A Tutor's Tale

Story from Roue 08.

A Tutor's Tale

THE TUTOR AND THE PARENT

The thing which struck me most forcibly when I started my private tutoring some twenty five years ago was that inevitably I found myself dealing with parents who were more than usually concerned about the standard of education of their child. This may seem obvious, but since I started my sideline as a result of financial necessity, I am bound to admit that I saw myself initially as some cap-in-hand fellow hoping to convince prospective clients that I did indeed have something to offer, and, my attitude was one more of the supplicant than of the authoritative professional man.

I realised very quickly however that many of those parents who had decided that their child had need of extra tuition, had often done so very much as a last resort, having despaired of their child's education being adequately catered for by their present school alone. This is not to say that either the schools or the children were particularly at fault; more often it was the parents who were pushing their children along perhaps faster than could reasonably be expected of them, and having ambitions for their offspring which resulted in anxiety when expectations failed to materialise.

End-of-term reports were my most eloquent advocate, and I had more applications for places resulting from disappointing school reports than anything else. Not all parents were of this kind of course, but a substantial majority were. Once I had grasped this fact I was able to see myself in an entirely different light.

Springing from this anxiety on the part of the parents there naturally arose a certain willingness to believe that private and professional attention to their child's needs was the one and only thing that might work — thus the tutor was unwittingly endowed with quasi-magical powers and the gift of turning a dull or lazy child into a winner of scholarships. A good report at the end of term, after a series of private lessons, confirmed this rather naive point of view and guaranteed at least another term or two of continued lessons in the hope of further improvement.

The tutor's opinions were then listened to with yet more attentiveness, and even a subsequent bad report made little difference; the lessons had worked before — if the child was no longer progressing so well it obviously was not the fault of the tutor. It must be the child.

More girls than I can actually remember must have first felt the smack of a ruler across their knickers as a result of this illogical reasoning on the part of their parents. And as a result also, of course, of a discreet suggestion on my part.

Even if progress were maintained, eventually there would be an adverse report from the school, or one which failed to satisfy expectations. Trusted thus far with the girls' education, the tutor's suggestion that the odd smack on the bottom might not go amiss would be accepted without too much trauma. Some parents did not go along with the idea of course, but far more than one might have expected did.

Mothers were the easiest to convince, fathers less so. Uncles, on the other hand, almost inevitably raised no objections, while aunts were hardly more of a problem. I would not wish you to suppose that every one of my pupils were punished — of course not. But I think it would be fair to say that about a third of the girls who were at one time or another members of my 'practice' were disciplined and some quite vigorously. I have to admit, and no doubt you will have realised, that I was anxious to conclude such arrangements out of motives other than professionalism, but I must still say that smacking a girls' bottom never did her schoolwork any harm, and for some it was definitely beneficial.

One last point: I do not regard the parents of these girls as being unusually gullible. One only has to think of the automatic weight which most people attach to the professional advice of a doctor to understand why the advice of a tutor should be accepted so readily. The aura surrounding the two professions is sometimes not very different, certainly in the circumstances in which my pupils were delivered to me by over-anxious parents.

THE TUTOR AND THE PUPIL

Leaving aside the matter of corporal punishment for the moment, I always tried to win the trust and confidence of pupils, the better to understand their needs, for you should remember that I was running a business; it wasn't simply a matter of seeing how many bottoms I could smack in a week. Winning the confidence of my pupils paid dividends, and also led to some surprising results. Having been sent to me in an effort to improve her maths, one girl confessed that it was simply her inability to see the writing on the blackboard that had inhibited her learning — she hadn't wanted to be made to wear glasses, so she had simply kept quiet and fallen behind in consequence.

I also found that being able to discuss problems with someone not actually connected with their school led many of my pupils to regard me in a more friendly way than they would otherwise have done. This is not to say that I was lax or too easy-going; I was never that, but respect for my authority was tempered with an agreeable feeling of approachability — at least I like to think so.

CLASSROOM BEHAVIOUR

I always used a set of rules which I expected my pupils to follow, and which I am certain established the relationship between myself and my pupils which might later lead to the acceptance of classroom punishments in an atmosphere of proper authority.

Standing up whenever I entered the room was one rule — calling me sir was another — it was surprising, even then, how many children were not expected to behave in this way at school. Standing up whenever they were called upon to speak was another thing I insisted upon. These apparently minor things were, I am sure, conducive to the proper atmosphere in the classroom.

TAKING ADVANTAGE

When I had been in 'private practice' for some time, and having discovered after some six months that it was not beyond the bounds of possibility to turn a young lady over my lap and smack her on her knickers and get away with it, the next step seemed to be both desirable and at the same time fraught with peril; that of taking the girl's pants down and spanking her on her bare bottom.

I pondered the wisdom of this move at length, and at last convinced myself that I might, with caution, try a little experiment.

My current favourite was a girl named Penelope, whom I had coaxed across my knee, albeit at first rather uncertainly despite her mother's permission, on several occasions. She was about seventeen and quite a 'big girl'. She filled out her school presuming that Penny herself had been told of this authorisation by her mother, was somewhat taken aback when Penny's mum arrived with her daughter one day to pay the monthly fees and remarked to me that it was a tribute to my expertise that I had managed Penny's recent advances in scholarship without the need to resort to physical chastisement.

I questioned Penny closely about it when her mother had gone. It transpired that not only had Penny not told her mother that she'd been getting her pants taken down, she hadn't even admitted that she'd been spanked at all. Asked why she'd been so reluctant to mention this aspect of her education to her mother Penny said tearfully that she was too embarrassed, even though her knickers more than adequately and was a delight to spank because of her wonderfully firm bottom and her way of bleating plaintively with every smack. Truth to tell she was also, at that time, the only one of my pupils whom I had parental permission to chastise.

Approaching the matter of bare-bottom spanking by a roundabout route, I took to easing the elastic legs of her knickers into the middle while I spanked her, which gave me a goodly amount of bare buttock to smack while preserving her modesty. Having accustomed her to expect this semi-denudation, I eventually took my courage, and Penny's knickers, in both hands and whisked them down to her knees one afternoon. Her reaction was not particularly adverse, her bottom having already been pretty well smacked thus giving her more to think about than what was happening to her knickers.

I awaited developments, my arguments ready on my tongue for when Penny's mother arrived to protest, but nothing happened.

I repeated the experiment several times without any unhappy results, and then began to take Penny's knickerless spankings for granted, though Penny was understandably less than enthusiastic about her punishments. For several months this continued, and I, knowing that Penny's mother had authorised the disciplining of her daughter and mum had told her that it was going to happen.

I found this most instructive, and on many subsequent occasions with other girls discovered this same reluctance to admit such things to their parents. As for Penny, since I had said nothing to her mother she continued to get her bare-bottom spankings in camera.

Incidentally I overcame this problem of knickers-down punishment with other girls simply by not making an issue of it. Instead of saying "Your daughter might benefit from the occasional spanking" I would say "Perhaps your daughter needs her pants taken down and her bottom smacked." It seemed to cause very little concern when put that way.

THE CANE — A BLUNT INSTRUMENT

I have read here and there that to be effective, a punishment should result in tears. If this is true, and I admit that a few tears do indicate a certain degree of contrition on the part of the punishee, then the logical conclusion would seem to be that the more painful the punishment, thus the more tearful the wretched girl, then the more effective the chastisement is likely to be. Logically then, something like a cane, soundly applied to the tender backside of a girl in her teens, would seem to provide the best results with the least likelihood of failure. Well possibly it would. I must say however that I am not, in general, in favour of caning girls.

This is not to say that I have never caned a girl. I have caned dozens, particularly in the few years after I first started my private lessons, but my views on this have changed as I have grown older. (Mellowed, perhaps).

I suppose that my lack of conscience regarding the caning of my earlier pupils stemmed from my full-time occupation as a teacher in a boys-only grammar school. At this school the cane was used indiscriminately it is not surprising then that I saw nothing very wrong in caning girls if they deserved it. I was, after all, quite used to the 'Thwack!' of a cane across grey flannel trousers; at first girls didn't seem so different to boys and I assumed they needed the same kind of discipline.

I now consider this to have been a mistaken point of view. If tears are to be considered evidence of an effective punishment, then I must point out that I have come across very few girls who have been able to bear even a moderate spanking without bursting into tears. Certainly a couple of dozen good strokes with a substantial ruler will reduce even the most determined girl to hysterical weeping. On the other hand I have to admit that not very many boys will let themselves down by crying even when caned. Perhaps then there is a case for the caning of boys. I no longer think this to be true for girls however.

In the interests of accuracy I shall deal briefly with the matter of caning girls, but would add that in the last five years of my private lessons I didn't use the cane at all.

To frame the proper perspective I should say that though I was used to punishing boys at my school I was not particularly expert at it, by which I mean I had never thought about corporal punishment except in terms of a couple of good swats across someone's trousers, in the full expectation that the recipient would be back for more on some subsequent occasion. Caning in boys schools, at least so far as I was concerned, was simply a matter of vengeance; I don't think any of my contemporaries ever thought of caning as being constructive, nor indeed particularly likely to deter. Boys did wrong, got whacked, then went out and did wrong again; that's all there was to it.

This being so, and not having any appreciation of the subtleties of corporal punishment, my approach to punishing my private pupils was not very different, except that they were girls and were more interesting sexually. (Possibly you will have noticed that I have not mentioned any boys amongst my private practice. This is no accident. I did not take on boys, except very occasionally, mostly because I had enough of them all day at school. This is my excuse anyway.) When combined with a rather uneasy approach to chastising girls, an awkwardness which I suppose I must attribute to my conscience which constantly reminded me that I was smacking the girls' bottoms purely for my own gratification rather than for any actual professional reason, my inexperience tended in the early days to make me rush at things, rather than take them slowly as I later learned to do.

Because of this, I think, my spanking of girls' bottoms, while satisfying for me, was perhaps not so effective as I eventually learned to make it. As with the boys at school it was all rather peremptory, being a case of pants down, (or not, as the case might be) a short sharp spanking and back to work. Had I been more expert I would probably not have had to use the cane at all. However, to get on with the matter of caning.

The first time I caned a girl it was the result of one very determined pupil's efforts to avoid doing the extra homework which I set her. Sensing the possibility of an 'arrangement' I duly mentioned the matter of discipline to the girl's mother. Permission was given, and the young lady's bottom suffered in consequence. Regrettably no improvement in the matter of homework was forthcoming, though I spanked the girl every time she failed to deliver the necessary work, which probably meant about twice a week, though I don't recall exactly. The girl's mother having become involved, and these regular spankings having no effect, it was only a little surprising that eventually the woman suggested 'stronger measures'. There was only one 'stronger measure' that I could think of; the cane!

Fortunately for me, although the girl was disobedient when it came to doing her homework, she was fairly well-disciplined in class. With her mother present, I had the girl bend over my desk, skirt up but with her pants on in deference to Mum's presence. As I recall I gave her four good strokes. I well remember how she yelled, but mother was more determined than I and the girl was made to lie still till all four strokes had been stingingly applied across the seat of her school knickers. She wept piteously, and I was glad that her mother had been present, or else I supposed I might have been in an awkward position.

This first experience of caning a girl convinced me of two things. Firstly that, unlike boys, girls made a terrible fuss! I resolved that henceforth I would always insist upon a witness being present, and on the witness being the girl's parent or guardian. Secondly, because at once the girl's homework started to arrive on my desk on time, I became convinced of the efficacy of caning vis-a-vis naughty girls!

Now obviously I cannot argue that caning doesn't work, but I do still say that with girls it isn't necessary; however, I will explain later.

Having caned my first girl, when the occasion arose I wasn't slow to suggest caning as a remedy for other girls' serious misbehaviour. I hasten to add that caning was not a very regular occurrence in my little classroom, although the instances when it was employed differed from the first girl's caning in that whereas in her case the stick was used only when less dramatic methods had failed, I now kept a cane in the classroom and sought permission to use it when a girl had done (or not done) something particularly deserving of punishment. Thus, as with the boys at school, I sought to use the cane less as a deterrent than as a means of revenge, although I doubt that I would have seen it in that light at the time.

Having established the principle, with some of my pupil's parents, that physical chastisement was not an unsuitable method of maintaining my authority, the suggestion that a cane be used on their daughters' bottoms did not come as too great a shock.

These canings were carried out with the parent present, and ranged from two to four strokes, usually across the girl's knickers. Doubtless the presence of their parent assisted me in keeping the girl in the right frame of mind to take her dose of the stick. If I caned more than two girls in a month it was unusual, although with certain of my pupils this average increased dramatically.

As I think I have mentioned elsewhere, mothers were the most readily convinced of the need for discipline, and a few girls were sufficiently ill-behaved at home for their mothers to ask for my assistance. Thus a girl, once caned by me in the course of her lessons, would sometimes find herself 'sentenced' to a caning by her mother for something unconnected to my tuition of her. I was used as a 'bogeyman' with whom naughty girls were threatened by exasperated mums. This suited me very well, thank you, and there were thus several young bottoms which got to know the feel of the cane more than most.

Having found that a girl, once caned, lost her ability to concentrate on her work, these 'parental request' canings were administered at the end of a lesson, and with due ceremony. The girl's mother having arrived, I would give her daughter a brief lecture on respect for her elders etc., and she would then be told to bend over my desk. Her knickers would perhaps be taken down, and she would then be given her two, three, or four strokes, hard enough to make her yell with each one. These punishments were somewhat more severe than those suggested by me, mostly because mum would insist upon it being "good and hard" or some such phrase.

For a number of years then, I used the cane more or less often, and I can certainly say that I rarely had to cane a girl a second time for the same offence. Tears there were in plenty, and I should suppose therefore that the canings which I administered would be ajudged 'effective' by those who say that tears provide evidence of a punishment well applied.

A PSYCHOLOGICAL APPROACH

On the matter of tears then, let me now elucidate my present, and updated, attitude to corporal punishment.

If tears are to mean anything at all useful, then I would suppose that they should indicate more than just a temporary sensation of pain. If pain alone were the object of physical chastisement, then the aim might as easily be achieved by, for example, slamming the lid of a desk down on a girl's fingers. Pain there certainly would be, and tears. But discipline — I think not. Hate, fear — these would be the results. I have introduced my comments upon caning as — 'The cane, a blunt instrument'. Certainly in the way that I first used the cane it was not dissimilar to a desk lid.

During these past years however, I have realised that unlike boys, girls do not look upon spankings and canings as chiefly physical punishments, but rather as emotional ordeals. This realisation has led me to an appreciation of the psychological subtleties of chastisement, and away from the 'blunt instrument' cul-de-sac. I now employ nothing more brutal than a springy eighteen-inch ruler, and more usually my hand, and I achieve the desired object, punishment, along with fringe benefits which include a genuine desire to please and, as I like to think, respect.

Punishments in my classroom in latter years tended to follow the pattern which I shall set out below, with variations as the whim, and circumstances, allowed.

I adhered to the usual 'over the knee' spanking position for minor chastisements. I found it much more intimate than other methods and considerably more rewarding from an erotic point of view. I also think that such a punishment, with the closeness of physical contact and the 'submissive' position necessarily adopted by the girl, leads her to view her spanking in a more paternal and thus less authoritarian light, and is less likely to alienate her feelings than 'discipline' pure and simple.

I prefaced such spankings with a short lecture, allowing as much time as was convenient between this lecture and the girl's actual spanking as possible to give her, and myself, time to think about it.

According to the degree of 'disciplinarianism,' desired, I would either take the girls pants down once across my lap, take them down for her prior to putting her over my knee, or have her take them down herself. The two latter alternatives I found most useful in producing the desired emotional effect, particularly on the older, thus more sensitive, girls. Combined with a lecture, and the wait of perhaps half an hour beforehand, telling a girl to take her knickers down, or to 'come here' and doing it myself, has produced tears of embarrassment and contrition as often as has the actual smart of a well-smacked bottom.

Knickers having been taken down, (and I learned that 'bare-bottom' was invariably to be preferred to 'knickers on'), I would proceed with the girl's spanking, never too hard, but prolonging the punishment for increased severity rather than spanking harder. I discovered that the effects of a girl getting her bottom spanked are cumulative, which is to say that the spanks, though no harder, seemed to have considerably more effect as the punishment went on. Tears, if not in evidence at the 'taking down of knickers' stage, would usually appear after a few minutes. By spanking moderately I found that, though the girl might begin to cry, her struggles and protests were likely to be less violent than in the case of a 'sound spanking'.

I would talk to the girl continuously, and indeed have had a few proper conversations while a girlish bottom has bounced about on my lap, (I found your 'Tutor's' insistence that his pupil recite a rhyme while being spanked quite amusing). When I considered the punishment to be adequately administered I would then send the girl off to a corner to dry her eyes, bottom on display. This, I felt, 'rounded off the psychological aspects of a smacked bottom perfectly.

If I needed to be more authoritarian, I would punish the girl with the ruler which I mentioned, and then always bent across my desk. Again, the actual spanking would not be too hard, but might comprise twenty, thirty, or more fairly stingy smacks, well spaced out and with each spank preceded by some suitable comment from me. A teenage bottom thus punished would take on a very rosy hue, but even as little as an hour later would exhibit few signs of punishment save a little blotchiness here and there.

These fairly simple methods I found to be the most effective, and indeed the most rewarding. Caning I found to be less so, unless that is my conscience clouding my recollections of the unfortunate girls whose bared bottoms swerved around across my desk some years ago.

Moments in C.P. History. Numbers I-III

Moments in C.P. History
A Series by Paul Melrose

"Back in 1999, when I was writing spanking stories for 'Februs', Paula Meadows and I thought of an idea to add a bit of variety to the diet of photographs and spanking fiction, and that was to do a short series on true life historical spankings and whippings. It was a task I thoroughly enjoyed for I did the historical research and Paula, of course, drew the pictures (well what else? :) We did try to make the history as accurate as we could, though I will confess that where details were not comprehensive, the spanko in me did some 'best scenario' embellishments. But they're not that far off the mark and the aim was to appeal to spankos after all :)"

(Alex's foreword to this series)

Number I. Catherine Cadiere

Catherine Cadiere was born in Toulon in 1709, the daughter of a merchant. Her father died when she was only three years old and left his widow with three sons, a daughter (Catherine) and considerable wealth. The girl was part of a deeply devout and loving Catholic family, her mother believing that a church scholarship was the best option to secure the girls future. She was thus schooled by a number of priests for twelve years with considerable academic success. When she was eighteen years of age and still undergoing tuition, Father John Baptist Gerard, a Jesuit priest, arrived in Toulon as Rector to the Royal Seminary.

Fatefully Catherine was placed under Father Gerard's direction for two and a half years, but after the first year nothing unusual had transpired, though Gerard was noticed by many to be inquisitive about Catherine's family background and her circumstances. He often told her that 'God had great designs for her' and that she should 'offer herself to God through her confessor'.

One day, when Catherine was taken mildly ill, Gerard came to visit her room and gently reproached her for not sending for him, then kissed her very gently on the mouth. Apparently the girl nearly fainted from the pleasure of the experience, as she later wrote to a confidante, and from that moment was under Father Gerard's spell. She began to obey his every command, taking the Sacrament every day in different churches as directed by Gerard who ordered her to give him an account of her emotional state after each of her spiritual visits. Catherine began to have visions and hallucinations, Gerard inciting her to more and more imaginative spiritual sensations until the excited girl passed out. When coming round, Catherine frequently found herself alone but 'in indecent postures with my undergarments disturbed'.

Eventually the cunning Gerard achieved his objective of introducing Catherine to a sound whipping by means of a challenge to her faith which played on the young girl's by now wafer thin emotional stability. He told her that she must prove her faith by an ascent into the air, a simple feat of levitation for one who truly loved God. He left her alone telling her he wanted a full report of the test of her faith. The frightened girl prayed for success and somehow convinced herself she was rising from the ground. Suddenly frightened, she grabbed a chair and held on until the sensation passed off.

Stricken with guilt by her lack of courage, Catherine immediately sought out Gerard in the confessional and told him of her cowardice. He feigned great anger telling her she had committed the enormous sin of doubting the Lord and that she would be punished in her bedroom the very next day. Dutifully Gerard arrived at Catherine's bedroom the next day armed with a leather scourge of the type common in monasteries. He told the tearful girl that 'since you have refused to be clothed in God's gifts, then likewise you must receive his punishment quite naked'.

The young Catherine, brought up so modestly, was shocked and ashamed by the order but too in awe of her confessor to disobey. She took off all her clothes in front of the priest's eager eyes before clambering up on her bed on all fours as Gerard ordered, then the priest put cushions beneath her to raise her bottom. Gerard then dealt the poor girl a series of hard blows with the scourge which caused her to cry out pitifully. When she was well reddened and severely bruised, Gerard first kissed the girl's bruised buttocks then 'the places betwixt and between' before getting onto the bed and 'passionately embracing' her.

His domination of the young woman became so great that he became enraged if she arranged family visits without his prior knowledge. Far from resenting such power, it would appear from both her actions and confidential letters later read out in court, to the vulnerable Catherine his behaviour was a heady aphrodisiac. Indeed, after the first frightening and shameful experience, Catherine began to relish her appointments with Gerard's whip and found them a source of great sexual stimulus.

Gerard's visits and consequent scourgings increased in number from about December 1729 when Catherine would be whipped naked at least twice a week, sexual activity being presumed to follow. Not surprisingly, before too long Catherine complained of fever and pains and her periods stopped. Rightly recognising the symptoms, Gerard flew into a panic and told the girl 'her blood was afire', persuading the young innocent to drink 'a porringer of water with a refreshing powder in it' every day. The girl obeyed without question and after eight days the powder did its work, the poor terrified girl miscarrying the baby of which she had been unaware.

The cunning priest then persuaded the girl's devoted mother that Catherine had suffered merely an 'infectious fever' but was being well cared for but should not be visited, thus the woman was kept in ignorance of her daughter's condition. Gerard then began to think about his own position, realising he had placed himself in considerable danger were news of this relationship to get out thus he had Catherine moved to a convent at Ollioules as soon as she was fit to travel.

Catherine was still obsessed with her mentor despite his abuse of her, letters passing between them for three months. Gerard continued to find reasons to visit the convent despite his better judgement until the Abbess became suspicious of his motives. She forbade personal visits to the girl's cell but allowed Gerard to talk to her alone only through a grille in the cell wall. Although the grille was only two feet square, Gerard was able to persuade Catherine to first press her face to the mesh to be kissed. Then, incredibly considering the risk, Gerard persuaded her to climb up on a wooden table so that she might press her bare bottom against the grille mesh, Gerard exacting due satisfaction for them both with his trusty scourge.

Gerard was now aware how dangerous was his obsession and resolved to use his influence to send Catherine away to Lyons, well away from wagging tongues. However his plan was thwarted by the Bishop of Toulon who appears to have taken a personal interest in the girl at the request of her mother and who, instead, moved Catherine to his own private country house. On hearing this, and knowing all his damning personal letters were in her trunk, Gerard sent one of his other 'pupils' to see Catherine and persuade her to release them. The 'pupil' instead of obeying, took from the priest's private desk the letters Catherine had sent to Gerard and returned them to her.

Still she was obsessed with Gerard and on three occasions tried to climb out of the window of her new abode to meet him in Toulon but each time was apprehended and sent back to bed. The Bishop, on hearing of this, became angry and confronted Catherine demanding to know the whole truth. Faced with such ecclesiastical power and anger the poor girl broke down and confessed everything in minute detail, handing over all the personal letters and begging that her shame be spared and the matter dropped. Despite her pleas, the Bishop of Toulon indicted Father Gerard on 10th November 1730 and Catherine Cadiere was told she must testify, the girl then claiming 'enchantment' to excuse her own culpability in the scandal.

When the final ecclesiastical examination of Gerard took place in 1731 the options appeared grim indeed. The prosecutor announced that when the ecclesiastical parliament at Aix-en-Provence pronounced sentence one of the parties would be executed. If the charges against Father Gerard were proved he would be burnt alive at the stake but if the charges proved groundless, making the young penitent a liar and seducer, then Catherine would be hanged.

In the event, the outcome could be called a 'happy ending' because the religious court at Aix was evenly divided. Twelve clerics thought Gerard guilty and twelve thought him innocent thus he was discharged as case 'not proven'. Because, however, there was such a weight of opinion behind Catherine's claims, she too was discharged into the custody of her loving mother never to be involved with Gerard again.

Number 2. Comtesse Jeanne de la Motte

Jeanne de la Motte Valois was, reportedly, a beautiful woman born in 1756 of reasonably noble stock, though the family had fallen on hard times. She married young, to a Count Marie Antoine de la Motte, but the marriage drifted and, by 1784 when this story unfolds, she found herself living an impoverished existence on the fringes of Parisian society. She was resourceful and sly, qualities which did not endear her to King Louis XVI who distrusted her instinctively.

Although Jeanne de la Motte is the focal point of this story and judicial victim, the real victim in the long term has to be the tragic Marie Antoinette. When she had married the then Dauphin Louis, Marie Antoinette was derided by French society for her "Austrian manners" for she had no appetite for the boring table chat which dominated royal occasions. She was fun loving and generous natured, journeying in disguise from Versailles to Paris on many an occasion both as Princess and Queen to follow up requests for money and assistance. She tried desperately to live up to her royal status but only succeeded in drawing the sneers of the French establishment for her spendthrift ways, many stories being concocted about her so-called lovers and her profligacy, most of which were totally untrue. By the time she became Queen to Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette was lonely and sad not knowing who to trust and it was in this context that Jeanne de la Motte came into her life.

The Comtesse had petitioned the royal court for money and Marie Antoinette visited her in secret, promising that something would be done to relieve her situation. As a result, and to the King's displeasure, Jeanne de la Motte became a favourite at court with the ear of the Queen and privy to much court tittle tattle. Gossip abounded that Marie Antoinette had been offered first opportunity to buy a diamond necklace from the Paris jewellers of Bohmer and Bassenge valued at over one and a half million livres. Tempted by its beauty, but aware of her reputation for profligacy, the Queen turned it down publicly stating that it was better that the exchequer had the money to buy ships for the navy.

Into the picture then stepped one Cardinal Rohan-Guemene, a cleric of lofty political ambition, who had attempted many times through flattery to become a confidante of the Queen. She, however, treated the Cardinal with ill disguised contempt for offensive remarks he had made years before about her mother, Marie Therese, in an attempt to persuade Louis to marry a French noblewoman. Desperate to gain Marie Antoinette's favour he approached Jeanne de la Motte for advice on how to rectify his situation and suddenly the sly Comtesse saw an answer to all her financial problems.

She told Rohan-Guemene that the Queen would forgive all past slights if he showed his devotion by purchasing the diamond necklace on the Queen's behalf and presenting it to her as a gift. She reassured the flustered Cardinal, who could not afford that sort of price, that the Queen would pay for the necklace in instalments, but it could not be seen that she had purchased it herself for obvious political reasons. Rohan-Guemene, though besotted with the idea of finding favour, was still unsure and Jeanne de la Motte realised she needed some impetus to push him the rest of the way.

Her good fortune came on a visit into Paris one day in 1784 when, at a public exhibition, Jeanne saw a woman step down from a carriage and could not believe her eyes. What was the Queen doing travelling in such low estate and wearing such shabby clothes? She put the thought aside until cheering announced the arrival of a much more stately carriage from which the real Queen emerged. Suddenly, realising that Marie Antoinette had an incredible double, Jeanne followed the trail until she found the girl whose likeness to the Queen was so uncanny. The girl's name turned out to be Marie Lejay, rechristened by Jeanne for the purposes of confidential letters Baronne Gay d'Olivas, (an anagram of Valois which was a cheeky touch) and she was soon persuaded that in order to play a joke on a friend, she would accompany Jeanne to a late night tryst and impersonate the Queen.

Accordingly, Jeanne de la Motte went back to Cardinal Rohan and told him an assignation had been arranged where he would meet the Queen in secret at night in woodland just outside Versailles. The Cardinal was completely duped and accordingly, in the company of Jeanne de la Motte, he met, in poor light, the heavily veiled Queen, who promised him both prompt repayment and sexual favours if he were to purchase the necklace for her. Cardinal Rohan, a man of normally sound judgement, was swept off his feet by this unexpected promise of pleasure and agreed to every request, including one that Jeanne de la Motte was to be the link to both parties.

Jeanne then proceeded to acquire the necklace from the jewellers with one genuine document from the Cardinal, a forged note from the Queen and other forged documents which led the jewellers to believe that payment would be made over a certain period and that the Queen's own signature guaranteed it. For some weeks, Jeanne de la Motte managed to prevent all parties meeting, secreting the necklace in a hiding place from where she could flee the country with it when the time was right. Unfortunately for Jeanne, the jewellers grew suspicious and demanded an audience with Marie Antoinette who, of course, knew nothing of the affair. Cardinal Rohan thought the necklace to be in the Queen's possession and at first suspected Marie Antoinette to be lying.

Eventually the truth came out, all fingers pointing to the attractive Comtesse as the central villain in all this and she was arrested and locked in the Bastille along with Marie Lejay, the Cardinal and other minor figures implicated in the scam. At Louis XVTs demand, in order to completely absolve his Queen, a public trial of all the parties involved was held with great publicity. This trial was the worst thing that could have happened to the Queen for Marie Antoinette could not, in her position, testify and the consequent press coverage tended toward the scurrilous, suggesting that she had indeed conspired to acquire the necklace and was placing the blame on others. Most historians feel this to be complete nonsense but the mud stuck.

On the day of judgement, 31st May 1786, the accused were not brought into court, but the news was brought to their cells. Jeanne de la Motte was told in her cell that all her co-defendants had been acquitted, raising her hopes that she too would be freed or at worst she would suffer banishment to England. These hopes were dashed when two officers of the court came into her cell and ordered her to kneel before them, a humiliating instruction given only before a humiliating sentence. Jeanne protested this outrage, citing her noble birth, but she was forcibly dragged to her knees and the sentence read out. When she heard the decision, she screamed in shock and fear, for she was told that she would be taken from the Court immediately to a scaffold erected in the Cours de Justice, then tied there to a whipping post before being stripped naked and whipped before a huge crowd.

Struggling and crying the beautiful, dark haired young Comtesse found herself dragged forcibly from the prison and onto the huge concourse on which the scaffold was erected. She made desperate pleas for mercy before being dragged up the steps, tied to the whipping post and completely stripped before being soundly whipped on her back and buttocks. When the whipping was finished and she was slumped sobbing with pain and shame in her bonds, the whipper heated a hot iron in coals and she was branded with a small V, for Voleur, on her shoulder. She fainted from the pain and was carried back to the Bastille before transportation to Saltpetriere Gaol, the whores' prison, which was a further indignity.

Jeanne de la Motte became a milestone in CP history as the last woman ever to be publicly flogged in France. The punishment of the Comtesse was grossly humiliating, yet she survived, escaped from prison to England and became quite rich by writing her memoirs, which included very virulent attacks on Marie Antoinette. The unfortunate Queen, in contrast, had to suffer slanderous attacks until the end of her reign. Three years after the diamond necklace court case, the French Revolution consumed the nation and, four years after that, on October 16th 1793, four months after her husband King Louis XVI met a similar fate, the tragic and misjudged Marie Antoinette mounted the scaffold of the guillotine on her final journey.

Number 3. Jane Digby

All through her life, and particularly as a child, Jane needed to feel loved. For all her basic goodness, she was a typical only daughter, spoilt, sometimes rebellious and headstrong yet always immediately deeply sorry for any hurt she caused her family by her acts of wilful misbehaviour. Although a deeply loving family, the Coke Digby's were very clear about the results of misbehaviour by their children and Jane had frequently felt the sting of a good maternal spanking whenever her behaviour had gone beyond tolerable limits. It would appear that she coped well with the spankings just as long as that meant she was forgiven.

How could her loving mother do other than forgive the little girl who would write letters to her at the age of eight after being punished saying 'Dear Mama. I will never leave my food again. Please forgive me and send your reply via the bearer!' Such poignant resourcefulness would melt any mother's fury!

The educational path taken by Jane Digby was unusual for a young woman of her time, for her parents decided she would receive the same education as her brothers and thus, by the age of sixteen, she emerged from her schooling with a grounding in French, German and Italian plus a thorough education in classical languages, the arts and ancient and modern history. Thus this was no dumb little rich girl who emerged into the society world of 1824, but a highly intelligent and gifted young woman who was extremely beautiful and, as would be revealed, with a voracious sexual appetite.

Much of the credit for Jane's upbringing must go to a very strict and forbidding governess named Margaret Steele, appointed when Jane was ten to hone the behavioural skills of a young lady of breeding and who taught the young girl music, needlework, religion and social deportment. Margaret Steele was aptly named for she would stand no nonsense from the mischievous and wilful young student. Right from the beginning, Miss Steele had insisted on the right to discipline the girl when necessary and such assent had been readily given for Lady Andover knew only too well the nature of her capricious child.

Thus, very early on in life, Jane learned not only the basics of social behaviour but the consequences of breaching it as she knelt sobbing over a chair with skirts raised and her drawers down for several meaty strokes of Miss Steele's righteous strap. Jane never resented her punishments and despite, or perhaps because of, Margaret Steele's firmness the two developed an intense affection which would last many years until Margaret Steele died, at news of which Jane was inconsolable. At the age of fifteen, it was felt that Jane's education could be best finished off at a seminary in Tunbridge Wells where she spent one year. By the time she was sixteen and had returned home to Holkham, Jane was not only a beautiful young woman but a hive of repressed and frustrated sexual desire which would soon find its emergence in dramatic form making her one of the most notorious women of the age.

For nearly twelve months before being presented at court, the young Jane, now just seventeen, completed her education at home under the tutelage of a former public school tutor named Mardon (whose first name mysteriously never appears anywhere) and it is at his hands that a hitherto unexplored sexual awakening took place. She was already in love with her cousin George Anson who never took any notice of her and there were rumours that her first sexual initiation had already occurred at the hands of one of the Holkham grooms. It is clear that Jane's thoughts were on anything but school work and her angry tutor sought an audience with her mother suggesting that the girl had become unmanageable. Lady Andover, already disturbed by the stories of her daughter's impropriety, reluctantly decided strong action was required and told the young tutor that he was to take whatever disciplinary steps he considered necessary to get the headstrong young girl back on track. Thus, after several warnings, the seventeen year old Jane Digby found herself summoned to the study where her tutor waited along with, to Jane's surprise, one of the maidservants. On the study table lay a birch rod and Jane was informed to her shame and horror that she was to be birched for her behaviour, a punishment which, in view of its intimate nature, required a female witness. Jane was more horrified by the presence of the maid than the prospect of such humiliating punishment and begged for the girl to be removed but to no avail. She was ordered to remove her dress, petticoats and drawers and to bend down holding her calves. Jane later confessed in letters that 'Though my cheeks were burning bright with shame, I shuddered with excitement at the thought of taking off my drawers in front of a man.'

With her chemise raised to the shoulders, Jane was quite naked as she obeyed the shameful order, the maid holding the girl's raised garment in place as the birch began to do its work on Jane's bare bottom. As the birching continued, Jane became sexually excited by the punishment which ended prematurely when her visible arousal became apparent. Perhaps her love of corporal punishment had been present since her childhood spankings but from that day on Jane admitted to a love of the rod which would last until her dying day.

Within a few months of that incident, Jane Digby was presented at Court in 1824 where she met Lord Ellenborough, a well known womaniser and rake, to whom she was married within six months. The marriage was a disaster, though she bore him a child, and Jane then began a series of affairs and relationships which made her the talk of the land, culminating in a whole series of exotic foreign relationships abandoned for the life of an Albanian bandit chiefs mistress living in a squalid cave. Finally, in her middle age, Jane married an Arab sheikh young enough to be her son and lived out the remainder of her days as a princess, one of a bevy of his wives subject to the well known strictures of Arab discipline which Jane took to with relish. She died in 1881 at the age of 74 and was buried in Damascus, shunned by her family and friends after a life of adulterous notoriety, but the ever headstrong hedonist died happy having done it all 'her way'.

Playing Games

Story from Janus 39.

Playing Games
by R.T. Mason

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

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

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

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

'Linda Beckford?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Show me.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'What's this?' Michael repeated.

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

'What's up?' he repeated.

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

'What?'

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

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

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

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

'My Lord!' breathed Michael.

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

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

'Yes,' said Linda in a tiny voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

Dear Sir,

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

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

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

Dear Sir,

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

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

Dear Sir,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

He looked up in surprise. 'Why?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'So you posted it, not your husband?'

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

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

'Look...' she pleaded.

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

'No!'

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

'Look...' she began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Did you enjoy that?' Mr Appleton asked.

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

'Now the cane,' he said crisply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

SPLATT!..

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

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

But the strap simply splatted down again.

And again. And again.

* * *

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

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

She heard Michael's key in the door.

Bell, Book and Candle

Story from Blushes 04.

Bell, Book and Candle

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"MMM!" she agrees quickly, nodding rapidly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Head up, now."

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

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

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

Stubbornly she refuses; keeps both feet still.

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

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

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

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

Now what? she wonders.

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

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

She eases her knees apart reluctantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly the doorbell rings!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Please?" she asks mildly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She squeals softly, giving herself unreservedly.

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

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