, Miss Faversham.'

The Head's firm gaze scanned the two offenders standing before her in abject humiliation. She had in fact noticed Worsley during the hockey trials, noting that her figure had matured considerably since last term, something not uncommon in girls of her form and that she was becoming a young lady of considerable charms. Happening to inspect the changing rooms after the game, she had seen Worsley in the shower and her impressions bad been confirmed by the lovely young body there revealed to her.

The girls looked down in the silence of immense guilt. The pause seemed endless. Penelope guessed from the Head's statement that a sound thrashing was inescapable for both of them. Her whole backside was still an aching, red-raw inferno that made moving painful and she simply couldn't conceive of further chastisement of its tender, ravaged surface.

Miss Faversham, however, had her own ideas.

'It has also been brought to my attention that you, Forster, were rightly and duly punished yesterday by the School Captain. Nonetheless the offence for which you are now before me undoubtedly merits a sound beating.'

Penny's head began to swim and she wondered if she was going to faint... the Head was perfectly correct and was entitled to thrash her again... she was shaking with nervousness and confusion... she knew she couldn't take the pain... and Miss Faversham never altered the rules...

'However,' the Head began suddenly, 'I have decided on this occasion that your punishment will be to fag for the School Captain all term. Furthermore you will be gated for the whole of this term and serve two hours extra work each evening. You are now dismissed.'

Penny couldn't believe her ears: Miss Faversham wasn't going to beat her! Every fibre of her body gasped with relief. With a wince she managed a curtsy, said, 'Thank you, Miss Faversham' without raising her eyes and walked stiffly from the study, still wondering if she was imagining it.

Georgina looked down nervously at the carpet frightened and alone before the all-powerful figure of the Headmistress. The girl wondered why Penny had been let off, it was most unlike Miss Faversham, and now what would become of her?

The Head scanned the length of the lovely young schoolgirl in striped blazer, gymslip and white socks. She was indeed delightfully pretty. Miss Faversham walked to her desk and picked up the long, heavy ruler, then seated herself in the armchair. Bells chimed in the Sussex landscape.

'You will position yourself across my knee, Worsley,' the Headmistress suddenly commanded.

'Yes, Miss Faversham,' Georgina replied quietly and walked across the study, her legs like jelly and her head bowed. She dropped obediently to her knees before the imperious figure of the Head, feeling desperately ashamed of herself. Then she leant forward across the tweed skirt with her elbows on the carpet, her face a few inches off the floor.

'It is my intention to remove your knickers,' the Headmistress announced with inflexible authority.

'Yes, Miss Faversham,' said Georgina blushing deep crimson.

The Headmistress placed her right hand on the schoolgirl's thigh just above the knee and slowly pushed it under her navy gymslip feeling the exquisite curve of the leg. Her fingers reached the navy blue cotton knickers but seemed to fumble at the elastic and pass on up to the buttock, smoothing down the creases of the skimpy knickers and moulding the enticing form of her rump. Then an exploring left hand caressed the left thigh and also reached the ripe young cheeks, carefully smoothing down the knickers stretched taut over the soft but firm orbs.

Georgina waited in an agony of tension for the inevitable onslaught to begin. Was it taking a long time or was she just imagining it? She was too distraught to be able to tell.

The Headmistress caressed both buttocks lovingly through soft, cotton knickers... she hardly regretted the other schoolgirl's absence... suddenly as if collecting herself she slipped her long varnished nails under the elastic at the gusset, indenting the girl's flesh, then slowly drew the knickers down to the girl's knees. With her left hand she softly folded the gymslip over, revealing the naked cheeks, like the ceremonial unveiling of some sublime sculpture. They were firm, white and of delightful shape, unblemished but for a few goose pimples and the reddish lines of the elastic.

Georgina gritted her teeth in an agony of anticipation and flushed hot and cold. The silence seemed absolutely endless.

Suddenly Miss Faversham raised the ruler high above her head and brought it swinging down with all her force across both buttocks with a tremendous SMACKKK!

Georgina howled out her shock and pain in a shrieking 'YEOWWW!'

Before she could begin to absorb the stinging pain of the blow another landed on the same spot, then another and another in rapid succession. Her right leg kicked up involuntarily as the stinging ruler smacked home across her throbbing rump and a first tear rolled down her cheek. Her buttocks went pink and wriggled uncontrollably, she gasped and shrieked as the ruler rose and fell as if possessed of a life of its own. Miss Faversham's brow knitted in concentration as she rained down one powerful blow after another across the stinging, reddening target.

Georgie's very pretty face winced and contorted in pain, a mask of perspiration and tears. She gasped at the agonising force of the ruler smacking her tender buttock cheeks and screamed out as the edge of the merciless ruler wickedly tortured the scarlet flesh.

Sobbing piteously she held her head on the floor as she helplessly endured the shower of blows rained down on her by her relentless Mistress, inwardly begging her to stop but knowing that the slightest protest would only intensify her agony. And how long would the anguish go on? This uncertainty was almost as bad as the pain itself.

As the vicious ruler beat into her rump she vowed she would never again disobey Miss Faversham, so total was her domination.

But at last the ruler rested still on her swollen, searing buttocks. She sobbed, a completely broken spirit, her raw, chastised posterior humbly presented to her mighty Mistress and tormentor.

Miss Faversham surveyed her handiwork. The buttocks and upper thighs were thoroughly red with the odd deeper welt from the ruler's edge and raised lumps where carefully aimed blows had been imprinted on top of each other. So far so good, she thought.

'You will now position yourself across the desk,' the Head commanded sternly. Georgina slowly lifted herself to her feet, now a dishevelled parody of the neat schoolgirl who had entered the study, her striped tie undone, long dark hair unkempt across her face, knickers hanging round her ankles, her face bowed in profound shame and mortification.

As if reading her thoughts the Headmistress commanded: 'Remove your knickers completely, Worsley.'

'Yes, Miss Faversham,' Georgina answered weakly, kicking off her navy knickers leaving the crumpled garment rather pathetically on the carpet, her last slight hope of protection gone.

Her legs felt like jelly but she managed to walk stiffly across the study. She stood close to the edge of the desk and leant painfully forward across the top holding the further edge of the desk with her hands; a perfect target. The desk top was hard and uncomfortable beneath her aching ribs as she turned her head slightly to look imploringly at her formidable tormentor, tears trickling down her cheeks, her breath coming in whimpers.

The Headmistress flexed a long, fearful cane as if transfixed by the pliant power she held between her hands. She walked around the desk and positioned herself with legs apart, a carefully measured distance from the sobbing schoolgirl. Her left hand smoothed down the navy blue gymslip and lingered on the curve of the chastised bottom beneath. Then she folded the garment over to reveal the hot blotched buttocks and thighs separated by her shiny bush of dense, dark hair.

Miss Faversham held the cane just above the centre of those once silky smooth buttocks which she herself had transformed into flaming mounds. Georgina screwed her eyes up tight, every muscle a vice of tension awaiting the coming onslaught. The moment seemed to go on forever. She heard a church bell ringing away across the Downs. The Headmistress was poised like an Olympic jumper awaiting the perfect moment to launch herself...

Suddenly she jerked the cane high above her head and brought it down with every ounce of her weight in an almighty THWACKKK across the middle of Georgina's rump!

The girl shrieked out in agony and shock, her legs kicking up automatically as a merciless shower of mighty whacks followed in unbelievably quick succession. Her bum wriggled frantically in a futile attempt to escape the flashing cane which scorched her buttocks with an anger rare even in Miss Faversham. Her whole rump was blazing under its furious, stinging lashes. Wincing and gritting her teeth desperately at the ever-increasing pain, her head swam and she wondered if she would faint. Her buttocks which had previously been thoroughly red blotched were now striped with almost mathematical precision by rising red ridges and crimson weals down to the tops of her thighs.

'YEOWWWW!' she howled over and over again, her cries echoing around the wails. Georgie wept her heart out as the Head thrashed down stroke after stroke as if possessed by some superpotent force. The deafening THWACKS mingled with her howls, shrieks and screams, her buttocks vainly squirming, legs kicking wildly after each new whipping blow...

Then as if by some divine intervention there was a firm knock at the door. Miss Faversham paused, collected herself and answered in her cultured tones:

'I am engaged at present, who is it?'

A Scottish voice replied, 'Begging your pardon Headmistress, Lady Fairfax has arrived and is looking over the library.'

'Very well, Matron,' she called out. 'I will join her directly.'

Miss Faversham set aside her cane, calmed herself and adjusted her suit and hair. Lady Fairfax was a wealthy old girl and an important benefactor of St. Elia's.

She turned to the pathetic figure of Georgie crying loudly across the desk too frightened to move. The Head uttered the commanding words 'You are now dismissed, Worsley' and strode purposefully from the room.

* * *

The next afternoon Penny found herself hard at work in the School Captain's Study. She was thoroughly miserable, her expulsion plan just wasn't working.

What a term she thought to herself! It was only Wednesday and already she'd been thrashed, gated, and to cap it all now she was down on her knees with a dustpan sweeping up for Eleanor Burns in the undignified role of fag – a position normally filled by much younger junior girls, and only very rarely awarded to a senior as a humiliating punishment. Added to that, because of her, poor Georgina had been severely thrashed and was even now in the dorm trying vainly to soothe her blazing bottom.

Things couldn't get much worse!

Penny got to her feet and began dusting off the bookshelves. She stretched awkwardly to reach the top shelf, lost balance and down came half a dozen books in a heap on the floor.

'Oh hell!' she yelled, hoping Eleanor didn't come in.

She began putting the books back when out of a diary dropped a pink envelope. On the front was written 'To Darling Eleanor'. What a laugh Penny thought! Some steamy love letter from one of Eleanor's boyfriends! Listening carefully for footsteps outside in the corridor she slipped the letter out and unfolded it. Her sly smile of amusement changed to a look of astonishment as she read on.

It was a steamy love letter all right, but it was from Rosamund Grant!

As the truth dawned on Penny other thoughts ran through her mind. She folded the letter back into the envelope and put it in her pocket, quickly finished her tasks in a preoccupied mood and made her way back to the dorm. She was walking on air. Being expelled suddenly seemed unimportant. The letter could change everything.

Georgie was lying on her bed on her tummy reading a girl's magazine and wincing noticeably as she changed position. Penny sat on the edge of her bed in a state of some excitement.

'Georgie, you won't believe what I've found!' she cried.

Georgina was much too keenly aware of her red raw buttocks still throbbing and immensely tender from yesterday's thrashing to raise much enthusiasm. However, as she read the letter which Penny handed over her expression changed to one of amazement.

'Gosh!' she exclaimed. 'I knew they were close friends but this is pretty strong stuff!'

'You're not kidding,' Penny agreed. She took the letter and read out in a mock romantic voice: 'I long for the touch of your ripe young breasts.'

They both burst into peals of laughter! Then Penny grew more serious.

'The thing is, Georgie, this is our chance to settle scores with those two little tyrants, isn't it?'

Georgie's expression changed too. She hadn't seen that side of it.

'You don't mean...' she began.

'I mean this letter's going straight under Miss Faversham's door while everyone's at supper,' she said clearly and with determination.

'Crikey,' Georgie said. This was going to make some waves!

* * *

The next morning Miss Faversham's face bore a concerned expression as she sat behind her desk rereading the pink letter which had appeared under her door the previous evening. This was a serious matter and she had called on Matron for a discussion.

'There's the reputation of the School to think of, Headmistress,' Matron reminded her.

Miss Faversham realised this. If two such senior girls were expelled the Press would get hold of it. In short there would be a dreadful scandal. On the other hand something of this sort could not possibly go unpunished...

Gardening detail

Story from Blushes Supplement 24.

Gardening detail

'What do you think, Emily?'

It is the grounds Mrs Wilding is referring to, not the house. The grounds, the gardens, these flower beds. The house is probably early Victorian, quite large and evidently not in the best state of repair. Partly no doubt, as Mrs Wilding has said, because it has not been lived in for several years. But it is the grounds that Mrs Wilding means. The grounds that have likewise evidently not been cultivated for at least that period. They look more like a jungle. It is difficult to see where the flower beds begin and the lawns end. These lawns which look more like fields of meadow grass.

'It shouldn't be too difficult. What d'you think? I mean for a big strong girl like you.'

Emily is quite strong. She is well-built, a shapely girl whose shape is at present shown to good advantage in a brief, form-fitting outfit of skimpy sleevless top and short, tight skirt. Below, her long bare legs end in white high-heeled shoes, which one might think are entirely unsuitable for this task Mrs Wilding is proposing for her.

'I can't...' she gasps. There's no way. It needs... ten gardeners or something. There's no way!

Mrs Wilding makes a snorting sort of sound. 'Don't be silly, Emily. Don't be negative. A big girl like you. Nineteen, isn't it?' She steps close, her voice harder. 'Let me spell it out, Emily...'

* * *

'How old is she, exactly?' the voice asks on the phone and Constance Gilford says 'Nineteen'.

'Oh well, she's certainly old enough then. In fact any older and a girl will be getting very set in her ways. If she's never had any... er... of it before. And you did say she hadn't?'

Constance Gilford, blinking, says an awed 'No' into the phone, as if the very thought is not easily comprehendable. No, Emily has never had anything remotely of that sort. 'I haven't... well I couldn't... You see, her father... left. Some years ago and...'

'Ah yes. Well then...'

'But she won't. I mean I don't see how!' Emily simply wouldn't accept that sort of thing is what Constance is saying. The thought is quite impossible. 'She has developed... a rather strong will, you see. A very strong will in fact. Discipline... oh dear...'

But the voice at the other end of the line sounds quite unimpressed by Emily's strong will. 'Oh don't worry about that, Mrs Gilford. I assure you I am quite capable of handling her. All I require is your agreement.'

* * *

Mrs Wilding has left. Going off in her smart little car and saying she won't be long. And when she gets back she wants to see... Emily shakes her head in impotent anger. If she had any transport – a car, even a bike – she would simply clear off. It is outrageous of this Mrs Wilding and also of her mother who has agreed to this outrageous thing. Emily gives the wheelbarrow a vicious kick. All this succeeds in doing is scratching the toe of her shiny white shoe. There is some satisfaction, though, in imagining that it is not the wheelbarrow but some soft part of Mrs Wilding's anatomy.

She has had a look round this dreadful place. It is big, the grounds probably over two acres in extent and all the same: like a wilderness. How can Mrs Wilding conceivably tell her she has to clear this place up. Single handedly. She should have told that Mrs Wilding... well she did in a way. And of course Emily has not go on with it, as Mrs Wilding instructed. And when that woman gets back...

* * *

When Mrs Wilding gets back she is not alone. A male passenger has got out of the little car and is coming with Mrs Wilding across to the weed-infested terrace where Emily was left and where she stands now. Emily experiences a little shiver. Mrs Wilding has a somewhat formidable manner and there is of course now this man. Mr Wilding? He is in an old jacket and trousers. Older than Mrs Wilding: 50ish?

'Hello, Emily. This is Mr Smilby.' Mrs Wilding's voice is bright and cheerful, but with an edge. 'Well, show me what you've done then.'

There is of course nothing to show. The wheelbarrow and other garden impedimentia – rake, clippers, shears, etc – are all exactly as Mrs Wilding has left them. And every weed is still flourishing, every overgrown shrub as luxuriant as before.

'I... uh...' Somehow Emily's aggressive and hectoring speech will not come out. Perhaps anyway it is better to be more diplomatic. With this man...

Mrs Wilding strides forward, to put her face only inches from Emily's. 'I told you to get started, Emily. Do you perhaps not understand English?'

'I... uh...'

Mrs Wilding turns, to this Mr Smilby who is standing watching with interest. 'Mr Smilby, go and fetch my cane. In the back of the car.'

Mr Smilby says a respectful, 'Yes, Mrs Wilding.' Mrs Wilding's words hang in the still air. They were enunciated quite clearly in that precise upper-middle-class diction. There can be no doubt regarding the words. But the meaning... there must be some other meaning...

No, it is a cane as normally understood that Mr Smilby is carrying. A long, thin, whippy-looking cane of the type used... well, in boys schools, Emily thinks. Boys at school can get this, or could in the past, haven't they stopped that sort of thing now? She momentarily pictures a boy bent over so that his buttocks are skin-tight in his trousers. And this cane... The thought is arousing, but... Mr Smilby has handed the cane to Mrs Wilding. Her eyes are gleaming. She looks angry. She says:

'I am going to cane you, Emily. You seem to need something to buck your ideas up. So I am going to cane you. I am going to cane your bare bottom. So will you take your knickers off please?'

Emily stands, struck dumb, and numb. There is no mistaking Mrs Wilding's words which again are spoken with crystal clarity. But it must be at the least... a joke? Emily produces an uncertain smile. Mrs Wilding's cheeks are distinctly pink. With excitement – or anger?

'You'll be grinning on the other side of your face, my girl. Get those knickers off at once.'

If it is a joke it is an elaborate one. 'Look...' Emily manages.

'Will you take your knickers off?'

Emily shakes her head. What is happening. Has Mrs Wilding gone mad?

Apparently. 'Smilby! Get this girl's knickers off, will you.'

The silently watching Smilby steps smartly forward. 'Yes, Mrs Wilding.' To grab Emily firmly by the arm. She yells out. At close quarters he has a slightly sweaty, unwashed smell. A working-class smell, it seems to Emily. But it is not this that is primarily concerning her. His grip on her arm is like a vice and his other hand... 'Aaaaiiieee...'

His other hand has slid up Emily's short skirt. Up the front. Emily's legs are apart and the hand is in between them. She automatically closes her legs but the hand is in there. It pushes on up between the smooth inner slopes of her thighs; up to the brief crotch of Emily's knickers. This large male hand simply takes hold of her. Cupping Emily's crotch. Mr Smilby's hand is intimately holding her sex through the single layer of thin nylon, a layer so thin that it might as well not be there. Emily lets out a desperate yell and doubles forward, her own hand grabbing at Mr Smilby's shocking hand.

Mr Smilby is making no attempt to do what he is supposed to be doing which is get Emily's knickers off. He is simply having an outrageous feel at her private parts. Mrs Wilding doesn't know this, she can't see what his hand is doing and it probably seems to her that he is merely struggling with Emily to get her knickers off. Whereas in fact... Emily lets out another yelp. The hand is now working at the thin strip of nylon between her legs. Pulling it away. Unbelievably baring crisply curling hair and moist flesh. And...

'Aaarrghhhh...' Mr Smilby's fingers – two or three of them – are actually up inside her.

Just for a short but devastating few seconds. Then the fingers slide out, the hand comes away, out from between Emily's legs. It now does what it is supposed to be doing. Begins dragging her knickers down. Emily is too shell-shocked to put up any resistance. The brief white knickers appear below the hem of the short skirt. Emily is trembling like a leaf. Mr Smilby bends, to get the knickers off over the high-heeled shoes. There is nothing Emily can do except numbly put her hand out, to Mr Smilby's bending figure, for support... and weakly lift her feet: left... right...

'He... he... touched me. Right...' she stutters, to Mrs Wilding.

'And I'll touch you, my girl,' Mrs Wilding rasps, clearly unconcerned as to what may have been going on under Emily's skirt. 'I'm going to touch you all right. Pull up your skirt and bend over there.'

Mrs Wilding is indicating a low stone parapet which like everything else here has splendid weeds springing from every crevice. For the moment Emily has forgotten the cane, the excuse for Mr Smilby's horrendous assault. She is shaking, gasping for breath, the memory of those fingers as vivid as if they were still inside her. But now... the cane...

Emily doesn't intend any further argument but in the numb state she is in she doesn't immediately do as instructed. 'Smilby!' barks Mrs Wilding. 'Get her over there.'

Another frantic yelp. Emily is going to do it. But Mr Smilby is more than ready to oblige. He unceremoniously grabs her again. He is a lot stronger than she is. Mr Smilby may be 50ish but he is fit, his body against her, with its strong, stale smell, firm and hard-muscled. He roughly manhandles her over to the parapet. There he has his body between Emily and Mrs Wilding. So she cannot see what he is doing. Mr Smilby's hand slides up Emily's skirt again. Up the back this time, up the undersides of her thighs; to her now nude bottom. A quick grope at that and then the hand is doing what it did before: delving in between Emily's legs. She yells out but she can't stop the hand. His fingers are at her now quite unprotected sex.

As before, having accomplished this devastating act Mr Smilby after a few seconds desists. The probing fingers withdraw. The hand comes away. As before he has managed to do this dreadful thing without Mrs Wilding knowing... His action has once more reduced Emily to a quivering jelly though. She has no resistance as he now pushes her face-down over the low stone wall. And drags her skirt up round her waist.

Mr Smilby holds her there and now it is the turn of Mrs Wilding. With her cane. Slicing it vigorously down onto those ripe and quivering bare nates. Emily emits another frantic yelp. A yell of pain this time, not outrage. Well there is probably some outrage in it, it is an outrageous thing to be held down by a dreadful man while an equally dreadful woman whips a cane into your bare bottom. But mostly it is the killing pain...

Emily gets four. Four zipping, mind-bending cuts with the long whippy cane. The pain is unbearable, sufficient to cause her to forget, for the present at least, the dreadful actions of Mr Smilby. The explosive pain of the cane drives everything else out of head. Emily's bottom writhes and clenches, her bare legs kick and jerk. But the upper part of her body is firmly held down throughout by the large and capable hands of Mr Smilby.

Four vicious cuts. Mrs Wilding puts down the cane. 'Let her go, Smilby. We'll see if that has changed her attitude at all.'

Released, Emily almost collapses to the ground. The fiery pain in her rear is for the moment still as hot and urgent as ever. Somehow she manages to stay upright. Her skirt is up round her waist still. Emily weakly pushes it down.

'Well, Emily. Do you now get the message?'

The sharp, authoritarian tones of Mrs Wilding. Emily tries to answer but finds that words are difficult to produce. She is gasping for breath for one thing. She manages a 'Nnngghhh' sound. It is meant to be 'Yes, Mrs Wilding.' For Emily has certainly got the message that she had better comply, and at once, with whatever Mrs Wilding says. Or else...

'I want this whole place cleaned up. This back area for a start. I don't want to see one weed. All of this terrace and the paths and these flower beds. They're to be completely cleared out. After that I want the lawn cut and then you can take all the weeds out of that. Is that understood, my girl?'

Yes, it is understood. It is an impossible task but it is understood.

'I have to go off now. I shall be back this afternoon. When I shall expect to see it all done. And as you are such a willful and defiant girl, Emily, what I am going to do is leave Mr Smilby here with you. He will see you do keep at it.' Mrs Wilding turns to Mr Smilby.

'I shall leave you the cane, Smilby. Just do whatever you think is necessary.'

Emily, mouth dry and feeling like she is going to faint, hears Mr Smilby say a smug 'Yes, Mrs Wilding.'

* * *

The voice on the phone is as confident as ever. 'Just a quick call, Mrs Gilford. To let you know everything is going very well. Yes, we've made a very good start.'

Constance Gilford blinks, finding this difficult to believe. Emily, knuckling under to discipline! Amazing. But Mrs Wilding did seem a very capable person. 'Well, that's excellent,' she said. 'And I expect once she's settled in she'll find it quite pleasant and rewarding.'

* * *

The gardener's shed is round to the side, hidden from general view by a laurel hedge which like everything else is rampantly overgrown. It is dark inside, a bit gloomy. In the gloom Emily is struggling with Mr Smilby. It is not a struggle she can win of course, he is much too strong. Emily is making frantic yelping sounds but there is no one else to hear the yelps.

'Come on.' Mr Smilby says through gritted teeth. 'Don't be silly. You're a big girl. And then I'll help you with all the work. But first of all we're going to...'

Emily is in just her top. Her short skirt has already come off in the struggle, removed by Mr Smilby's strong, deft hands. And her knickers of course were removed earlier. Mr Smilby wants to get her over the work bench. And it is not Mrs Wilding's cane he is going to use on her.