Monday, 13 June 2011

Best Friends

Story from Janus 30.

Best Friends
by Mike Reid

SUE was a typical young girl of these times. A teenager looking far older than her actual 16 young years; tall, with a pretty face and blonde hair falling to her shoulders, and a gently curving body that showed the development of her sex was already well advanced, if not yet fully complete. In addition to her attractive facial qualities she had very long symmetrical legs, culminating in a pert, rounded bottom, which caused many a male head to turn and watch as she swayed suggestively along the street, especially when clad in tight blue jeans, in which she looked killing. Still a schoolgirl, she also caused a similar stir when traversing back and forth to and from school each day in her school uniform, comprising a very short grey pleated skirt, white blouse, white knee-length socks and, occasionally, a grey tie.

Generally she hung around with a small gang of girls of her own age, and whilst she enjoyed the company of boys, those of her acquaintance tended to act in an immature way and she came to regard them as rather childish. She was of course aware that older males found her attractive and she quite enjoyed the game of playing the 'innocent virgin' to see what reaction she could provoke, particularly amongst certain male schoolmasters, who she knew would be totally frustrated by her actions, including the apparently inadvertent flash of thighs or even her brief panties, or sometimes she would allow a firm young breast to peek out from her blouse when a few buttons 'happened' to become undone from time to time.

Her breasts were not yet overly large, but they were firm, with up-pointed nipples, which would seem to thrust themselves against the thin material of her blouse, especially when the air was cool, and could hardly escape attention. Apart from teasing her schoolmasters in this way, she also practised her young talents, when so minded, on shopkeepers and tradesmen alike, even more so in the Summer, when she happily donned the shortest and tightest of cut-off denim shorts, to run errands for her Mum, and was the cause of many near-accidents as drivers diverted their attention from the road to crane their necks and admire the long legs and exposed bottom cheeks so blatantly exhibited by the attractive young girl.

On many occasions she would hear, but ignore, the lewd suggestions shouted out to her by passing motorists, and likewise she never seemed to notice the innuendos and ambiguous comments made to her when actually doing the shopping, coming in the main from the older shopkeepers who, without exception, looked forward to her regular visits.

Every such shopping expedition took her into the modest-sized Newsagents and Tobbaconists run by a middle-aged man and his rather younger wife – Mr and Mrs Gaston – and whilst such visits were often prompted by necessity, more often than not it was just to pop in and see her former school chum Katherine, who now worked in the shop having just left school. Sue and Kate (as she liked to be called) were the very best of friends and Kate often tried to persuade Sue to join her in working in the shop part-time, suggesting that she would not only enjoy the money but also the very kind attentions of Mr Gaston, who she said was a real 'sweetie' and looked after her in an avuncular way, hinting that there was something going on between her and her employer. Sue took all these suggestions with a very large pinch of salt, knowing Kate so well from their previous close school camaraderie, for although Kate was older than her at 17, she knew she kept away from boys and seemed only to enjoy her own or Sue's company. Sue also knew that Kate did not have a happy home-life. Her mother, widowed soon after giving birth to Kate, was clearly struggling to bring up her daughter on her meagre earnings working in the local Chemist, supplemented to a small degree by a contribution from Kate's own earnings. Kate did however earn sufficient to ensure that she was always fashionably dressed, although when working in the shop she always wore the tightest of jeans, and always resisted every suggestion from Sue that she switch to shorts in the Summer, like herself. Sue found that a trifle strange, but decided not to pursue it. Certainly Kate looked sexy in tight jeans, as adjudged by Sue, being rather petite, with a figure not much unlike her own, although her bottom was slimmer and her breasts rather fuller, accentuated more often than not by the wearing of tight tee-shirts and no bra. Kate usually wore her brown hair tied into two bunches which tended to make her look much younger than she actually was.

Kate didn't work on Wednesday afternoons, being half-day closing, and quite often Kate and Sue would meet at each other's houses and play records, watch TV or, on some occasions, they would don their bikinis, but when these had been forgotten they would dare each other to brave the possible gaze of hidden observers, and swim in just their brief panties, even discarding those when they felt especially brave.

On one such day, in the middle of the hot pleasant days of August, Kate and Sue found themselves at the river bank, and with no one in sight Sue quickly slipped off her tee-shirt to expose her proud young breasts to the sun, and Kate soon followed suit. As the sun was almost unbearable, Sue suggested that a swim was the ideal solution and without further ado stood up, loosening her belt and unclipping her tiny shorts, allowing them to slip down her shapely legs. She was then standing in just a brief pair of tight white nylon panties, in the tanga style, with string-thin strips joining the front half to the back portion, barely covering her curvacious posterior and exposing well in excess of half of her lower cheeks, presenting a very attractive picture indeed. Kate, however, clad as always in her tight jeans, refused to join into the spirit of things despite much pleading from Sue who felt rather upset by her friend's reluctance to meet her own degree of exposure. After many words had been exchanged Sue, who was in a mischievous mood, grabbed hold of Kate from behind and exerting her strength, succeeded in unclipping Kate's jeans before wrestling her to the ground where a strenuous bout ensued, Kate fighting back rather harder than Sue expected. They had often in the past had mock fights with each other and Sue had never experienced much difficulty in overcoming her more slightly-built friend. In the continuing struggle, much to Kate's dismay, her jeans came gradually down her lithe legs, until with a quick jerk they were whipped away by Sue and hurled high into the air to catch just out of reach on the overhanging branch of a nearby tree. Kate promptly sat herself down on the grass, with a cross and sulky expression on her face; she too was now reduced to a tiny pair of knickers, which Sue glimpsed to be of the backless G-string kind, with just a thin band of elastic holding the small triangle of red nylon covering her pubic mound, from which peeked a few stray wisps of downy curls, matching her brown hair, with a similar strip of elastic running tightly between the cheeks of her bottom.

'Oh!' said Sue. 'They're nice – didn't you want me to see your sexy knicks?'

'Er! Er! No-o-oh,' said Kate, acting in a very flustered way.

'But they're super!' said Sue. 'I'd love some like that myself but I'm not sure what Mum and Dad would say when they appeared in the wash!'

'Oh! My Mum doesn't mind – in fact, she sometimes wears the same kind herself,' answered Kate who was by this time recovering some of her composure.

'Can I try them on, please,' Sue asked, but again Kate was not responsive, and without more ado Sue went quickly back into the attack, pushing Kate over sideways and onto her tummy on the green grass. Sue then sat on the bare back of her hapless victim, preventing her from getting up or turning over. It was at this stage, as Sue turned her head to examine the back of Kate's G-string, that she noticed some marks on Kate's bottom.


'Kate!' she cried. 'What on earth has happened to your bum? – Did I do that? Oh I am ever so sorry! I didn't mean to hurt you.'

Before Kate could respond Sue jumped off and gently started to stroke her friend's bottom, and then slowly realised that the marks she had seen were in fact horizontal stripes, something she could not possibly have caused during their little skirmish. Kate remained passively on the ground, as if resigned to her fate, as Sue continued to examine the faint lines more closely. After a little while Kate rolled over, and gazed up in a rather embarrassed way into Sue's inquisitive face.

'However did you get these marks?' said Sue softly, returning her gaze. 'I think they look like cane marks,' she continued. 'But who gave them to you? Was it your Mum? And was that the real reason why you didn't want me to see your bare behind?'

Again Kate became flustered. At first she denied that they were the result of a caning, but then, seeing the disbelieving look on her friend's face, she admitted that they were. Yet she refused to say why she had been so punished, or by whom.

'Right!' said Sue, who was by now determined to force the whole story from her friend, and she grabbed hold of Kate's slender wrists. Now Kate found herself being set upon in earnest and Sue, being the stronger of the two, was easily able to overpower her petite friend and hold her down, pinning her slim wrists together on the ground behind her head.

Although she struggled desperately to get free, Kate was unable to break away from Sue's steely grip. Sue continued to question her captive as to the cause and perpetrator of her recent caning. Kate steadfastly refused, however, to tell Sue how she got the cane marks across her bottom, despite being tickled unmercifully. Sue soon became exasperated by Kate's continued silence and seized on an idea to force the truth from her friend.

Seeing a long thin springy branch hanging from a nearby tree, she snapped off a two-foot length and held the whippy rod menacingly before Kate's startled face.

'Now you will tell me EVERYTHING, my dear, or else I shall give you a taste of this!' hissed Sue.


Sue then proceeded to run the end of the whippy switch slowly up and down the front of Kate's exposed, helpless body, from her feet, up the length of her legs, over the tapering columns of her thighs, rasping it momentarily over her barely concealed mound. Kate flinched at the press of the switch on her most sensitive spot, then with dreaded fascination watched it move slowly onwards, up over her flat stomach until it reached her generous breasts, still full and jutting though she lay supine on the grass. Sue then allowed the whippy end of the branch to stroke the soft undersides of Kate's nakedly exposed breasts, watching Kate's nipples become fully erect at the touch of the scratchy wand. Sue then brushed the cane down from these glorious summits momentarily, but soon brought it back again to toy casually with the by now flint-hard nipples, her eyes closely studying Kate's facial reactions which evidenced her acute fear as to what Sue might do next with the cruel-looking rod.

'Now,' said Sue, in a gently persuasive tone, 'I would like you to tell me now all about your punishment, because if you don't I am going to whip you with this nice little stick until you beg for mercy!!'

Again Kate remained mute, at which Sue deftly flicked the switch twice, once against Kate's lush, unsuspecting thighs, and then across the soft undersides of her two sweet breasts, causing her to yelp with surprised pain.

'OK,' said Sue, 'that was your last chance: as you won't tell me the truth you now have only TWO alternatives. Either you will now submit willingly to a good whipping on your bottom, or otherwise I will hold you down and use this cane on your poor little titties – which is it to be?'

Kate could not at first believe that her best friend would actually implement her dire threat and use the cruel switch on her sensitive breasts, but in the absence of a quick response she suddenly felt an agonising line of stinging pain burn through her upper torso as Sue gave her a swift cut with the whippy twig across both exposed breasts, just below the pert nipples. Kate, stunned by this turn of events, but still reluctant to tell about her previous caning, saw little alternative but to allow Sue to have her way and whack her bottom, much preferring that to the vastly worse alternative.

Without further delay, and to avoid additional punishment, Kate bit her lip and turned her body over. Sue released her grip, smiling to herself as her darling friend meekly submitted, pleading with her only not to be too harsh.

'No!' said Sue sternly. 'Not like that – I want you on your feet. Come on – get up!'

Meekly, Kate rose to her feet and stood solemnly before Sue, who then directed her to reach up and grasp hold firmly of the low, overhanging branch with both hands. Kate had to stretch herself fully to get a good grip, her feet barely touching the ground as she steeled herself for the punishment she knew was to come but which she had no choice but to endure.


Sue then proceeded to run the thin whippy switch up and down each side of Kate's fully extended body, starting at her wrists and running it slowly down her soft skin until it reached her feet, repeating the slow torture on the other side before turning her attention once again to the exposed front of poor Kate's nakedness. Sue slowly ran the slim cane up the front of her thighs, over her scarcely covered mound, upwards over her flat stomach until she reached Kate's bare breasts, stroking each exposed tittie in turn, noting how Kate's nipples were by now very stiffly erect. She found it every bit as strange that her own nipples were also extremely hard, and more than that: they seemed to be throbbing – something which had never happened to her before. Indeed, she felt totally strange, but it was a feeling she could not quite understand, other than that she was standing, nearly naked, out in the wilds, with her best friend also stripped to the barest minimum and wholly at her mercy – why was she feeling this way? She felt a strange kind of pleasure running through her body and after a moment's further reflection on her novel condition, turned to stand behind her friend, just at a slight angle to facilitate what she had in store for poor quivering Kate. Slowly she ran the slim tapering rod up and down Kate's exposed back parts, paying particular attention to the slim, firm backside now helplessly waiting before her. She asked Kate again if she was now willing to tell her all she wanted to know, but got no response, other than a weak plea for the punishment not to be too severe. But Sue was by now too aroused to pay any heed to Kate's begging and prepared to administer the switch to the very attractive bottom presented before her.

Sue felt peculiarly elated and excited, even before she raised the cane for the first stroke. But finally she could contain herself no longer, and proceeded to raise her arm and bring the swishy rod down crisply against Kate's unprotected bottom, catching it fully across both cheeks and producing a shriek from Kate's mouth and a thin red line across her posteriors, in stark contrast to the paler, fading marks remaining from Kate's previous punishment.

'Quiet!' said Sue sternly, but with a thick voice which she herself could hardly recognise. 'Do you want someone to come and see you like this? I suggest you curb any desire to yell!' and with that she broke the thick end off of the cane and put it in Kate's mouth, telling her to bite hard on it as an aid to prevent her yelling out further.

By this stage, Sue was hoping that Kate would continue to prove obstinate, for whilst she remained inquisitive as to the source of Kate's previous punishment, she felt a strong desire within herself to inflict pain on her friend and hoped that she could prolong the infinite pleasure it was giving to her.

Standing again behind Kate she raised her arm in a high arc and Kate could hear the swishing sound of the switch whipping down a split-second before the second cutting stroke landed, slightly below the first, with a sharp crack. Kate bit on the wood between her teeth and succeeded in stifling any further yelps, although the two cuts she had received so far had hurt a lot; her bottom was blazing with fire, and a red flush was now spreading out from the two distinct lines etched horizontally across her behind. Sue, now warmed to her task and quite forgetting to ask her friend if she was now willing to talk, began to systematically whip the supple rod across Kate's smarting nates, building up a regular rhythm, leaving a clear pattern of criss-crossed lines etched against Kate's otherwise pale skin, and filling the air with the sound of cane falling on soft flesh. The resulting weals covered poor Kate's bottom, from the top of her haunches right down to the middle of her slim thighs, although the focus of Sue's attentions appeared to be directed to the lower curve, just above the joining line between her curving cheeks and the thighs themselves.

Eventually, after possibly 40 or 50 wristy strokes had landed forcibly on their helpless target, Sue stopped – realising that she had become rather carried away in her passion to punish her friend, knowing that Kate must be suffering untold agonies, judging from the state of her poor behind which was now a livid mass of red weals, and the right-hand side of her body which bore the evidence of deeper marks where the cruel tip of the rod had flicked round with the force of the strokes. Full of reproach, Sue flung down the switch, catching her breath as she surveyed the scene before her. Kate still clung stoically to the overhanging branch, hands high above her head, and then Sue noticed visible tremors emanating from the whole of Kate's tautly stretched, all-but-naked body. As if mesmerised by these movements she did nothing to disturb the scene, but paused to savour the whole situation a little longer. She then noticed that Kate no longer held the wooden bit between her teeth; this now lay on the ground, clearly having been dropped by Kate sometime earlier during the proceedings. Sue couldn't quite understand why her friend hadn't therefore cried out during her castigation, or indeed pleaded with Sue to stop, by begging for mercy or even agreeing to tell her about the previous caning she had suffered. This puzzled Sue who was even more surprised to see that Kate's tremors were becoming more intense. She walked around to face Kate, intending to tell her she could let go of the branch as the whipping was over, and perhaps comfort her in some way.

Sue stopped short, however, when she caught sight of the odd expression now showing on Kate's face: her eyes were closed, and her mouth was slightly open, with her tongue just peeking out, moistening her lips. In addition, soft moans were coming from her throat, and she seemed quite clearly to be in some form of ecstasy. Sue saw that Kate's nipples were now even more erect than before, much like her own. And further, fascinated, not to say entranced glances also showed that Kate was rhythmically rubbing her thighs together. The tremors she had noted earlier were increasing in tempo until finally Kate gave out a stifled cry, the tremors reaching a violent crescendo in which her whole body stiffened and writhed with furious energy. Then gasping and sighing, her head sagged and she hung limply down from the branch which still supported her on tiptoes.


At this juncture, Sue reached up and gently prised open Kate's vice-like grip on the branch, allowing her to release her hold. She then clasped the slim girl around her slender waist and gently laid her on the grass on her flat stomach, realising that her bottom would be too tender to come into contact even with soft green grass.

Sue allowed Kate to lie there undisturbed for a while to recover whilst she herself tried to fathom out in her own mind the significance of what had just occurred. She understood that Kate had just undergone a very powerful orgasm, as a direct result of the vicious punishment she herself had meted out. She was also acutely aware that her own nipples were now throbbing painfully and as she sat on the grass her hand, as if guided by an invisible force, travelled down to nestle inside her panties, finding them, much to her surprise, to be already wet from the intense sexual experience she had undergone whilst whipping her best friend. Caught up in the onrush of her lust, Sue swiftly pulled her tiny briefs down to her thighs and inserting her fingers into her damp sex, proceeded to bring herself to a violent orgasm, enjoying one of the most satisfying climaxes of her young life.

Shaken by this unexpected occurrence, Sue turned her head to find Kate, much to her embarrassment, turned towards her and smiling, looking directly to where Sue's hand still rested at the apex of her thighs. Sue quickly removed her hand, blushing deeply and at the same time moving across to where Kate lay, whereupon she instinctively took her into her arms and cradled her head on her thighs, holding her as though she were a young child in need of comfort.

Kate soon responded to Sue's gesture and without either of them quite realising what was happening, the two teenangels found themselves locked into a silent crushing embrace of nubile loveliness, breast against firm breast, thigh against thigh, with Sue gently caressing Kate's raw and blazing bottom, eliciting more sighs and moans as she did so.

It was a long time before either spoke but Kate took the initiative and told Sue not to blame herself in any way for what had occurred, but to try and understand their mutual feelings, and not to feel any guilt either in respect of the severe thrashing she had given her or the fact that she had been turned-on by the episode. She told Sue that for as long as she could remember she had felt the need for physical pain to aid her to orgasm but none of the boys she knew had taken the broad hints she had given them. Her mother had from time to time resorted to corporal punishment, usually just a hand spanking which never really hurt, even when given on her near-naked bottom covered by thin nylon knickers. There had, however, been the rare occasion when she had been very bad and her mum had resorted to a thick leather belt or a garden cane, both of which really hurt, allowing her to gain great sexual pleasure both during and after the sessions. In the wake of such a painful punishment she would often masturbate herself for days to come, using the reflection of the fading marks revealed in her bedroom mirror to remind her of the peculiar pleasure meted out by the cane or strap.

Sue then began to understand why Kate would need to wear jeans after such punishments, but before she could break into the conversation, Kate continued with her 'confessions'. Apparently, a little while after starting work for Mr and Mrs Gaston, there were a few shortages in the till for which she was blamed and threatened with the sack if they recurred. Unfortunately for Kate, a further sum of money was missing soon afterwards and Mr Gaston told her to come and see him after work the next Wednesday, when the alternative to the sack could be discussed. The shop would then be closed and, incidently, his wife would be away visiting relatives. Wednesday came at last and Kate found herself entering Mr Gaston's private quarters behind the shop, guessing that something drastic was going to happen, but somehow she knew that it might be enjoyable.

Mr Gaston didn't waste any time telling his young, attractive employee just what was in his mind. She could either face dismissal or take another form of punishment. She asked what he meant and her heart missed a beat when he told her that she would have to consent to a smacked bottom every time money went missing, the severity being determined by how much cash was short. With mixed feelings she agreed to his terms, preferring a spanking to losing her job. Mr Gaston, of course, could hardly have realised Kate's secret longing to feel the warmth of punishment applied to her slim backside. With that, Mr Gaston suggested that she now prepare for her first session.

With her nerves all a-jangle, her mind raced with all kinds of thoughts and anticipations of what lay in store for her, tension mixed with a little fear, although Kate was happy in the knowledge that at least her job was safe and her Mum wouldn't hear about the missing money. Mr Gaston led her through his quarters into his lounge, in the centre of which ominously stood a large heavy leather-covered armchair. "Right" said Mr Gaston, perhaps a little breathlessly, but Kate didn't notice – she was shaking slightly with both fear and excitement, wondering just what Mr Gaston would do to her. She could feel her bottom cheeks clenching together under their own power, tightly encased in her usual denim jeans, and she wondered for just how much longer they would be staying on! She was thankful that she had had the foresight to put on a pair of her favourite knickers before coming to see her boss: pale blue nylon bikini briefs, tight and snug and very cut-away, revealing a lot of her beautiful bottom, although the front modestly covered her pubic mound. Suddenly the thought crossed her mind that these too might be coming off, and her anguish heightened at the prospect of exposing herself so fully to her employer.

Kate's anxiety was however short-lived as Mr Gaston spoke and commanded her to prepare herself, explaining that on this first occasion she was to receive six strokes with a leather tawse which he then produced from a drawer in the sideboard. 'First, young lady, you can get out of those jeans, they will stop you feeling the thongs properly.' Meekly Kate obeyed, blushing deeply as she unclipped her jeans and tugged them down over her slim curvy hips, and let them fall to the floor, before stepping out of them. She noticed Mr Gaston's satisfied expression as he closely watched her strip off her trousers and although she was a little shocked she wasn't actually surprised when he ordered her to also remove her T-shirt, 'as it might get in the way'. Hardly, she thought to herself, but nevertheless pulled the top over her head, revealing her full, firm naked young breasts to Mr Gaston's keen gaze. She knew she had a good body – lithe and firm, with unblemished skin and good-sized tits which now revealed her inner excitement by displaying fully erect nipples at their tips.

She waited expectantly whilst Mr Gaston slowly and carefully studied the lovely, youthful vision now revealed near-nakedly before him, fully taking his fill of the delightful sight. Next he ordered her curtly to now stand at the back of the leather armchair set in the middle of the room, and she shuddered as the cold of the old leather touched her upper thighs and even penetrated the thin nylon front of her panties, as she stood motionless against it.

'Now,' said Mr Gaston gently, 'for your carelessness you are to be punished severely but I don't want you screaming the place down.' Kate said she understood and at his further command bent herself completely over the back of the chair and let her hair fall onto the seat, hiding her face from view, with her arms reaching out to clasp the arms of the chair. Thus her bottom was tightly stretched over the high back of the chair, her feet almost leaving the floor, bringing her mound into close contact with the hard ridge of the chair-back, increasing her feeling of helplessness. The cold leather took her breath away as her soft, full breasts came into crushing contact with it, and her nipples throbbed with the additional stimulation.

Several moments passed. Kate suffering the extra agony of waiting, prolonged further as Mr Gaston stroked his rough hands over the taut nates so willingly exposed for him to punish as he saw fit, testing the softness and admiring the pale texture of the skin which he knew would soon assume a darker hue and burn terribly from the cruel hiding he planned to deliver with the tawse. He firstly gave the naked behind a few gentle, playful slaps with his hand, leaving red outlines of his palm prints on the exposed portion of the delicate bottom. But before the proper part of the punishment commenced, Kate felt Mr Gaston's hands slip into the waistband of her briefs and then pull them slowly down over her hips, until they rested halfway down her tapering thighs. Her desirable, rounded bottom was now fully exposed, ready for Mr Gaston to start work on it. Strange feelings coursed through her mind, feelings of equal fear and pleasure, but most of all she felt a stirring between her thighs, realising that at last her innermost desires were to be fulfilled.

Kate then related to an awe-struck Sue how Mr Gaston had whipped her arched behind, each deliberate, spaced-out stroke burning itself deep into her soft, unprotected flesh, until, after the full six strokes had landed, she felt her bottom blazing with excruciating pain. Only gradually did this turn to a more pleasurable and bearable heat, although she still found herself crying uncontrollably for a little while after the beating had stopped. Mr Gaston then sat himself down in the armchair, taking her over his knees, and proceeded to gently rub some cold cream firmly all over her fiery rump, his other hand finding, as if by chance, her exposed and sensitive right breast, which he continued to clasp in his left hand throughout the post-punishment period. His right hand, in applying the soothing cream, often slipped into the crevice of her bottom, and between her partially opened thighs, Mr Gaston applying caressing pressure. Kate was totally overcome by the sexual stimulation of her senses, which finally culminated in a frenzied orgasm, leaving, she noticed, a broad damp patch on Mr Gaston's trousers where her dripping pubis had rested.

Afterwards Mr Gaston allowed Kate to shower and dress and then he extracted a promise from her never to tell anyone of what had happened and to agree to accept further discipline from him whenever the till in the shop was wrong.

Kate went on to tell the wide-eyed Sue of many subsequent sessions, when Mr Gaston varied the ritual, getting her to take her punishments in a variety of positions, and from many different implements, always completing each spanking with the cold cream treatment... Kate never failing to achieve a body-wracking and utterly fulfilling orgasm on every occasion.

Sue was enthralled and fascinated to learn the real details of her best friend's desires, and wondered what it would be like to endure it herself. She was running her hands gently over her own partly clad bottom as she tried to imagine herself in Kate's place, cringing slightly at the thought of having to bear the initial cruel, cutting pain, but considering if the after-effects would adequately provide compensation, as clearly had happened in Kate's case. Thoughts also of having to strip naked in front of somebody like the middle-aged Mr Gaston for a caning gave the funny feeling inside her stomach a further turn as she lay pensively on the ground alongside Kate, who was now resting from her ordeal.

After a short period of thoughtful silence, Sue rose and walked purposefully across to where she had flung down the thin cane after completing Kate's whipping. She picked it up and returned to where Kate now lay on her side, watching her through half-closed eyes.

'Kate,' she said quietly, but with a husk in her voice, 'I know you said you don't blame me for what happened just now, but I was much too rough with you, and I am truly sorry that I was so cruel. I know I'm a coward when it comes to pain, but even so I've made up my mind that I would very much like you to now use this cane on my own bottom, and I want you to be as severe with me as I was with you. I'm sure I will cry but I want you to whip me as hard as you like until you think I've had enough!!'

Without saying more, Sue handed the rod to Kate who took it without replying, simply standing up to give Sue a quick hug, as if to say she fully understood her needs. Kate then led the willing Sue across the small clearing to the felled trunk of an old elm tree. The top of the large log stood some 3 1/2 feet high and so made a perfect platform for what Kate had in mind.

'Right, this will do nicely,' said Kate. 'Please bend right over this log with your hands touching the far side, so that your bottom is nicely stretched for me. Before you get down though, it doesn't seem fair to me for your bum to have the protection of those panties when mine was totally uncovered. So please take them off now Sue, and then get yourself laid across ready!'

Sue blushed but did not hesitate for long, as she was anxious now to get on with her punishment before she changed her mind. She swiftly yanked the tiny nylon briefs down over her lush, shapely form and stepped out of them, leaving her completely naked and feeling all-too-exposed and vulnerable.

Without waiting for any further command from Kate, Sue obediently positioned her body right over the waiting tree trunk, which seemed to have been made to receive her. But the rough bark was already biting hard into her soft unprotected skin, especially her prominent downy mound and firm breasts which suffered new sensations as they were crushed by her body weight against the irregular pattern of the tree's outer covering. Sue however didn't demur despite the acute discomfort, but resolutely spread and angled herself as bid, feeling the soft ground on the far side with her fingertips, leaving her toes just touching the moss on the other.


Kate, whose bottom was still smarting from her own punishment, took up her position behind the waiting Sue, finally laying the thin tapering wand across the centre of Sue's bare cheeks. She noticed her friend's flesh flinch as the flexible stick came into contact with her postured buttocks. Sue then felt the pressure ease and knew that the cane was now being raised, the prolonged waiting heightening her acute apprehension as she braced herself for her very first taste of the rod. A few moments later the terrified teenager heard the unmistakable, unforgettable whistling sound of the cane flashing through the still air, followed by a clear resounding THWACK!! as the zippy wand finally bit hard into Sue's soft and delicate skin, her bottom cheeks jerking with the sharpness of the pain. Sue yelled at the unexpected intensity of the cutting stroke, but was, remarkably, able to refrain from jumping up.

The burning pain subsided only marginally before she heard, and then felt, the second vicious stroke, which landed a little higher up her bottom, producing a second bright red line of fire across both posteriors. Sue whimpered as the agony reached deep into her body but remained passively in position, determined to take all that Kate could give her without complaining. Kate paused, watching the red flush spreading out from the two distinct weals, and then commenced to lay the springy cane steadily across the firm rounded behind awaiting her pleasure, taking care not to allow the switch to fall too far down the attractive lower cheeks, aware that Sue's skimpy shorts would not cover any marks showing on the lower curves, but still raising weal after weal on the remaining soft, white, unprotected skin of her willing victim, changing its hue to a deepening, angry red as the whipping developed.

Perspiration dripped from Kate's forehead and her pendulous, unfettered breasts swayed back and forth as she put her full energies into the task, seeking, and obtaining, full revenge for the cruel treatment meted out to her by her now submissive subject. Kate lost count of the number of strokes inflicted upon the tautly stretched nates of her best friend, hearing Sue moaning from time to time, and relishing her energetic handiwork. After some twenty minutes of administering dozens of searing strokes she decided that the by now sobbing Sue had received her just deserts, and laying down the slim tattered rod, she knelt slowly behind Sue's prone and writhing form. Kate then leant forward and delicately kissed in turn each scarlet wealed orb, feeling with her lips the deep ridges she had etched into Sue's flesh, noting as she did so that Sue was now trembling violently. Her legs and upper thighs were working agitatedly against each other and Kate then knew that Sue had achieved her desired goal, as she watched her quivering body and heard her wanton moans, now of pleasure and quite different from the initial yelps of agony she had emitted when she felt her first kiss of the rod. Without rising, Sue brought a hand round, gingerly feeling her tender, punished bottom, lightly testing the burning weals and ridges. She was very surprised at herself for having sustained such a severe punishment virtually without complaint or wishing to escape.

Allowing Sue to remain in her submissive position, Kate quickly slipped off her one remaining garment, then gently helped Sue to rise to her knees. Adopting a kneeling posture close behind her, Kate was thus able with one hand to massage and caress Sue's crushed, tender breasts, whilst her other hand moved across her velvety thighs, centring onto Sue's now moist, downy mound. Her questing, seeking fingers soon enabled Sue to achieve a second, convulsive climax, as her burning, tenderized bottom cheeks pressed firmly against Kate's lower abdomen and thighs, the heat transmitting itself deep into Kate's already aroused body, being sufficient stimulation in her highly charged state to generate her own simultaneous orgasm, matching Sue's in its incandescent intensity.

It was dark before the two girls returned home, sore, tired, but happy, each promising faithfully to keep the whole matter secret, knowing that someday they would no doubt feel the need to join again and re-enact their strange but overwhelming desires for the giving and receiving of pain.

Sunday, 12 June 2011

A Secret Place

This is another story about innocent pleasures of headmaster Reggie and his friend Basil. Continuation of story "The Cellar".

-----------------------------------------------

Story from old Blushes.

A Secret Place

"Sir?" Anne's voice has a definite tremor to it, and understandably so. The hand which patted her bottom a few moments earlier up under her buttocks, before patting again with a little lift to each cheek in turn, had a distinctly expert feel to it, as though it had smacked more bottoms than she would care to know about. "Sir? Excuse me, Sir."

"Hmm?" They are standing outside a door which, when it has been unlocked, will lead to a long, narrow passage. At the far end of the passage will be a second door, and beyond that, a room which Anne has never seen but about which she has heard more than enough. The man whom she is calling 'sir' has been introduced to her as a 'school governor', although she has never met him before. At this moment he is sorting through a bunch of keys for one that will fit the lock.

"Sir — m-may I ask — wh-what exactly is it that I've done wrong?"

"Done wrong, my dear? Um — ah yes, this is the one."

The key turns easily in the well-oiled lock. "After you." And Anne's bottom is smacked playfully through the door. The passage is dark, and the girl stumbles as her foot catches on an uneven floorboard.

"Just a moment," Basil gropes along the wall for the light switch, his hand swooshing softly against the brickwork. The light clicks on. A naked bulb glares down bleakly from the ceiling.

"Alright — I'll just close the door." Anne hears the quiet 'click' as the key turns. She goes dubiously towards the second door, Basil following and watching her navy knickers as they pull tight around pert buttocks, her bottom full and plump and with that firm-soft look that is typical of the teenage girl's bum. Basil squeezes past at the second door and unlocks it.

He coaxes the girl into the little room with a hand cupped under her buttocks. She feels warm and skittish to the touch, her skin satiny where his fingers overlap the leg elastic of her knickers.

There is only one window in the room, high in one wall, and the level of lighting is not improved by the grime on the quartered window panes. The bare floorboards have a layer of dust on them, although there are numerous footprints, and at one place there is an area which looks as though people have been scraping their feet around and clearing the dust away. High on the wall, immediately above this shoe-scraped bit of floor, there is a metal bracket projecting from the bricks. It is at about the height a girl might reach if she were to stand on the very tips of her toes. There is an old school desk and a tall stool and nothing else.

Basil closes the door, and there is a rattling sound. Anne looks around and sees several canes dangling from hooks screwed into the door's woodwork. They swing gently in the quietness of this frightening room, making little intermittent scraping sounds as they touch against the door with their swinging. The girl's eyes follow the hypnotic movement of these ominous intimations of the present function of this hideaway. She looks pleadingly at the man whom she supposes to be a governor of the school, seeing something in his expression that she mistakes for kindness or sympathy or understanding of her predicament.

"Sir — please — what did I do wrong, sir?"

"Wrong? I'm afraid I don't know what you've done wrong, my dear." The vague smile is there again. "Didn't you have to see the Headmaster? Didn't he explain the matter to you?"

"N-no, n-not really, sir."

He glances down at her knickers. "But he told you that you were to be punished, surely. I mean, I presumed that the point of your turning up to see me in your knickers was that you knew you were to be punished and simply wanted to be as co-operative as possible. Wasn't that it?"

Anne blushes furiously at having to talk about her knickers to this man, this stranger.

"N-no sir — the Headmaster told m-me that I was to come in my gym things, but I got my shorts wet in the shower this afternoon, sir, so I couldn't wear them, and when I t-told the Headmaster he said it didn't matter, an-and I should come in my — my knickers, sir."

Basil drops his eyes and another of his ephemeral smiles plays around his mouth. And a charming idea it had been too. Finding her waiting in a tee-shirt and school knickers, and nothing else besides socks and shoes, had got him off to a good start right from the start. That man knew him too well.

"Well, it doesn't make much difference, actually. I shouldn't worry about it. I mean, you're not going to have them on long, are you my dear?"

Anne's face looks slightly shocked at that. Her tongue peeps out and touches her lips nervously.

"Sir — are you sure I'm to be p-punished? The Headmaster didn't actually say that I was to be punished, sir. He didn't actually say."

"Oh yes. You're to be caned, my dear. Soundly caned."

"Oooh —!" Anne's eyes blink as though tears are threatening already. She edges away and bumps against the wall. "S-sir — please sir — do I have to be c-caned sir?"

"Er — well yes. Yes, you do." Another of his smiles — of course he's simply teasing her, which is why he smiles — passes across his face. "Surely you know that naughty girls are liable to be caned, don't you? Hmm?"

"Er — I didn't realise I'd been naughty. I — I still don't know what I've done. An-and I've only been here a few days sir — I don't know much about c-caning and things, sir."

"Really? You've only been here a few days? Dear oh dear! Well it's a pity you have to start off with a caning I suppose, but — well, there it is. I mean, I'm only lending a hand this evening. The Headmaster has an appointment, and he asked me if I would fill in for him in various ways — I suppose you just happen to be one of the little duties I have to perform. Er — in my capacity of school governor, that is. I mean, he definitely said that Anne Powell, whom I would find waiting at — I suppose you are Anne Powell, aren't you?"

Plainly wishing that right at this moment she wasn't, Anne nods her head dismally.

"Well, there you are. You're to be caned, Anne and I'm afraid that's that." Basil spins on his heel, all resolution and determination to do his duty, and he takes one of the canes from the hooks behind the door. He flexes it in his hands, as though not sure it's quite right for a bottom as plump as Anne's, then he puts it back and checks along the row for one that might have just that extra touch of sting in its supple length.

This performance, the testing of the canes and the swishing of them, the experimental taps against the palm of the hand, the quiet, almost considerate suggestion that the girl might like to bend over and touch her toes so that the cane can stroke teasingly across her knickers, the instruction to stick her plump young bottom out so that a series of tentative little pats can reach across both round buttocks and a flick with the tip can sting her without warning on the bits her pants leave bare: all these things conspire to undermine whatever reserves of determination the girl has to be brave and see it through, and suddenly she is sniffing and snuffling and then she is crying in an undemonstrative way that somehow reveals more of her distress than if she had sobbed out loud.

He keeps her down there, touching her toes, while the cane 'swhits' and 'whups' playfully across her navy knickers, making her start nervously and pant a little between her quiet tears, the strokes not really strokes, enough only to make her buttocks tweak together as the cane lands. Anne's weeping becomes gradually more like sobbing; her knees are beginning to flex with every other stroke as she struggles against the urge to swerve her bum away from the smarting cane-flicks. A few more, just a touch harder, and then Basil draws his hand across her bottom, patting it and telling her what a perfect bottom it is for the cane, slipping her knickers across into the division and standing back a little so that the cane has a better swing at the freshly bared plumpness of her trembly, reddening bottom. Several minutes of this and Anne is plainly losing her grip. She is getting livelier at every teasing contact of the cane with her crimsoned bum, and her crying is becoming irregular with little 'ouch's and 'ooogh's to relieve the monotony of her distress.

"Right. That will do, I should think," says Basil.

Anne stands up gingerly, eyes wide, hands sneaking round to her bottom to rub and squeeze.

"Yes, I think this is the cane I'll use."

Anne's look of shocked disbelief is something to behold.

"Come over here." Basil indicates the bracket set in the wall. "Hold onto this — up on your toes, now. Come on."

"Please — please don't. No more — Please!"

"No more? Whatever do you mean girl? I haven't even begun yet."

When Anne has finally done as she has been told, and she is standing on tip-toe, clinging to the bracket with her arms above her head, Basil squats down behind her and peels her knickers down from her hips, down her thighs, down to her ankles. She swings nervously around, trying to keep her eyes on him as he circles round her, the cane in his hand.

She tries to edge away as he strokes a hand down the curve of her tummy, down into the moist niche between her thighs. His hand cups the soft swell of her pubic mound, fingers slipping along underneath her. With the cane held short in his other hand he begins to give her a series of strokes, harder than before, most of them angling up under her bum-cheeks, catching her always in much the same place, making her jerk and jolt away from the sting, forward onto his hand.

Anne's evasive attempts send her veering away in various directions, but always the interloping hand restrains her. Her eyes constantly swivel round to look pleadingly into those of her tormentor. She gasps pleas, promises, profuse apologies, her lips moist and sweet, her tears flowing copiously down her cheeks. She pants and sobs but she clings onto the bracket.

She is still dangling there ten minutes or so later. Her bottom has so many crimson stripes across its pert rotundity that it is impossible to differentiate between them for the most part, except where a wilder swing on Anne's part has presented her flank to the swishing cane and a red finger has inscribed itself across unmarked skin.

Basil leaves her there and goes to the desk in the corner of the room. He rummages around and produces a small jar from which he unscrews the lid. He dips in a finger, bringing it out with a fat dollop of translucent cream on it. Anne blinks through wet-rimmed, puffy eyes. She utters no coherent sound as Basil slides his hand down underneath her, but she pulls herself up on her toes as the cream slides along the tunnel between her thighs. Basil's other hand meets the slippery goo between her bum-cheeks and begins to spread it over her tender bottom in small, gentle, circular sweeps, across and round to where the soreness is worst, then back again through the slippery gap between her thighs.

He talks to her quietly, murmuring soothing words and telling her she's been a brave, brave girl, and not to let go of the bracket, not just yet, not until he tells her. Slowly, involuntarily perhaps yet quite definitely, Anne begins to respond to the slithery, slidy stimulation as Basil's fingers slip between her legs. His voice coaxes her, chides her gently when she seems to recover her senses and wants to pull away, calms her into obedient compliance while his fingers nudge her confidently to a quivering, undemonstrative climax, reached almost resignedly, panted out quietly in submission to the inevitable.

When Anne has dressed herself again — she has only to pull up her knickers of course, so it takes but a moment — she is sent to wait at the end of the passage. Keeping her eyes averted from those of the man who has frightened and bewildered her by turns, she leaves the little room and goes unhappily down the passage.

Basil locks the door behind him and then lets the bewildered and ashamed Anne out of the second door. He lets her go, and she scampers off, bottom bobbing crimson where her knickers fail to cover the evidence of the punishment. Basil walks unhurriedly away to have a brandy with his old friend, Reggie.

Friday, 10 June 2011

The secret of success

Story from Whispers 02.

The secret of success

Not so long ago, the General Office of Makepeace and Co. would have been filled with the loud clatter of typewriters in use. Now, however, there was only the far less obtrusive clicking of electric machines as they did the same work far more efficiently. Soon, Jean Gleason said to herself, everything would be done with one of those computer 'things'. Even more efficient... but someone still would have the drudgery of operating it.

Jean hated the anonymity — not to mention the monotony — of the Typing Pool. It was soul-destroying. After a while one began to feel like part of a large, indifferent machine. It was not how she had envisaged office life when she had started at 17, almost a year previously. Then she had had the fantasy of her own cosy little office... with a benevolent, approving, but non-groping boss. Probably he would be in his thirties, still a bachelor, well-dressed and groomed, handsome with just a hint of grey at the sideburns.

Life, of course, was quite different. Jean Gleason had never even seen her Boss. His name was John Carver but he was generally referred to as the 'Major', though whether he was still entitled to use that rank some said was open to doubt. Jean imagined he was probably red-faced, balding, with a gingery-grey moustache. Not exactly her dream-boss, in fact.

As it was, all Jean's dealings were with the pale, gaunt featured Miss Staples, a dried up spinster in her mid-fifties. I'd rather die than get like her, Jean often used to tell herself. It just shows you what lack of a healthy sex-life can do to a woman, she reflected.

Yes... Jean hated office life. Particularly Makepeace office life. But she couldn't afford to leave since salaries were above average... and Jean had discovered living in London was considerably more expensive than she had bargained for. She was already behind with her rent.

What was unfair was that Jean Gleason reckoned she was just about the fastest and most accurate typist in the Pool. Yet that didn't win her promotion. How long was she going to have to wait before she got that office of her own? Before she could call herself a secretary and not just a typist? Already, of the twelve girls in that General Office, two had gone on to higher things. One, who had arrived only a few weeks before Jean, had become P.A. to a Director of one of the Company's subsidiaries: another, who had arrived after Jean, had actually become an assistant-secretary to Major Carver himself. That had really riled Jean Gleason since she knew that the girl, Stephanie, was not as good at her job as she was. She was certainly pretty, and she had a good figure, but Jean could scarcely believe that, in this day and age, promotion was gained on such grounds. Why, there were jokes about such things! With the Boss interviewing three girls to discover their efficiency and ending up by stating 'he'd have the one with the big tits'. Oh very funny!

In any event, Jean said to herself, I reckon I've got as good a figure as that Stephanie, even if I may not be quite so pretty. At the time, Jean had actually tackled Miss Staples about it, saying she thought she should have got the position. The old cow had got quite shirty about it, saying it was none of Jean's business and she would get promotion if and when she deserved it. Miss Staples had also said that Jean might just as easily get the sack — which was grossly unfair.

'Besides,' concluded Miss Staples, 'Stephanie has got special qualifications.' Jean Gleason refrained from asking what these were but, later, had a good cry about the injustice of life in general. What, she asked herself over and over again, was the secret of success in office life? It didn't appear to be simply competence and efficiency. Nor hard work. Could it be personality? It might, of course, be influence. Had those two had any influence? It seemed improbable.

Poor Jean found it both baffling and frustrating.

* * * *

The intercom on Jean's desk buzzed softly. She picked up the receiver. 'Extension 493,' she enunciated in her best answering manner.

'Would you step into my office, Miss Gleason. Right away.' It was Miss Staples, her voice as acid as her features.

'Yes, Miss Staples...' The phone clicked down. What had happened now? It was rare of her to be summoned... since one was usually summoned on account of errors. And Jean didn't make many. She stood up, smoothed creases from her neat, black skirt and jumper. It was very much an office 'uniform'. Fancy dressing was seriously discouraged at Makespeace and Co. Jean didn't mind that. One didn't have to make a decision every morning, nor compete with her colleagues. She walked down the carpeted corridor between the partitioned offices with their opaque windows. At the end was a polished brown door with a brass handle. Miss Staples' sanctum. One never went in there unless she called for you. Jean knocked deferentially and was told to 'Come'.

Inside it was like another world. There was no cheap steel partitions, no office noise. The carpet was thick, the curtains heavy, the furniture looked as if it had been bought at Maples. It was the office of a 'have', thought Jean, and I am a 'have-not'. Will I ever be a 'have'?

'Miss Gleason,' stated Miss Staples, without asking the girl to take a seat, 'you are to be considered for promotion...'

'Oh!' Jean clasped her hands together.

'Is something the matter, Miss Gleason?' enquired the harridan sourly.

'No... no, Miss Staples. It... it's just that... I'm very pleased.'

A grey head nodded perfunctorily. 'You are only being considered, Miss Gleason, that does not necessarily mean you will get the job. Major Carver is very particular about those who work closest to him.' Jean's heart gave a bound. So virtue was to be rewarded at last, was it? She was being considered for a job by the Boss himself! 'I have known many girls rejected by Major Carver,' Miss Staples was droning on, 'so take nothing for granted.'

'No, Miss Staples,' answered Jean politely. Inwardly, she was confident she would get the position. After all, she had all the right credentials, surely?

'You will report here at five o'clock then I shall take you to Major Carver's office.'

'Thank you, Miss Staples,' said Jean, even more politely. With a nod, she was dismissed. Jean felt as if she were almost floating as she left that opulent office.

It could well be that, at last, she was on the way to being a 'have.'

* * * *

Major Carver's office was very similar in appearance to that of his Office Manager, Miss Staples. Except that it was larger. There, all similarity between the two ended for, whereas Miss Staples was pale, thin and dry, the Major was ruddy, fat and overripe. Jean Gleason had been right about his colouring but wrong about the baldness and the moustache, since his upper lip was bare. In fact, it glistened very faintly with perspiration.

'This is Miss Gleason' announced the Office Manager.

'Thank you, Miss Staples,' he nodded; this time it was her turn to be dismissed, reflected Jean with considerable relish. She stood there, hearing a door close softly, almost feeling as if she ought to curtsey. A pair of pale, rather bulbous blue eyes roved over her and she strove to look calm and unruffled. An important test lay ahead of her. It could affect her life for years to come. How important it was to keep calm and make the right impression. Flustered secretaries were simply not required. 'Would you like to sit down, my dear?' The voice was soft and well-modulated, remarkably unmilitary. Jean was flattered that the Major actually stood as he indicated a chair set someway in front of his desk.

'Thank you, Sir,' she said with a faint smile. Seated, she crossed her legs so that she showed a fair bit of their shape, but not too much. Jean was aware that she had good legs. She was also aware that she had good firm breasts as well but she strove to fight down any idea that her promotion would depend on her shape rather than her ability. Surely Makepeace and Co. were too big for such things!

'What is your name?' The voice had a gentle, but hypnotic quality to it.

'Miss Gleason, Sir...'

'No... no, your Christian name, my dear. I address all my personal staff by their Christian names.'

'Jean, Sir.' It sounded almost as if she were already on that personal staff!

'Well, Jean, I've heard good reports of your work and of your background. That is why you are here. I hope you will wish to further your career by joining my personal staff.'

'Thank you, sir. I am very glad of the opportunity.'

The Major smiled. He looked relaxed and happy. 'Good... good...' he said, almost to himself. 'However, it is not quite as simple as it at first might appear. You see, my dear, my standards are far more exacting than those of the General Office.'

My God, thought Jean, they must be exacting! 'I'll do my very best, Sir. I... I'm sure I won't let you down.'

'I'm sure you won't, Jean,' said the Major in avuncular fashion. 'However, you must understand that, being a military man, there is a strong element of discipline in the way I run my private office. I am sure you appreciate that that is understandable!'

'Oh yes, sir...' Am I supposed to salute and stand to attention, she wondered?

'As in Army life,' the Major continued, 'there are rewards for good work. Perks, promotion and so on.' He paused. 'And for bad work, there are punishments.' The Major stressed that final word. It seemed to hang for quite a while in the heavy air. Jean felt a faint pricking of her scalp. Punishments? What on earth did he mean? Pay docked, holidays stopped? It seemed a funny way to run a modern office. But there you are... he's the boss.

'I see, Sir,' she said a little lamely.

'Do you, Jane? Do you? Oh I wonder if you do?' The Major smiled again and pressed pudgy fingers to his lips. 'If you agree to join my personal staff, Jean — and I do hope you will — you must also agree to accept my punishments. That must be fully understood.'

'Very well, sir.' Jean was prepared to agree to almost anything at that moment in order to get the job.

'Can you guess what those punishments are, Jean? For careless work, that sort of thing?' The voice was less mellow now.

Jean shook her head. 'No... no... I can't really, sir.'

'No, I don't suppose you can. Not at the moment.' Now the Major smiled again. 'So I must tell you. Show you, in fact.' Jean felt a vague unease. What was this man driving at? 'You know Stephanie, I believe?'

'Yes, sir, we used to work together.'

A nod. 'Well,' went on the Major, 'Stephanie made several errors in an important Report I gave her this afternoon. And Stephanie is now going to be punished.'

The prickling all over Jean's scalp intensified as the Major pressed a switch on his intercom panel. 'Come in, young lady,' he ordered crisply. Then he looked at Jean. 'This is a very private office,' he said, 'and what happens here never goes any further. Please understand that from the very beginning, Jean.'

What on earth is he on about? Jean was puzzled and a little frightened. She sensed something strange. Then she saw Stephanie come in through a door behind the Boss's desk. She could well be described as looking pale but confident and, seeing Jean, at once gave her a brief, flickering smile of what looked like sympathy.

'Ready for your punishment?' enquired the Major as Stephanie stood with an almost jaunty air of bravado before the huge desk.

'Yes, Sir...'

The major swivelled his chair to one side and patted his thighs. 'That was a really careless effort this afternoon, young lady.'

'Yes, Sir,' nodded Stephanie. 'I'm sorry, sir.'

'You will be.' Again those plump thighs were patted. 'Come round here.'

Stephanie gave Jean a wink and another faint smile. Then, to Jean's amazement and shock, she walked to the Major and draped herself over his limbs. The Major looked at Jean. 'In this office,' he stated, a naughty, careless girl gets her bottom smacked. Doesn't she, Stephanie?'

'Y-yes, sir,' came Stephanie's rather choked reply. Then her short grey skirt was pulled up to reveal a pretty pair of flower-patterned briefs. Also, most of a pair of plumply-rounded buttocks.

'Stephanie!' Jean had leapt to her feet aghast, one hand to her mouth. 'How... how can you let him do that?'

The girl turned her head as far as she could. 'Because I want to keep my job in this office, Jean,' she said. 'And if you want to stay here, you'll have to do the same.'

A pleasantly wicked smile came from the Major. Again he looked at Jean. 'That's perfectly correct, my dear. Now, perhaps, you are beginning to understand a little better. A girl requires some very special qualifications if she is going to work closely with me!' With that, he yanked down Stephanie's briefs.

Jean uttered a series of protesting cries. Stephanie's bottom was bare! How absolutely awful! She must fetch Miss Staples. This must be stopped. The Major was a pervert... a horrible pervert! Jean ran to the door... only to find it locked. She turned around, her brain whirling.

'What do you think you deserve, Stephanie?' the Major was saying coolly.

'A... a... d-dozen... I suppose, sir...' came a weak reply.

'At least a dozen, Miss,' rapped the Major. 'I will not have slackness in the office.' Jean watched with disbelief as a palm descended on her colleague's naked bottom. The slapping sound seemed to burst in her ears; she saw a bright red splodge appear. To her amazement, Stephanie did no more than gasp as she threw back her head. How could she tolerate such a thing? Such an indecency? Such shame?

'Stop it... oooh... stop it!' she heard herself crying out.

But the Major didn't stop and, almost worse, Stephanie seemed to make no resistance... no protest even... as the Major continued to smack her bottom. The slaps were slow and well placed on alternate buttock cheeks. Cheeks which grew steadily redder and redder.

Jean sank down on her chair. She wanted to cover her face but something compelled her to go on looking at this incredible scene. Here was a well brought up girl having her bare bum smacked by a horrible middle-aged man! Not seeming to mind all that much either! Incredible... quite incredible!

SSSLLAAAAPPPPP!

A final smack fell across the centre of both crimsoning cheeks and Stephanie yelled rather than gasped. She had just about had enough!

The Major gazed with satisfaction on a joggling pink blancmange of a bottom. It was a sight which gave him the most infinite satisfaction. His palm was tingling but he knew that young flesh right before him was tingling even more. What a delight it was to smack a teenager's bottom! To see it jump and judder, to see it twist and wriggle. Mmmm... yes... seventh heaven!

'You can get off now, Stephanie,' he said, his cheeks even ruddier.

The girl slid to her knees and quickly pulled up her briefs which were twisted around about her kneecaps. She was flushed but dry-eyed, Jean saw. How remarkable! Who could ever have imagined that someone like Stephanie would ever put up with such treatment!

'Right, Stephanie... that's the second time this week, isn't it?' said the Major with mock sternness.

'Yes sir...' Stephanie was very complaisant, head hanging in girlish fashion. She knew the Boss liked it that way... and, since he was footing the bills, that was the way he would have it. The spanking she had just received had not been all that bad. Hurt a bit at the time, made the flesh burn for half an hour or so. Nothing to write home about... and certainly worth the extra money. Stephanie wondered why the Boss hadn't spent quite a while massaging her bum after he'd smacked it. He usually did. Possibly that was because Jean Gleason was looking on and he didn't want to put her off more than he might have done already.

'Going to be good in future?'

'Yes, Sir. I'm sorry for my errors, sir.'

'Alright Stephanie, you can cut along now. Take Jean with you. Explain what it means to be on the personal staff.' The Major grinned. 'In case she hasn't learned already!'

Jean saw Stephanie tossing her head in the direction of the door behind Major Carver's desk. Well, it would be a relief to get out of that office. She stood up and, head averted, hurried out after her colleague.

* * * *

'How could you... how could you let him?' Jean was in a frightful tizz. Anyone would have imagined it was she who had been spanked and not Stephanie. 'Letting him pull your knickers down... letting him spank you on the bare! Oh Stephanie... have you lost your senses?'

'Not at all,' answered the girl calmly. She lit a cigarette and dragged on it deeply. 'Can you believe it's worth getting a few smack-bottoms like that when your weekly pay is doubled?'

'Doubled?' Jean was almost as incredulous as when she had watched the Boss's hand at work. 'Do you really mean that?'

'Of course,' replied Stephanie. 'I wouldn't put up with it if it weren't true. There's a month extra holiday on top as well. Not bad, eh? Just for a few slaps on the bum from a stupid old sod. He never tries anything else, I may say. Just a bit of a grope, maybe. Nothing more.'

Jean Gleason considered what she had just heard with a fevered mind. She was on seven and a half a year... so double would mean fifteen! That was pretty good money for a man, let alone a girl of her age. Then she thought what she would have to endure, it turned her stomach. At the same time, so much money was almost irresistible. It's not prostitution, she told herself, just playing games. No sex; simply the awful indignity of it. Jean suddenly realised she was already seriously considering joining this bizarre set-up!

'I... I... wonder if I could do it?' she mumbled.

Stephanie raised an eyebrow. 'So did I, at first. It's not exactly pleasant but, on the other hand, it's not all that bad. Look at me now. I'm not in a terrible state, am I? My bottom is rather warm, admittedly, but that's not altogether unpleasant, I can assure you.'

'Does... does everyone agree to this? I mean, is it the only way to get promoted?'

'The only way,' answered Stephanie. Jean had finally heard the answer to her often-repeated question. 'No, not everyone agrees. Most, but not all. If they don't agree they get the push, plus generous redundancy. Well, sweetie-pie, how are you going to play it? Think it over... take your time.'

Jean did just that. She had to admit that Stephanie by no means looked upset by what had just happened, so it could not be all that bad. Hideously shaming at the time but not permanently damaging. No one else but the personal staff would know either. That was important. And think of all that lovely money!

'I think I might give it a try,' she said, after a long, long brood.

Stephanie smiled brightly. 'There's a sensible girl,' she said. 'Believe me, you'll go far in the world of commerce. You're absolutely sure, are you?'

'Yes... yes... I suppose I am...'

'Because he doesn't like time-wasters. If you say 'yes', you've got to go through with it. Think hard, Jean. If there's any back-sliding, I'm as likely as not to get the blame.'

Jean's conscience smote her. She couldn't let Stephanie down, could she? What she was proposing to submit to wasn't all that bad, was it? No... of course it wasn't! This was the age of the liberated young woman. She could do more or less as she pleased. 'I'll join,' she conceded in a choked voice.

'Right,' said Stephanie, 'that's settled then. Thank goodness. And, if I may say so, I think you're being very sensible. Frankly, after you've been spanked a couple of times, it's money for old rope. You think nothing of it. Might as well be taking some nasty medicine.'

'I'm glad to hear it. Frankly, I think I'm going to find it awfully difficult at first.'

'Yes... it's not easy at first,' nodded Stephanie. She stood up and put her arm around Jean's shoulder. 'There's something else,' she said, 'when you agree, he always wants to spank you right away. Just to prove you're genuine, I suppose.'

Jean gaped and shuddered. She almost reversed her decision at that very instant. 'You m-mean... you mean...?' she began.

'Yes,' said Stephanie. 'When you go back, he'll want to spank you.'

'Oooohh... it's intolerable!'

'Not at all. Either you agree, or you don't. I thought you'd made up your mind?'

Jean Gleason realised the very proximity of a spanking had made her think again. Could she endure it? Could she? Then Jean thought of fifteen grand again and reckoned she could!

'Yes,' she replied. 'I've made up my mind. Let's go.'

Arm in arm, the pair walked back into Major John Carver's very private office.

* * * *

Stephanie had been allowed to go home; Jean was all on her own. Her heart felt as if it were shrinking and there was a sick feeling at the pit of her stomach.

'My secretary has explained everything to you then, Jean, eh?' smiled the Major in his oily-oozing way. 'And you would like to join us as her assistant. Is that correct?'

'Yes... yes... sir...' whispered Jean.

'Very sensible, young lady. The rewards are considerable.' The Major paused. 'She told you I would need a little proof that your decision is a genuine one?'

Jean found herself flushing as she watched the Major's chair swivel. 'Y-yer... ess... sir,' she managed to say.

'Very well then, my dear, perhaps you would be so good as to come round to this side of the desk.'

On rubbery limbs, Jean Gleason made a small circuit. She could still scarcely credit that this was all happening to her... yet it was... it was! Then she was standing right before the Major. The Boss. He was smiling once again, bulbous blue eyes bright. He patted his thighs.


Could she do it? Could she? Then, suddenly, Jean found she had no option. She had been hauled across those plump limbs, her waist gripped. She shrieked in sudden terror as her skirt was yanked up. Jean heard it split. She shrieked again. Then she felt her simple white panties ripped off. Not pulled down. Ripped almost savagely.

'Stop... stooo... oooppp!' she begged half-hysterically.


But Major John Carver was not going to stop. Before him was a superbly curvaceous, virgin bottom... a bottom which he was sure had never been spanked before. Now it was his to deal with. He swallowed and then licked his lips as if some exceptionally succulent dish had just been set before him. 'Welcome to my personal staff, Jean,' he said thickly.

Then he began to smack the soft-lush, white flesh presented to him.

He began to smack it hard...

Thursday, 9 June 2011

Nightmare

Story from Janus 45.

Nightmare
by Andrew Grantham

EARLY MORNING sunlight forced its way into the teenage girl's bedroom. Diane lay on her back, her head surrounded by a tangled mass of natural blonde curls. Although she was asleep, she was not enjoying a restful slumber. Anyone watching the contortions of her body beneath the duvet and hearing the occasional cry from her full, fleshy lips would know she was having a nightmare.

In her dream, she had paraded her nubile young body nude in front of a man. The menacing male was only a shadowy figure to her, his features unrecognisable. The fact that he was menacing was borne out by the very long, thin punishment cane he had hold of.

Slowly, the man circled her and Diane was aware of his eyes devouring every inch of her fine flesh. Her well-rounded breasts were firm enough to be full and ripe, yet just big and heavy enough to sway maddeningly with her slightest movement.

Her crossed hands guarded her blonde-curled 'vee' at the junction of her long, graceful legs.

It was her rear, however, that the menacing figment of her dream world was interested in. A delicious rear it was, too. Diane possessed a perfect apple-round bottom, firm-fleshed and deep-clefted.

Obviously satisfied with her virginal nakedness, the man reappeared in front of her. His voice, somehow detached, told her that she was to receive six strokes of his long, swishy cane.

Diane folded her tender athletic body over a wooden-backed chair, absolutely terrified of what was going to happen to her. She wanted to run away in spite of her total nudity, but her feet seemed to be weighted down with lead.

She heard a rushing hiss. Diane knew what it was and it seemed as if she were lewdly pushing out her bottom to meet the cane. Then the thin wood sliced into her derriere and she jumped up like a released spring.

A hand pressed her body down again and she was looking at the cold wooden seat of the chair once more. A flame was burning across her bottom.

Again there was a hiss preceding the cracking impact. Her tormentor had aimed at the lower curve of her nates, just where they joined her thighs. Diane cried out.

If the collection of teddybears adorning the shelves of the pretty teenager's bedroom had possessed eyes which could see, they would have observed their owner wriggling in her bed, her head thrashing to and fro in the depths of the pillow. They would have heard a low cry from her throat.

Had the stuffed toys the teenager loved so much been able to peer into her dream world, they would have been horrified by the two thin red weals across both sides of the divide between her gorgeous bum cheeks.

The cane whipped in again. The girl's cries grew louder and louder, her contortions even more frantic. Diane took a hand away from the chair and ran it over her bottom, the tips of her fingers tracing their way along the wealed trails blazed by the wickedly-wielded cane. But her hand was forced away.

The light in her bedroom grew stronger. It was a neat, tidy bedroom and despite the pop star posters, utterly feminine. The blonde-haired girl twisted her body this way and that. Cries still came from her throat, each cry more agonised than the one which had preceded it.

Diane's family, all heavy sleepers, slept on through her dreamy distress.

The rushing hiss seemed louder this time. The cut of the cane was the worst so far. Diane's torso twisted, her daintily-nippled breasts swinging from side to side. Two male hands came from behind her to take hold and still them. Diane couldn't raise her own hands from the chair seat to do anything about it. The touch was nice though, rather like the touch of the boy she had met on holiday last year.

Suddenly, the molesting hands disappeared and, perspiring, she waited for the next attack on her bottom. It came without any warning this time and her body shuddered. Again, she cried out.

But wasn't she supposed to have had six strokes only? Frantically she looked behind her. The mirror hadn't been there before. Wide-eyed and trembling, she counted the angry red stripes emblazoned across the rear she was so proud of – seven, eight, nine! Diane wanted to protest but no sound would come from her throat.

The mirror was taken away but not before the girl had realised that the man must have seen everything she had. Oh no! How awful! The as yet inviolate sex delights between her legs had always been so jealously guarded. Despite the many temptations, she had never displayed that lightly dusted, pouting recess to any male.

Tense, she waited for the return of the cane. But it wasn't a cane which hit her – it was a hand landing squarely across her buttocks. And it had hurt...

Her older brother Colin had entered her room, carrying a cup of tea. He set it down on the unit alongside the girl's head. The continental quilt had fallen completely to the floor. Diane lay, curled up, her fine form filling out the flimsy pink nylon of her sleep suit. He brought his hand down on the splendid, tightly-encased bottom.

'Owww!' she cried out.

'Wake up Di,' Colin shouted. 'Time for college.'

The eyes of the 17-year-old girl jerked open and she looked all round the familiar room. That hand on her bottom had been her brother's! 'Gosh,' she sighed sleepily. 'I've had the most awful dream.'

She began to move as Colin sat on the bed. 'Tell me about it,' he asked her.

Suddenly, Diane went rigid. Her eyes were wide and despairing. Groaning, she buried her face in the pillow.

The college student had remembered that she had to report to the Principal that very morning to receive six of the best for serious misbehaviour.

She would have to relive her nightmare all over again, but this time she would really feel the pain coursing through her body.

The Cellar

Story from old Blushes.

The Cellar


When the telephone in the study upstairs had rung, it could hardly have done so at a worse moment — that is, from young Bab's admittedly self-centred point of view. Those particular bits of 'self' around which her perception of sensation had been obliged to revolve for the best part of the last twenty minutes were those that she would have much preferred to have kept tucked demurely away inside her knickers, except that the said knickers had been demoted — by 'Uncle' Basil — from their duty as preservers of a girl's modesty, and when the phone rang were serving instead as a half-mast token of surrender a little above the level of Bab's knees.

Basil had excused himself from the proceedings down in the cellar with no more ceremony than a patronising pat to the girl's hot and bothered bottom, and she had been abandoned, panting frantically on the very brink of one of those embarrassing happenings that Basil called 'being a good girl', which could hardly be sillier really, because they only happened when she was brought down here for being a bad girl.

Now, several minutes after Uncle Basil disappeared up the rickety stairs, Babs snuffles miserably and brushes a tear from her cheek. Her shoes and socks apart, and discounting her knickers which are contributing nothing to the maintenance of her modesty in their forlorn station just above her knees, Babs is quite naked. Her vest lies rumpled on a spindly-legged chair together with her blouse. Her tie is draped over the chair back and her skirt is upstairs somewhere, probably on the study floor. Her cheeks are flushed and her lip pouts unhappily, as though the renewed onset of weeping is but a smart slap or two away.

The certain knowledge that the requisite slaps will most certainly be forthcoming just as soon as Uncle Basil returns makes her bottom tremble faintly at irregular intervals, and the equally unavoidable certainty that he will insist on beginning again, coaxing, teasing and spanking her by turns until she humiliates herself by doing what she was on the very verge of doing when the phone rang despite the smart in her bum; or perhaps even partly because of it — she really doesn't know — makes her knees go to jelly and her pouty bottom lip pushes out yet more disconsolately.

Upstairs, Basil is writing a name into his diary — "Ann — oh, Anne with an 'e'? Fine, at eight o'clock? OK. Thanks Reggie. And I'll come along to you afterwards — for a drink — alright? Good." He chuckles conspiratorially "And I'll give Babs your regards. I dare say she'll remember you." His chuckle becomes a smile as he listens briefly. "Yes — you interrupted me, as a matter of fact." He laughs again, "Such are the perks of guardianship." An eyebrow raises whimsically. "Hmm? Well, what about next weekend? I'll be gone all day Sunday — Babs will be here, of course. OK, Sunday it is. Speak to you about it later. 'Bye."

Downstairs, Babs hears a 'clump-thud-bump' as Basil leaves the study which has her thighs pressing uneasily against each other, squeezing and relaxing by turns for several moments in unintentional imitation of the little semi-static dance she was performing a few minutes earlier to Uncle Basil's expert coaxing. Bab's bum-cheeks tweak together as her uncle's footsteps approach the door to the cellar, and then they soften reluctantly as the sound passes like summer thunder into the distance. Each firm, full buttock is warmly crimsoned around the sitting down bits, and finger-shaped blotches extend round her flanks and down the upper parts of her legs almost to the level of her pulled-down pants. Overlaying this tender-looking redness are perhaps eight or nine roughly parallel marks which clearly do not result from the same application of palm to bottom that produced the generally well-punished look of the girl's unfortunate bum. A cane has visited these youthful cheeks, and very recently.

Renewed clumping from above prompts a sudden straightening of the girl's posture, bottom pushing out saucily behind and impudent breasts bouncing just the once as she pulls herself up to her full height.


She looks up and over her shoulder and catches sight of a pair of brown brogue shoes on the upper stair, hears the click of the latch and the well-oiled side of a bolt. She stoops and picks up two weighty books, which she has to do with both hands together. Balancing the one on top of the other, she lifts them in front of her face and places them on top of her head. Trembling, she slides the books forward and back until she finds the point at which they will sit in equilibrium. Basil's footsteps approach and stop directly at her back.

"Well now, we'll just have to start again, won't we, eh?"

His hand pat-pats up under her buttocks. They jiggle a little, each cheek in its turn, and the books try to slip sideways. Babs reaches up with both hands — the books are too thick to be held together by the span of one of her small hands; she has to hold each separately lest they should slide apart and fall. Uncle Basil seats himself on a stool at her side, his knees either side of her legs, her bottom convenient to his right hand and the warm, smooth downward sweep of her belly convenient to his left. Upon her head, Pilgrim's Progress, topped by an unabridged edition of Crime and Punishment, occupy both her hands still, which is, after all, the books' sole purpose. Hands which are kept busy above head-height cannot interfere with other hands as they spank and stroke and smack and coax and slap and slip between nervous thighs.

"Uncle Reggie sends his regards by the way," observes Basil, nudging the girl forward a fraction to get her in exactly the right position.

"Oooh — oh dear," says Babs warily as she shuffles the required half inch.

"Yes. He was wondering whether you might be in need of another lesson."

"Oooh. Urn — I-I don't really th-think —"

A loud, echoing report as Basil's hand cracks across Bab's nervous bum-cheeks cuts short whatever it is the girl is trying to say. She squirms her bottom desperately, feeling the heat of her earlier punishment returning instantly.

"I told him you were. Euclid has never been your strong point, and Reggie knows an awful lot about that sort of thing, you know."

"Oooo —" Babs remembers her last geometry lesson only too well, although she might have been forgiven for thinking it was actually more to do with anatomy.

"He's coming on Sunday."

"Oh — but — but —"

Basil smacks the impudent cheeks casually but firmly.

"Come along, Babs. Stick it out. That's it my pet."

A solid spank makes Babs start so that Pilgrim's Progress slithers dangerously backwards and Babs squeals as the tenderness in her bottom is re-kindled in earnest.

A second meaty slap sees tears starting from under her eye-lashes. She wriggles her hips and swerves a little aside and Crime and Punishment tilts perilously as Babs reaches down to give her bum, a frantic, illicit rub, and suddenly the book topples from her head and thuds to the floor.

Her startled gasp and wide-eyed look make this minor piece of clumsiness seem a desperate misfortune. Pilgrim's Progress is caught only just in time, but already the damage has been done.

"Oh no — no, please —"

But Uncle Basil is not listening. Leaning forward from his stool he can reach the slender, crook-handled cane on a hook screwed to a timber upright. The tip of the cane shivers in anticipation as it is drawn back and held bottom-high, threateing the girl's flinching cheeks. Babs looks behind and knows that there is no way out of the mandatory three stinging strokes for dropping a book, but she blabs out her gasping, tearful pleas any way. Basil listens until she subsides into hopeless silence, then the cane swishes round. Babs jerk her hips forward, pubic swell thrusting onto Basil's waiting hand. Two more strokes arrive with hardly two seconds between them, and suddenly Babs is blubbering in earnest, snatching and clutching with her one free hand at the fresh weals already swelling around the undercurves of her buttocks.


Basil lets her calm herself, which takes several minutes, then he picks up the dropped book and offers it to her. Babs takes it tearfully and balances it again on top of her head. She holds the volumes with both hands, shuffles unwillingly back to her place between Basil's knees, and eases the contact of thigh against thigh so that Basil's eager digits can take up where they left off: she wants only to get it over with now, and with the slow, rhythmic application of Basil's right hand to her quivering bottom to help her along Babs eventually begins to shudder a little every now and then as she pushes forward onto Basil's busy fingers. Quickly now that she is on the way, her reluctance becomes co-operation, her to and fro-ing seems to be less a response to the continuing spanks than to the insistance of Basil's expert coaxing. Whimperingly she obliges at last, eyes tightly shut, knees bending, fingers loosing their grip on the books wobbling dangerously on her head. Pilgrim's Progress hits the chair and bounces to the floor.

Allowed to slip off the hook now that she has been a 'good girl' as required, Babs slowly collects her wits and keeps her face averted from Basil's smug expression, hands wandering automatically back to their place upon the crown of her head despite the absence of Pilgrim. She edges sideways as Basil gets to his feet but keeps her bottom pushing out obediently behind her, keeps her legs together and her back hollowed, and hears the faint, tinny sound of silver foil being torn apart. Warm hands pilot her to a position directly in front of the stool, and nudge her forward until her thighs are touching the cool wood. A gentle shove in the small of her back is the signal to lay her tummy across the seat. She holds onto the stool's legs with both hands and spreads her feet apart.

Basil's fingertips, slipped under her loins and lifting slightly, hint that she should be paying attention. Babs elevates her hips a little and for the umpteenth time begins to count the weeks 'till her eighteenth birthday. It seems a long way off.

Wednesday, 8 June 2011

A Letter For Nicola

Story from Uniform Girls 01.

A Letter For Nicola

Half term, and most of the boarders gone home to ride ponies and go to discos and generally to forget all about school for a whole week. Almost all of the girls, only three or four still in their dormitory rooms of an evening, those whose parents didn't want their daughter's home to complicate their social arrangements. Like, Nicola's —

Nicola waits miserably in the headmaster's private sitting room — the headmaster too is away, and the deputy head, Mr Russell, sees no reason why he shouldn't make use of it's comfortable seclusion on these occasions, 'these occasions' being those when a girl needs to be 'disciplined'. Nicola is supposed to be 'ready' when Mr Russell comes back from the village — gone to buy more smelly tobacco for his pipe, most probably — but she knows she'll hear his car pull up and there'll still be plenty of time to kneel up and-and-and get her knickers down. The thought of having to do so makes her tummy feel funny; she sits and stares at her hands and thinks about how she got trapped into her first bare-bummed spanking, a term and a half ago, before he'd persuaded her mother — who hadn't needed much persuasion, as it turned out — to send her to school as a boarder even though her home was only three and a half miles away...

* * * *

The envelope with Nicola's name on it was lying on the hall carpet where her younger sister found it at breakfast time. An innocent-looking bombshell as it turned out for when Nicola glanced at its contents her stomach gave a lurch and she felt her throat go dry. She hastily folded the note and shoved it back in the envelope, fearful that her mother or Julie might see. A gulped mouthful of cornflakes almost choked her.

'Anything interesting, dear?' asked her mother across the breakfast table.

'No... nothing.' With difficulty Nicola kept her voice more or less on an even keel. Picturing again the words which had leapt at her from the paper she broke out into a cold sweat.

Up in the privacy of her room she forced herself to have another look, this time reading it properly.

Dear Nicola,

It is my unhappy duty to take you to task on a disciplinary matter. On the evening of Tuesday last you were observed in the town in school uniform accompanied by a youth and behaving in a highly undignified and unsatisfactory manner. You were, for one thing, eating chips out of a newspaper in a public street. Your conduct on this occasion broke several disciplinary rules, as you will know. It is my duty therefore to see that you are given a suitable punishment.

Accordingly you will report to the Deputy Head tomorrow after school, taking this note with you. You will wear gym attire and you will wear no knickers under your gym shorts. I am instructing Mr Russell, that you are to be given a sound spanking. To ensure that you do not take this matter lightly I am further instructing Mr Russell that you are to have your shorts lowered and take the spanking on the bare bottom.


The note bore the school crest and was signed by the Head. It was dated 31st of March which was yesterday.

Re-reading it Nicola felt sick. It was impossible. She was 17 and a very grown-up looking 17 at that. Surely a 17-year old girl couldn't be spanked nowadays. Especially on her bare bottom! She had never heard of it happening to anyone, not ever. Although of course it did say in the school prospectus something about corporal punishment could be used in extreme circumstances. Could it possibly be that it did happen but the girls it happened to simply kept quiet about it? Obviously you wouldn't want to broadcast the fact. Shuddering, Nicola was quite sure she herself wouldn't.

She looked at the note again — to convince herself that she hadn't dreamt it. No, it was real all right. She shivered, imagining the unthinkable. Mr Russell's hand smacking down on her bare bottom.

With a sort of empty sensation in her stomach Nicola went to the bathroom to brush her teeth and do her hair. She was 5' 6" and well-built, a pretty blue-eyed blonde, but the pretty face in the mirror did not have its usual cheerful appearance. It was 8.30. In just over 7 hours she would be in Mr Russell's room. I feel sick, she thought, but fortunately the feeling passed. It was time to leave.

'Home at the usual time, dear?' It was her mother's routine query and routinely Nicola said yes. Today she said, 'I... I'm not sure, Mum. There... there may be something on.'

She slipped on the green school blazer. Green blazer, blue calf-length pleated skirt, green-and-blue tie. It was what she had on on Tuesday evening because she'd been working late in the library. And then someone had seen her with Brian Parker and those bloody fish and chips. Nicola thought for a moment. Her gym things? Then she remembered they were at school. She felt sick again.

* * * *

3.40 standing outside Mr Russell's door Nicola was naturally feeling even sicker. The dreadful moment of truth had arrived. She had gone through the day in a dream with just that one sick-making thought obliterating everything else. Being over Mr Russell's lap (presumably) with her gym shorts down and her, as she thought, rather big bottom on display. Nicola had naturally said nothing to anyone about her coming humiliating ordeal, and had tried to act as if everything was normal. It had not been easy. She had actually had Mr Russell for one lesson and had not been able to look him in the eye. But the Deputy Head had acted quite normally and had himself given no sign...

Nicola forced herself to knock and his voice said 'Come in'. He looked up from his desk, queryingly. Mr Russell was not old, perhaps 45, quite tall. He had blue eyes, some girls thought he was very dishy. Some girls might even welcome the situation Nicola was in. Her knees felt as if they were made of rubber.

'Yes, Nicola?'

She closed the door and shuffled forward, face bright red. Nicola had her raincoat on but underneath was dressed as the note had directed. Her white sleeveless gym top and tight blue gym shorts plus white ankle socks and gym shoes. She was wearing a bra but her knickers were back in the changing room with her other clothes.

The shorts anyway were very snug fitting. Nicola had had them since the Fifth form and now really needed a size bigger for she had filled out a bit since then. Her big bottom as she thought of it. Her mother told her not to be silly, it wasn't big just nice and anyway she would find that most men liked a good-sized bottom on a girl. At 17 Nicola wasn't really interested in that yet, although she realised that the male sex was interested, in her bottom and in her firm full breasts. Right now, though, there was only one male she had to be concerned about.

Mr Russell repeated his querying 'Yes, Nicola?' as if he didn't know why she had come. Numbly she thrust out the letter. He took a long time reading it through, almost as if it was all news to him. Finally he looked up. His face was perhaps slightly pink, though nothing compared to the rosy flush on Nicola's cheeks.

'Yes Nicola. Of course. Must behave properly in public, mustn't we? Take your coat off then.'

It was happening. Somehow Nicola had had a vague idea that he might say the letter was to teach her a lesson, scare her so that she wouldn't do it again, and then give some more acceptable punishment. Detention or something. Her fingers were all thumbs as she fumbled with the raincoat's buttons.

'Put it on the chair.' Mr Russell had got up and went over to the door. Nicola heard the lock click. He came back and sat down on a chair at the side, not behind his desk. 'Come here then.'

She stood trembling in front of him, somehow feeling naked in her gym clothes. Mr Russell simply said, 'OK, drop your shorts.'

Nicola gulped. For a moment the room went round and round. 'PI...please Sir,' said a small whisper.

'You read the note, Nicola.' Mr Russell's voice was crisp and authoritative. 'You saw the Head's instructions. So please take down your shorts.'

Somehow her hands did it. Struggled the tight shorts down off her full flanks. 'Right down,' Mr Russell ordered. They came right down. Automatically one of Nicola's hands came across to cover her light brown bush. Mr Russell took hold of her arm and the next thing Nicola knew she was over his lap.

'Uuuggghhh!' A moaning gasp at the first electric touch of his hand on her bare bottom. Nicola thought she was going to faint. He wasn't spanking, not yet, just getting her in position on his lap. One hand now holding her firmly in the small of her back, where her tank-top ended. There was a pause. And then the spanking did start.

All those stomach-churning fears of what it would be like proved amply justified. It was quite as bad as Nicola had imagined, if not worse. It hurt for one thing, that hard splat!... splat!... splat!... rhythmically cracking down onto her bottom; but worse was the truly mortifying embarrassment. To be lying there like that with her bare rear on display and Mr Russell's male hand in repeated contact with it. Her soft bottom cheeks flattening and wobbling with each repeated impact. No, that had to be experienced for the full horror to be believed.

Mr Russell kept it up for some considerable time, until Nicola could feel her bum absolutely glowing all over. At last he did stop and she was being helped to her feet. 'Pull them up,' he said. Nicola couldn't see properly. She wasn't actually crying but her bottom lip was trembling and there was an awful lot of moisture in her eyes.

'Blow your nose if you need to,' Mr Russell said.

Nicola had now got her shorts back up and was at least over the worst of the shock. Sire couldn't bear to look him in the eye, though.

'Well that's that,' Mr Russell observed. 'I'm sure it'll teach you a useful lesson because we certainly don't like our girls wandering about the streets eating fish and chips. By the way, are you familiar with the Head's signature?'

Blinking, Nicola looked at him and then away. 'Yes... yes sir. I think so.'

'Oh. Because the signature in your letter is quite a good copy but not what I would call a first-class one.'

Mr Russell's words took some time to sink it. Nicola was after all still in something of a state of shock.

'Wha...what, sir?'

'The signature, Nicola. A forgery. And you know today's date of course. The first of April.'

The penny finally dropped. Nicola's mouth opened and closed again without any words coming out. There was really nothing to say and if there had been Nicola was in no state to say it. She weakly dabbed at her face as two tears rolled down her cheeks.

'Don't take it too hard,' smiled Mr Russell. 'Someone's had their little joke. One of your schoolmates I suppose.'

She felt utterly utterly sick. At being so stupidly taken in and also at the fact that Mr Russell had gone ahead and spanked her even though he knew it was an April Fool's joke.

'I'm sorry but I couldn't resist it,' Mr Russell said in answer to Nicola's unspoken question. 'It was just too good an opportunity to miss. And after all you were in breach of the rules, weren't you! I think the best thing now is to forget all about it. I shan't tell and I don't suppose you will. Your unknown prankster will assume that nothing happened. By the way, any idea who it was?'

Nicola shook her head mournfully, doing her her best to stem the tears. Mr Russell put his arm round her.

'Cheer up. Just a little April Fool's fun. We'll forget about it and no one will be any the wiser. Off you go then.'

He gave Nicola a playful smack on her bottom — an unwelcome reminder of what had to be the worst 15 minutes of Nicola's life.

* * * *

When she got over the worst of the shock and humiliation Nicola's first thought was to think who could have played such a trick. For several days she went about surreptitiously watching for any word or sign that might give a clue but really there wasn't any. Once or twice she thought she had detected some suspicious action but on reflection Nicola had to admit it didn't amount to anything. She knew the best thing would be to forget all about it, as Mr Russell had advised, but she couldn't. And the main reason she couldn't forget was to be Mr Russell himself.

Two weeks after April Fool's Day he called Nicola into his office again after school with some complaint about an essay. He felt she hadn't been trying very hard, he said. He gave a funny little smile.

'But we know what we can do to smarten you up, don't we, young lady?'

Nicola flushed knowing full well what he meant. It wasn't a very good joke as far as she was concerned. She shifted uncomfortably on her feet, recalling all too vividly that horrendous afternoon. As she stood uncertainly at his desk Mr Russell got up and went over to the door. Nicola heard a distinct click of the lock. Like that sick-making afternoon two weeks before.

'Come on then,' he said, his voice a bit tense.

Nicola just looked at him as Mr Russell went to sit in that self-same chair at the side.

'Come on,' he repeated. 'Drop your knickers, Nicola dear.'

'No!' she gasped.

'Yes, Nicola. I'm going to spank your bottom again. And I don't think you're going to complain to anyone because I'm sure you wouldn't want that 'April Fool's joke' that you fell for spread about the school. Now would you?'

'That's blackmail,' Nicola whispered.

Mr Russell smiled. 'I wouldn't call it that. Let's simply say a Deputy Head using whatever disciplinary means are at his disposal. Now are you going to slip your knickers down yourself or shall I do it for you? I should quite enjoy doing it.' He smiled again, a cat with the cream. 'You can take your blazer off first.'

Nicola couldn't believe it. It was blackmail but what could she do? She slipped off her blazer and put it on his desk. She was in school uniform of course, not the gym outfit. Blouse and tie and skirt. Not looking at him her hands went up under the pleated skirt and fumbled underneath.

'Are they down?'

She nodded, tight-lipped.

'Good'. Mr Russell took her arm and pulled Nicola forward, then down. She was over his lap again, and again with that awful feeling of wanting to be sick. She felt her skirt being pulled up, over her back. Her knickers were brief pink nylon. Mr Russell was pulling them further down, to Nicola's knees. His hand on her bottom again. Openly fondling a bit this time. And then spanking. Hard juddering spanks, each one making a sharp pistol-like crack. It seemed to go on and on while Nicola just lay there, not struggling, simply soaking up the sharp pain and the humiliation.

Afterwards, as she struggled her knickers back up, Mr Russell was friendly, perhaps even slightly anxious. Perhaps he was just a little bit afraid Nicola might tell and then he could be in trouble. Because although the school prospectus did mention corporal punishment in general terms it certainly said nothing about spanking girls on their bare bottoms. But Nicola wasn't going to tell — not if it meant the whole humiliating story coming out.

'It doesn't hurt, does it?' he queried sympathetically. 'And I'm sure we're still friends, aren't we, Nicola?'

Nicola didn't answer. It seemed stupid to say either yes or not. But she could guess that as soon as Mr Russell got another excuse she would be back in here taking her knickers down again.

He gave her a charming smile. 'By the way, any ideas yet on who sent that letter?'

Nicola shook her head.

Mr Russell shook his too. 'Someone out there,' he mused. 'But at least if you say nothing their joke's fallen rather flat, hasn't it?'

Say nothing and let him keep smacking my bum, Nicola thought unhappily. But she was caught in the predicament of not having any choice.

* * * *

Graham Russell, after Nicola had left, sat at his desk pleasantly reliving the heady episode. She certainly had a marvellous bottom. And big girls really should be given more of that treatment. It was very good for them and it was most unfortunate that society nowadays had rather gone off that sort of thing. Next time, he thought, he might even take the strap to her. That would be really something. Spanking, though, did afford the wonderful intimacy of hand on bare bottom.

Taking up his pen he started idly doodling. The Headmaster's signature. He had told Nicola it wasn't perfect but really it was a very good copy. It had all gone quite marvellously; no problems and quite foolproof. He'd have to try it on another one next year, another little April Fool's trick. Perhaps June Billington, with the big boobs. He rather fancied her as well.

But until then there was Nicola Wilson. Pretty Nicola who had quite big boobs anyway plus a really lovely bottom. Nicola who was clearly going to be nice and cooperative. Next week, he thought. There's bound to be something wrong with her work again next week.