Recruit For The Club

Story from New Blushes Vol.2 No.3

Recruit For The Club

Seventeen-year-old Debbie Lanford stuttered, 'I... I can't. I mean I've never...'

She was standing red-faced and trembling in the next-door neighbours' lounge. The Hollings. In front of Mr Holling who was sitting in the big armchair. Mr Holling was smiling good-naturedly. But he had just told her to take her knickers down. And then get across his lap. He was going to spank her bare bottom...

And in spite of that smile he meant it. 'Come on,' he urged. 'Or it won't be just a spanking. It'll be the tawse. That does sting rather. Would you rather that.'

She shook her head. Her blush deepening, if that was possible. As her hands reluctantly moved to slide up under her short skirt.

Mr Holling said, 'That's a good girl.'

* * *

The house next to the Hollings had not been vacant for long; hardly surprising as this was an attractive leafy middle-class estate in a pleasant market town within easy commuting distance of London. The newcomers had moved in two days ago. They were called Lanford, Steve and Jane, and seemed about the same age as Carl and Frances Holling who were in their late thirties. Carl had noted with approval that Jane Lanford was a good-looking, shapely blonde. And also there was a teenage daughter, about the same age as their own daughter Liz who was 17. That to Carl Holling was just as worthy of note as the attractiveness of her mother.

Carl Holling was not the only adult male on the estate to have noted that the new arrivals had a nice-looking teenage daughter. It would have been observed especially by others with daughters of about that age. Members of what was known as The Club. It was of course a very confidential club.

One of them, Ron Greenling, had happened to be in the corner shop at the same time as Carl yesterday morning, Sunday. There had been a discreet exchange. Outside and away from the possibility of being overhead, Ron was eager for news. Carl said her name was Debbie and he could confirm that she was joining the local school, which their own daughters attended. That was the extent of his current knowledge.

'But don't worry, I'll be working on.... er.... matters just as fast as I can.'

Ron said, 'Good! She's nice, isn't she! And I'm sure definitely in need of a little you-know-what. I can scarcely wait!'

Carl of course would be the one to progress the situation. He was the next-door neighbour but not only that, he was a writer working from home and thus would have more opportunity for day time contact.

The next day in fact provided an excellent opportunity.

It was a warm sunny day, as all of September had been this year, and after lunch, looking out from his bedroom window, he saw Jane Lanford and her daughter come out to sit in the garden chairs on their terrace. No doubt they had had a busy morning getting things sorted inside. Now they were in brief summer dresses and sandals. It was a Tuesday and Steve Lanford would no doubt have been off on the early commuter train this morning. And Carl's own Frances and daughter Liz were also conveniently out of the way. They had gone out for the afternoon, shopping: the new school term started next week and Liz wanted some new clothes. Altogether it was an opportunity that had to be seized....

He went down and stuck his head over the fence. Carl could be very charming when it was needed. Within five minutes he had Jane and Debbie Lanford sitting on his own terrace. On the garden table under the sunshade was a bottle of chilled white wine.

'This is awfully nice of you,' Jane said. 'It's exactly what I need. But only a mouthful for Debbie. We don't really let her drink yet.'

Debbie made a face, flushing slightly. 'Oh mum! I'm 17 remember.'

Carl grinned. Jane's white cotton dress was tight-bodiced with a full short skirt which left a good deal of her shapely bare legs on view. Debbie's brief pink-and-blue dress similarly revealed a good part of its owner's more coltish but equally charming thighs.

'Looking forward to the new school?' he asked. 'Quite possibly you'll be in Liz's class.'

The pretty girl pulled a face. 'Yes sort of. It's awful not knowing anyone.' She took a sip of her drink.

Carl smiled at mother and daughter. They really were both highly desirable. Debbie for The Club of course. And her mother... for the usual thing. A fuck. A nice afternoon fuck. He could feel his prick stiffening. Could he now, when he had scarcely met her? It might seem impossible – but somehow he had the feeling it was. His prick was telling him it was....

'Don't worry,' he told Debbie. 'I know they're all very keen to meet you. Look, why don't you come round again later when Liz is back...'

Yes. Later. Because for the moment the darling daughter's presence was a little superfluous. When what he wanted was intimate conversation with her mother. Intimate congress.

* * *

Jane couldn't believe it. Could it really have happened? She wanted to tell herself it hadn't, and it was certainly like a dream. But she knew it wasn't a dream, that was just the effect of the wine. No, it had happened. Also because of the wine of course. She had let Carl Holling fuck her. On that sofa in his lounge. In the middle of the afternoon.

Debbie had gone back into their house, to do some preparation work for school. The new school. Their host had said it was a good idea. In fact maybe he had actually suggested it? Yes, well it would be logical, wouldn't it. While he insisted that she stay. With that bottle of wine. Out on the terrace, and then inside. It would be cooler inside, he said. And then.... she couldn't really remember. Not the details. Probably her mind didn't want to remember, it was too awful. But he kept filling her glass. And then... well, she could remember odd bits. Just like a dream. On the sofa. His hand. Going up under her short skirt. 'I want to see if you're wearing knickers...' And then somehow... they were coming off... her knickers. She was trying to refuse but she had no control. A sense of having lost all control. The wine. His hand was there. At her pussy. Her wet pussy.... and then... it was happening. He was doing it to her. Fucking her. On top of her between her spread legs. One of her feet on the floor and the other up... yes, she was being fucked.

And then afterwards of course, when her mind did clear a bit and she was contemplating this awful thing that she had somehow allowed.... afterwards.... he was telling her about the other thing. This club. The Club. The group of them with their daughters. On the estate. A secret club. A disciplinary club.

He wanted them to join. Debbie. And Steve. So she would have to talk to Steve. Tell him. And persuade him, if that was necessary.

No, he said. Of course he wouldn't let anyone know what had just happened on this Tuesday afternoon on his sofa. Not a soul. If she would see about Debbie. And The Club.

* * *

'It's something they've organised because they think discipline is necessary,' Jane told Steve. 'For girls of that age. Because nowadays they don't get it in school. So..... they do it themselves. And, well, I suppose it does sound like a good idea. It's the fathers. And the daughters. Only not their own daughter. He said – Carl said – it's not possible do discipline your own daughter properly. And so it's someone else's.'

Jane and Steve were in bed. She hadn't been able to broach the subject before and it wasn't easy now. She was having to force herself. Her mind was still full of that awful business only hours earlier. On the Hollings' sofa. Carl Holling fucking her. And if she wanted it kept quiet – as she did! – then Steve had to join this club. With Debbie.

'What d'you mean, discipline?' Steve asked. His hand was sliding over her as they lay side by side on their backs under just a sheet. Sliding down to her pussy. She could guess he was going to want sex. A fuck. And she didn't want it, not after doing it with Carl next-door. Well it didn't seem she should, not right after. She slid her own hand down, to hold Steve's.

'Well, you know. Discipline. Ah..... spanking. And maybe also... I think.... strapping. If necessary.'

Steve said, 'You're joking.' His hand was sliding away from hers. Pushing in between her legs. To her pussy.

'No. Steve... I don't really feel like it... but no, I'm serious. And, well, I think maybe it's a good idea. If it's strictly private of course. Steve!'

He was getting on top of her. Despite her remonstrance's. Pushing her thighs apart. Getting between them. She felt the head of his stiff cock.

As he entered her Steve said, somewhat breathlessly, 'You mean that Carl... and the others... get to deal with Debbie. And I do... one of their daughters....?'

Jane said yes. As Steve began to fuck her. As only hours earlier Carl next door had fucked her.

* * *

'Don't worry,' Mr Holling says. 'It's strictly private. You don't need to worry about that. No one outside our little circle knows. Not a whisper. And of course the same goes for you, Debbie. Not a whisper to anyone. Well, I'm sure your father has already stressed that to you. Not that you would want to, I'm sure. I mean, taking your knickers down for a spanking, it's not something a girl wants to tell everyone about, is it?'

That was true of course. It was certainly true. You certainly wouldn't want to tell anyone. But...

Debbie is in the Hollings' lounge. Standing in front of Mr Holling who is sitting in the armchair. She is here to take her knickers down and have her bare bottom spanked. Can she be dreaming this? She would dearly like to think so. But she knows she isn't. It is Thursday afternoon, two days after Mr Holling invited Debbie and her mother round for that glass of wine. And now, after tea, she has been told to come round again. Only this time by herself. She has been told what for. It didn't seem believable what her mother told her. But it is evidently true. Mr Holling is clearly ready to do it. To take her over his lap. And spank her bare bottom.

Because there is this club. A disciplinary club. A number of girls. And their parents. Their fathers. That is what Debbie's mother has told her. Her own father will be involved too. But not to spank Debbie, he will deal with some other girl. It is a club devoted to discipline, because you don't get it at school these days. And this afternoon... is her introduction to this club.

'Come on then,' Mr Holling urges. 'Don't hang about. Or do we want more than a mere spanking? The strap. That can sting a bit I can tell you.'

No, Debbie certainly doesn't want the strap! And so... does she have any choice? It doesn't seem like it. Her hands reluctantly reach up under her short red skirt. For her knickers. This is really awful! Her hands fumbling to pull them down. They are a bright blushing pink. Which at this moment exactly matches the colour of Debbie's face.

'That's it!' Mr Holling's voice encouraging. 'Not so difficult, is it? And now come here. Over my lap...'

She does it. With the pink knicks now down off the cheeks of her bottom. Stumbling forward. Mr Holling takes her arm. Pulls her down. She half falls over his lap. And then his hand shockingly on the bare flesh. On the ripe bare curve of her bottom. The touch is electric...

The touch is electric too for Carl Holling. As it generally is when you get your hand on a pretty girl's bottom for the first time. The hot, smoothly pliant flesh. He caresses. For some long, sensuous seconds. Her twin ripe rondures above the thighs held in the lowered nylon knickers. She is making whimpering sounds.

And then spanks. Cracking his hand down hard on the left cheeks. She gives an explosive yelp, her bottom jerking. His hand splats down on the other cheek. Then the left one again, further down on the undercurve.

Each stinging smack brings a shuddering yelp, as he continues in a measured cadence...

* * *

Back in her own house Debbie's mother asks, 'It was alright, wasn't it, darling?' A bit anxiously, because of course she is the one who has got Debbie into this.

Debbie says, 'No it wasn't. It was awful.'

And it was of course. Well naturally, at 17 and if you haven't had anything like that before. Over a strange man's lap with your bottom bare. His hand caressing your bare bottom – and then cracking stingingly down on it. Dreadful – though at the same time maybe exciting in an awful way.

And there is the other thought. That what she has had is just the beginning. There are these other men in The Club. Debbie has been told she is going to have to see them too, it is not going to be only Mr Holling. And another awful thought as well. There will be more than just that spanking. That was awful enough, but there is going to be as well the strap. Also on her bare bottom!

Yes, Mr Holling, smiling, told her that when he had finished the spanking. When she was standing before him on trembling legs, her face bright red and with the hint of tears in her eyes, and her knickers still halfway down to her knees.

'It does sting a bit. Well, a lot I suppose is more accurate. The strap is for when it's felt you need something a bit more severe. You won't be getting it all the time. But there will have to be a couple of introductory sessions. To introduce you to it.'

So no, all in all, it is definitely not 'alright.'

'Oh darling, I'm sure it wasn't too bad,' Debbie's mother says. 'And I know it is going to be beneficial. Now you're going to have a chat with Liz, aren't you? I know that will reassure you.'

Yes, Debbie is going to talk to Liz next door. Who of course has been in The Club for, well, how long? Debbie is not sure she wants to discuss things with Liz. Or anyone.

But first her dad wants to speak to her. Steve Lanford is still a bit bemused by The Club. He has never heard of anything like it before – well, not seriously anyway. Carl next door has told him there are five others, including himself. Five fathers with their daughters. Steve and Debbie will make it six. And it seems they have a rotating schedule. So each parent gets to deal with all the other girls. It's all a bit mind-boggling. It means that Debbie will be in effect passed round to five different men. Poor girl! But on the other hand he will get a go at all those five other girls. Well that's not bad, is it!

What is perhaps even more surprising is that Jane knows all this and seems to approve. Amazing really! But then, who knows how women's minds work?

Anyway he has a word with Debbie. Up in her room. To gauge at first-hand her reaction. She says it was really awful. Hmmmm.... no doubt – but he wonders if perhaps it was also a bit of a turn-on. And also he'd like to know some details.

How exactly... Holling had her. And was it just... the spanking? No.... No... ah.... groping...?

Debbie doesn't want it, but he insists on a look at her bum. He makes her take her knickers down and then bend over the bed. Well he is very much a beginner in this. A beginner member of The Club. And he is going to begin with that Liz next door. She's nice. A nice looker, with a tasty shape. That should be fantastic. Not that her bottom will be any nicer than Debbie's... he pats the recently spanked flesh...

* * *

Two days later it's time for Debbie's second introduction. The tawse this time! Her mother knows what is in prospect. Jane bites her lip. Well a mother does feel for her dear daughter and she is all too well aware of her own major role in this. She reassures Debbie as best she can. 'I'm sure he'll do it so it doesn't really hurt, darling.' Etc. Debbie doesn't believe this. Not at all. She feels like bursting into tears just at the thought of it.

This time Carl Holling wants her dressed differently. He specifies a pretty dress, with stockings and a suspender belt instead of the white ankle socks she had on last time. 'Does she have any white stockings perhaps?' he asked her mother. Jane can imagine that the requested outfit is for his own titillation. Be that as it may she sees that Debbie is dressed as required.

'Lovely!' he applauds when Debbie appears at the appointed time. 'Quite delightful!'

The session is to take place in his lounge again. This time it is evening, after supper, and Debbie notices that the gas fire has been lit, even though it is not cold. Again there is no one else here; Liz and her mother have gone out, to leave Carl alone with his visitor.

And that fire; does it signify anything? Indeed it does. Mr Holling explains. When he gives a girl a tawsing he likes to have her bottom already warmed up. With a preheated bottom there is less chance of the leather cutting the tender flesh.

He shakes his head. 'Of course it does also mean that the tawse stings more. On a warmed-up bottom. But you're a big girl, aren't you Debbie dear? I'm sure you can take it very bravely.'

Debbie gives a little cry of fright. She certainly isn't feeling brave and doesn't want to be. Isn't there any way she can avoid this dreadful ordeal! Anything would seem to be better than that horrendous wide leather strap which is lying ominously on the table. Anything!

And that is something else. Debbie has had a chat with Liz now. About this club. The Club. Liz has told her a few things. She said it's not so bad once you're into it. But you have to learn how to make it easier for yourself. Some of them will give it to you really hard – but you can make it easier. What did Liz mean? Debbie tried to get her to spell it out but she wouldn't. Just laughed. And then wanted to go and talk about something else. Giggling, she said she would like to be spanked and strapped by her own father. That would be really exciting...

But what did Liz mean about that other? She didn't mean fucking did she? Debbie is not quite as innocent as she seems in that regard. She has fucked a couple of times. A boyfriend at her other school. Her mother doesn't know this, she would be very shocked if she did.

But anyway Debbie can't very well say: Look I really don't want this. Anything else. Yes anything! Yes a fuck if you want! No she can't say that. Well she can't really say anything. Except plead that she really doesn't want this. And Mr Holling isn't going to take any notice of that.

'Come on, Debbie dear. Girls in The Club have to have a tawsing now and then. So take your knickers down and then tuck your skirt up. And stand with your bottom to the fire. Nice and close. To get that pretty bottom really warm. And then I want you up on the chair. Kneeling on the seat...'

 

 

 

Was it awful? Oh yes you could say that. You could certainly say that. Debbie afterwards could hardly stand up. Her legs wouldn't support her. And she could only with difficulty pull her knickers back up, her hands didn't want to work. Coordinate!.... as for her poor bum... well it felt like raw meat...

Back at home Jane Lanford pursed her lips. 'I'll make you a nice hot drink, darling. Just try and forget it; it's all over now.'

But it wasn't all over, was it? No, it had all scarcely begun! Debbie burst into tears....

Her dad said he thought he'd better have a look. Up in her room. Debbie protested, as she had after the spanking. She didn't want him looking at her bottom, and in particular after the tawsing. But he insisted. Well, Steve Lanford was on a learning curve too. He had now given Liz a first spanking. It had been most enjoyable. Headily exciting... and he had got an enormous hard-on. He had rather got the impression that Liz might have quite liked it too, in spite of making a lot of noise. And now, well, he needed to see what a bottom looked like after a tawsing. To judge how far one should go.

Poor Debbie! He had her over his lap as he sat on the side of the bed. Her skirt up and her knickers down. His hand lightly touched the still hot flesh.

Debbie gave a whimpering yelp. Into her head came what Liz had said, that she would really like her own father to do it. Debbie whimpered again. The fingers were probing... and caressing... and she thought of the other thing too. About making it easier. She was going to have to talk to Liz again. Right away! She couldn't take another whipping like she'd just had...

Downstairs Jane was doing the washing-up. While thinking of poor Debbie of course. She had asked Carl to please not do it too hard. This morning. He had come round and she had made him some coffee. And... she had let him fuck her again. Well, she had tried to refuse but he had just laughed. And said, 'I know you really want it.'

Come into my Parlour

Story from Fessee 01.

Come into my Parlour
A short story by Paula Meadows

She was young. She was beautiful. She was titled with a paragraph in Debrett. I was forty two, manifestly undistinguished and in awe of her. I had not won the second world war, driven racing cars or climbed mountains. I had worked all of my life as a professional with various charities and had considered it a feather in my trilby when I was appointed General Secretary to A.S.F.A.T.A. & I. which stands for Associated Societies for Aiding the Aged and Infirm. We ran homes for elderly and invalid men and women, put out to grass and otherwise neglected by our basically uncaring society. A very worthy cause. Subscription list enclosed!

I was not afraid of the aristocracy per se. Oh no. All major charities rely on patronage, Royal, aristocratic or merely City Rich so I was accustomed to meeting and working with volunteer helpers many of whom also had paragraphs in Debrett. But Lady Millicent was young, beautiful and I'd seen her photograph in Country Life, riding, swimming, and being received at Buck House long before we actually met. When we did meet she was aloof, condescending and her life outside my committee remained a closed book.

Her smile was ravishing, but polite. It invited no familiarity, and the fact that she caused me to have an erection every time I saw her was a fact that only I knew but she did not begin to suspect. I think. I hope. I believe.

* * *

Until the day, almost four years after she had come into my office to introduce herself, when she casually asked me to escort her to the house of an amusing friend she thought I'd be interested to meet. The friend was considering an annual commitment in the form of a financial donation which was tax free. The friend was a famous high society portrait painter.

I agreed at once and a London taxi whirled us to a very good address in Belgravia. A trim housemaid answered the door and Lady Millicent and I were ushered into a stately parlour where our hostess, Amanda Felicity Cummins greeted us. She was clad in trousers and a woollen jumper that was filled with bosom which jiggled. A mannish girl, this artist, with short hair and an abrupt manner which got down to business at once.

Lady Millicent seemed unexpectedly nervous and withdrawn, perching herself primly on a hard high backed wooden chair. I was offered a portion of a large settee and a cup of Lapsang Souchong, with lemon. The business of the evening was accomplished within ten minutes. At which point I expected to be ushered out of the house and on my way.

Instead our hostess rounded on Lady Millicent with an abruptness that startled me.

"Well Millie," she snapped. "Don't just sit there like Patience on her bloody monument. Strip!"

Lady Millicent's hands fluttered in agitation.

"Oh Mandy. I can't. Not in front of —"

"Don't be so damned silly," Amanda exploded. "I'm painting you in the nude, aren't I? Let's have a look at you then. Don't play the spoiled aristocratic bitch with me darling. I know you too well."

"But, but — I CAN'T! Not in front of — er 'um."

Did she mean the maid? Or me?

I sat glued to the settee, my arms wrapped around my kneecaps.

"Get 'em off," Amanda said tersely. "Stop wivering and waving your scruples about. You haven't got any. You know it and I know it and so does Polly Perkins over there."

Two nervous hands undid two unimportant buttons. A pleading look mixed with reproach and outraged modesty. Amanda, hands on hips smiled grimly. "Move it duckie," she said. "Or you know what happens, don't you?" From behind her back she produced a riding crop which she flexed in her large, spatulate hands.

Polly Perkins, the housemaid moved around from behind the settee. She winked at me.

Slowly the blouse was removed and creamy shoulders emerged and then the bra was hesitantly unhooked baring the breasts, pink tips erect, which I had only seen in masturbation fantasies. The protests and the hesitations proliferated as the skirt was unzipped and silken french knickers were pulled unwillingly down.

"That took far too long," said Amanda. "I insist on instant obedience Millie. YOU know that. Kneel over the stool."

And she did. She did. She DID.

What followed thereafter is best described in pictures and that is how it is described overleaf. I learned a lot about Lady Millicent I'd never suspected before.

The distant hauteur of her public persona dissolved into cries, twisting and turning as a network of welts covered her buttocks crimson and she melted into a warm sensuality that permitted every possible liberty to be taken.

On Monday, at the Annual General meeting she swept in, greeted me with her usual polite condescencion and her ice blue eyes warned me to keep my place and act as if it had never happened.

So I did. For a while.

Strict Schooling

Story from Swish Vol.7 No.4

Strict Schooling

"I will leave you to it for the first couple of weeks, then, Jeremy", Hilda said to her nephew. As she spoke she gazed proudly out of the window of her old-style detached house at a large white board which had just been erected in the front garden. The bold black letters on it, in old-fashioned script, simply read: St. Hilda's - Prop. Mrs Hilda Birch. It gave her name a saintly air, she thought.

"Thank you, yes", Jeremy answered quietly. He was a tall young man – the sort that novelists used to call 'clean of limb'. He had left university three years ago to potter around, using an inheritance from his father. Then he had visited his aunt and from there on had begun to find himself in the midst of a new life. An ex-headmistress of a girls' private school, Hilda had decided views on the disciplining of young ladies.

"It's no use dealing with girls underage, Jeremy," she had lectured him, once she had expounded her basic philosophy to him, "The girls to take in hand are those who fritter away their time at discos and such and who seem nowadays to be able to evade parental discipline – or at least to receive so little that it really has no effect on them. They have to be drilled, you know", she had said, causing Jeremy to raise his eyebrows at first, but little by little her ideas had got through to him.

When his aunt had first shown him her little collection of canes and tease-whips, he had thought them fearsome looking instruments, but the more that she explained the techniques of using them, the more he understood. In the two months that had passed since he had stayed in her house, he had begun to admire her more and more. "You will consider me old-fashioned and out-of-date, Jeremy, but believe me there are young ladies out there just crying for the sort of attention they will receive here. It's rather like being in the Forces, you know. At first you resent being given orders, but then gradually you come to see it as a way of life, and you gain a certain pride in being moulded to a set routine. There is safety in it, I suppose".

Jeremy had never heard anyone talk in that way, and he was fascinated. In her early forties, as Hilda was, she could look at times extremely grim and forbidding. In private, though, she could show a warm womanliness, and a firm, ripe figure to go with it.

"I can see that", he had said slowly in response to her remark, "But surely these canes and small whips must hurt frightfully". The remark had brought a smile to Hilda's lips as they sipped after-dinner liqueurs. At the time of this conversation, Jeremy had only been with her for a week and knew little enough. "They could – but in proper hands cruelty is not applied. The actions are DISCIPLINARY, Jeremy. I want you to keep that word constantly in mind. Other terms are sometimes used. 'Training' is one. I do not object to that. The important thing is to show a caring attitude – perhaps you might even say a motherly one. There are times when no harm is done by comforting a girl after she has received bottom-treatment".

As she had spoken, Hilda had rolled a cane in the fingers of her free hand. Her other one held her glass elegantly. Ever since she had decided to open her house as a training college for young ladies, Hilda had started carrying one about. In anticipation, Jeremy had thought, and had felt a curious mingling of thrills and apprehension in him. It was an apprehension that Hilda had known she had to allay, and she did it that night in the boldest possible way.

Jeremy gave her a cue when he replied. "Yes, I know, but the fierce stinging, surely...." Hilda had put down her glass and had said, "Jeremy – get up, please". – "Eh?", he had answered nervously. His aunt was dressed rather severely that evening. She had kept her outdoor black boots on and wore a black knee-length skirt, a crisp close-fitting white blouse, and a tie that nestled between her imposing tits. – "I said, get up, Jeremy", she had repeated and rose to stand above him. Her skirt was thin and he could see the impress of her suspender clips through it. He knew that she always wore stockings. Often enough she left her bedroom door half open and he had frequently glimpsed her drawing them up her still-shapely legs.

What had happened in the ensuing ten minutes was something that Jeremy could still hardly believe. Taking his hand, she had led him firmly into the dining room and closed the door. Then, facing him and with her breasts rising and falling visibly beneath her blouse, she had said gently, "I am going to cane you, Jeremy – or rather, I am going to give you a FEEL of the cane. After all, if you are going to wield it on the naked bottoms of our students, then you have to know what it feels like".

"Here, I say!", he had expostulated. It seemed to him that he could see her nipples through her blouse and that they had grown more prominent even as she spoke. And at the same time she had turned him about, telling him sharply to bend over the end of the long dining room table.

That he had obeyed her was itself ridiculous, but that she had then calmly unzipped and unbelted his trousers and drawn them down to his ankles, together with his underpants. – "No!", he had wanted to yell, but the firmness of her free hand in his back had held him over, not so much by force as by sheer will-power. Then, with his buttocks shamefully naked and offered, Hilda had stepped back, warning him in a clipped voice not to rise.

"But you....", Jeremy had begun to say, though in reality he had little idea as to how he were going to finish the sentence, and in any event he had no chance to. SWOOO-ISSSH! sang the cane and in the next half-second a shrill cry of utter dismay was emitted from his lips as it bit into his buttocks, causing him what he thought to be the most fearful stinging. – "Be STILL!", she had barked at him as his hips waggled and he tried to suppress further gasps. What seemed to him then an eternity passed as Hilda waited, cane-poised behind him. He could hear her speaking to him softly – hypnotically almost – but could hardly distinguish the words through the haze of redhot sensations he was experiencing.

At the second, which came a whole minute later, he had cried out almost girlishly, "Oh, NO!" and had gritted his teeth against the deeply-insurgent stinging. But then something else happened, too. His penis had begun to stir, and the thought terrified him that his aunt would see the beginning of an erection – but in the very midst of that mental and physical turmoil he had felt the cane tapping gently and rhythmically against his seared buttocks, on and on, until he thought she would never stop.

With each little bounce of the warning cane, so his prick extended itself more until to his horror and excitement it stemmed full up his belly. Then.... SWEEE-ISSSH! again, and a howl broke from him. – "NO-WOH!", he yelped, but as he did so, the cane fell at a right angle firmly across the nape of his neck, preventing him from rising immediately not by strength but by her silent determination which he could feel like a perfumed cloud over him.

His sobs resounded. – "Now rise, Jeremy", she had said calmly, though in fact it was almost the last thing that he wanted to do, with his penis thick and long and at full stretch. Haltingly he had pressed himself up, tightening his seared buttocks and screwing up his eyes – none of which appeared to impress Hilda who had placed one hand on his shoulder and turned him about to face her.

Feeling utterly stupid and yet incredibly wild with desire at the same time, his eyes narrowing as he fought against the deep stinging in his bottom, Jeremy had felt her fingers slip tenderly under his swollen balls and then glide up to ring his swollen stem.

"You see, my dear, it disturbs in more ways than one", she had murmured. No longer able to contain himself, Jeremy threw his arms about her and hugged himself to her rather than vice versa. His thrumming prick tapped against her belly through her skirt and he began to sob boyishly while her arms enfolded him.

"Were you a girl, you would not be comforted in this way after a first caning – brief as yours was. The hands may touch gently afterwards, and a soft word might be said, but that is all. A promise is held out – nothing else. The girl will be told that she will be disciplined again. That is all. The first time. As for you, my dear, you cannot help but display your manliness. That will often happen, but you must realise here and now that men have to discipline themselves, too. It is all part of it. NO, Jeremy!", she had snapped, for even as she spoke he had begun to fumble up her skirt until his stiff cock protruded between her black-stockinged thighs, just above her knees, her nylons rasping softly against his powerfully-throbbing member.

"I am sorry", Jeremy had heard himself sobbing. She moved her voluptuous body away from him as he spoke and loosed her arms. – "You forget, Jeremy, that it is a discipline. That must be inculcated first. Later, when all is firmly established, there comes mutual pleasuring. I say MUTUAL, Jeremy – not enforced. Young ladies do not display as visibly as males, of course, but close observance will often show that their nipples are erected and their pussies moist. There may also be a touch of stickiness elsewhere. Such signs are promising. The desire to yield utterly becomes so overwhelming that all inhibitions disappear. Even so, a sense of discipline still obtains, and thus the most delicious results are achieved".

Jeremy had listened to all that in a daze, and yet he had understood better than a million words could otherwise have told him. He had been told then to go to bed, and he had gone, like a stricken schoolboy, with Hilda smiling at him behind his back. The next morning she had produced the minor bombshell that her daughter, Diana, would be joining him to teach at the college – or the training institution as Hilda preferred to call it.

Diana was no softie, Jeremy had been told. "There was the case of the Peeping Tom – I will not otherwise name him, Jeremy, who liked to peek into her bedroom to see if he could see her in her undies. Diana was at the peak of her own training then, but I had taught her caution and she well understood that discipline was mutual. I had her cane him, and she enjoyed it", Hilda had said.

But now that the moment had come for Jeremy to take over, in concert with Diana who was due to arrive later in the day, he kissed his aunt a temporary farewell. For a brief moment he experienced the moist warmth and voluptuousness of her lips and the bulging of her mature tits into his chest and longed to pass his palms around her superb bottom. As ever, though, Hilda drew herself away. "Discipline, Jeremy", she murmured, and his eyes hazed. – "Yes, I know, but....", he began. Her hand waved the rest of his words away. – "Really, dear, you have not caned me yet. My own bottom has not received from you. I do not accept an intruder without that", she said, and twiddled with the front door knob, her large bottom turned provocatively to him.

His eyes, piercing her skirt, Jeremy imagined the large pale orb which her undoubtedly tight and skimpy panties netted, the halfmoons glossy, rich and full. – "Intruders?", he echoed. She smiled at him over her shoulder, easing the door open. – "A private term, Jeremy. When, years ago, I yielded completely to the cane at last, I was asked next morning by Mama whether I had also received an intruder. I knew what she meant and had to answer yes. Be good, dear. Bye-bye!"

Discipline – thought Jeremy admiringly as he watched her hips swaying in her departure. She could easily have let him fondle her lightly for a moment, but that was obviously not the way it was. Every minute he was learning....

* * *

Discipline was also the word in the mind of Tina Brown who – at the railway station three miles away from St Hilda's – was tapping her foot impatiently in waiting for a taxi. A bright red sling-bag hung over one shoulder and she had a suitcase by her side. Her blonde hair glinted in the pale sunlight. – "What a ridiculous wait", she said suddenly to the unknown girl who stood close to her and who was also obviously waiting for a lift. In a moment they were chatting, and amazed to find that they were both bound for the same place. Carole was the other girl's name.

"I didn't particularly want to come, but jobs are so hard to find right now, and I was told it would be good for me. Did you see the brochure about the place?" – "Yes", Tina said, and seemed to be struggling to find words as a cab finally drew up and both got in. "It's disciplinary – that's what it said", she remarked. – "I know – and I'm told I need it. Were you told that?", Carole asked, although she guessed the answer would be in the affirmative even as she spoke. Her tight round bottom wriggled uneasily on the seat.

"I think it's ridiculous these days", Tina said, looking out of the window at the small country town. – "Me, too. I said I wasn't coming here, but that didn't wash. I got...", Carole began and stopped suddenly. Tina turned her face sharply to her. – "You got what? You mean, you got... spanked,?", she asked so knowingly that Carole had a job to conceal a nervous grin.

"Why? Did you, too?", Carole responded. Both suddenly half laughed and then grimaced and clutched one another's hand. – "I was told it would be worse here", Tina replied obliquely. – "Yeah. Me, too", Carole said with awe, and then both fell silent. – "Oooh-wow!", Tina could still hear herself squealing as a broad, leathery palm had descended again and again on her rudely-bared bottom that very morning when she had refused to get up. If only she had known it was going to happen again, she wouldn't have worn that filmy, shorty nightie. And she never wore panties in bed, either, which had made it worse.

Carole had similar memories. Her tummy swirled a little as they got closer to St Hilda's. The same sort of feeling one had on going to the dentist. – "You'll have to obey there", she had been told. – "You'll learn", Tina had heard only five hours before when she lay sobbing with her reddened, naked bottom still showing and her long, slim legs all awry....

* * *

As for Diana, she arrived earlier than expected. So early in fact that her car passed her mother's en route and they both laughed and waved to one another. "You'll be the real boss – the Headmistress – until I get back", Diana's mother had told her before that. Catching Jeremy by surprise as she did, Diana had him running downstairs to open the front door to her. He hadn't seen her since she was a child, but now Diana was a stunner. He couldn't imagine anyone not wanting to see her in her undies. Her voice, though, could be as crisp as her mother's.

"I have a list of house rules here that I drew up, Jeremy", she said as soon as they were seated at coffee. – "Yes?", he asked tentatively. There was something in her tone that told him that he wasn't going to be in charge after all. With something of an inner quiver, he accepted that. Every time that Diana crossed and recrossed her legs he could see the darker bands at the top of her charcoal-shaded nylons.

"I will read them to you", Diana said, and began: "Rule One: Pupils – they are not allowed to call themselves students here, Jeremy – will be utterly obedient at all times; Rule Two: They will wear regulation outfits that mother has already stored upstairs. Wantonness is not permitted. High heels to be worn at all times; Rule Three: Each new girl will be disciplined once daily for her first week by a firm spanking on her naked bottom; Rule Four: For the first week of their training they will be taught to walk for an hour or so with their panties rolled down to their stocking tops. This produces a delicate, mincing step; Rule Five: On her second week, each girl will bare her bottom to the tawse; Rule Six: No girl will refuse her caning in her third week, or she will be held over, I regret that, but it may be necessary; I will apply the cane first in all instances; Rules Seven: A recalcitrant girl – a rebel, if you like – will be made to stand, knicks down and holding her skirt up, for twenty minutes; Rule Eight: Each pupil will receive her third or fourth caning stripped to self-supporting black stockings and high heels; Rule Nine: Whether she has been disciplined or not, each girl will be taught to display – this is later in the term I might say – and will permit her naked bottom to be fondled while she stands perfectly still. I may, of course, have to add a few more rules as we go along".

"Yes", Jeremy said faintly, and gazed at her in wonderment. The devil of it was, his cock was twitching again, but Diana didn't seem to notice the bulge under his flies. And then the doorbell rang.

"Ah – our first, I expect. I will let them in", Diana said brightly. Her bottom wiggled adorably as she walked. Gazing after her, Jeremy could see the tightly updrawn vee of the back of her panties through her skirt, and he rather wondered who was going to have all the fun.....

* * *

Well – YOU are, for certain. There's going to be more about St Hilda's next month!

Two Daughters Dealt With

Story from Janus 36.

Two Daughters Dealt With
by Simon Banks

Well, what do you do with a 17-year-old daughter who has got to the stage of telling you, her father, that she's old enough to do what she wants? And what she wants includes staying out at night to all hours with God-knows-who. And not just one such girl but two. Two close friends both still at school: Elaine Baxter and Tracy Watson.

What do you do if you are their fathers?

At least you can put your heads together, which is what Steven Baxter and Michael Watson, both in their early forties, were doing in the Pig's Head over a pint. Something had to be done, but what? It had been building up for a while but last night was the end; when both men had waited up till after 1am before their daughters finally came in. And where had the girls been? 'Just out, Dad,' had been Elaine Baxter's answer. While Tracy had advised her father, 'Don't worry, Dad. I can look after myself.'

'We've got to do something,' said Steve Baxter. He wiped the beer froth from his moustache.

'Yes, but what?'

'Actually, what they both need is a good caning.'

That was probably right, Tracy's father agreed, but where were they going to get it? Certainly not at school, not the way schools were nowadays. 'And, well,' admitted Mr Watson, 'I don't exactly fancy caning my own daughter.'

Steven Baxter took a swallow of beer. He felt the same: he also couldn't really see himself caning his own now shapely and decidedly nubile Elaine. It wouldn't seem right somehow, though he'd be quite happy for someone else to do it and inject some sense into her.

He looked up as the thought suddenly came to him. 'There is an answer of course. We could swap. You cane Elaine and I could cane young Tracy.'

Michael Watson's eyes gradually widened as the sheer beauty of the idea sunk in. It was the obvious answer.

'Steven Baxter! I think you've hit on it! That's it!'

Steve Baxter grinned. 'Parental approval will not be a problem!'

'You're bloody right it won't!'

There was nothing like striking while the iron was hot, when the offence was still fresh in the offenders' minds. It was decided therefore that the next day, a Saturday, would be ideal. For one thing on Saturdays both wives would be out shopping, for the presence of wives could well weaken the hard resolve that this called for. And obtaining the necessary instruments of chastisement did not present a problem for after leaving the pub they went round to have a chat with old Jack Crabtree, a retired village schoolmaster.

That gentleman duly produced a pair of nice whippy rattans. It was about time, he said, that these two mementoes of his teaching days saw some action again. The three men laughed. To the two girls it was all going to come as a very nasty shock.

* * *

Elaine Baxter first became aware that something was up when after breakfast her father told her he was taking her over to the Watsons'. Elaine, a very pretty blonde young lady with a well filled-out figure which this morning was on show in a tight pink T-shirt and equally tight blue jeans, opened her blue eyes wide.

'I'm not seeing Tracy this morning.'

Her father simply said it was not Tracy she was to see but Mr Watson.

'Whatever for?' asked Elaine.

'You'll see,' said Mr Baxter. 'But whatever he does or tells you to do you can be sure he's got my authority.'

That made it even more mystifying but she could get no more out of her father. When they reached the Watsons' house in Holden Avenue there was an equally mystified-looking Tracy waiting.

'What's this all about?' she wanted to know.

She got the same 'You'll see' which she had also earlier got from her father. Very shortly Steven Baxter was driving back the way he had come; his passenger now not his daughter but the equally attractive Tracy Watson.

'What is this all about, Mr Baxter?' she asked yet again when the two of them were inside the Baxters' sitting room. 'Is it some kind of joke?'

Steven Baxter gave her a thoughtful look. She was an attractive young piece all right; a gaminely pretty face framed by chestnut hair cut short, while down below, her figure, fuller than his own daughter's, curved in all the right places in her pale blue sleeveless top and full black skirt.

'No, it's not a joke, Tracy. It's about Thursday night. Your and Elaine's gallivanting about.'

'Oh that!'

'Yes, that. And for that, young Miss, you are going to have the cane. On your bare bottom.'

She looked... and a pink flush gradually suffused her cheeks. 'You – you've got to be bloody joking!'

'Not joking, Tracy. And please don't use that language. It's going to be six strokes of the cane. Six with your knickers down on your bare bottom. That's the basic. I shall then want you to tell me what you were doing on Thursday night and who you were with. If you refuse then there'll be some more of the cane on that no doubt pretty bottom.'

Tracy's face was now crimson. 'No way! That... this is just ridiculous. Look, if you try anything I-I'll tell my Mum.'

Mr Baxter laughed. 'Your mother's got nothing to do with it, Tracy. This is being taken care of by me and your father. And for your information he is right now going to be dishing out the same medicine to Elaine. So, if you'll remove that skirt. And then slip your knickers down.'

'No!' she blurted. 'I simply refuse!'

'Take your skirt off!' he growled. 'Or I'll do it myself. Or would you on the other hand like to be sent to an Approved School for six months? Parents unable to cope with juvenile delinquent, etc. You could quite easily, you know. And at those places they can cane you twice a day.'

This was a bit of Steven Baxter's own imagination but it sounded good. Or correspondingly horribly bad if you were the naive and gullible Tracy Watson.

'Look...' she pleaded, 'isn't there... something else?'

'No. The cane. Your Dad and I are both quite adamant. You've got to be taught a lesson.'

Tracy looked at him... then up at the ceiling. Then down at the floor. And then at last, cowed by his truly adult supremacy, her hands went to the waist of the black calf-length cotton skirt. Pops were unpopped. The skirt came down and she stepped out of it. Underneath, her ripely rounded hips and bottom were in a skimpy pair of brief blue knickers under transparent tights.

'Now take the tights and knickers down.'

'Look... this is just awful!' Her voice was cracking.

'Take them down!'

Tracy hesitated again, then turned her back but was sharply told to stay facing Mr Baxter. Reluctantly the tights came down, to mid-thigh, and then even more reluctantly the brief knickers were slid down off the rounded hips. There was a well-developed bush of black hair which she covered with her hand.

'This is simply awful!' Tracy wailed again.

'I know,' he said. 'It's meant to be. Now let's see: let's have you over the arm of the armchair, shall we?'

Tracy hobbled over to the chair and Mr Baxter pushed her down so that her hips were up on the chair arm and the upper part of her body was down in the seat. The twin globes of Tracy's succulent rear were thrust sharply up to present a bewitching target.

Steven Baxter pushed one creamy flank. 'Open your legs.'

'No!' protested the half-muffled voice.

'Yes! This is a punishment, remember. And the more unpleasant it is the more you'll think twice about your behaviour in the future.'

He placed her feet as far apart as the lowered knickers and tights would allow. It was a revealing position of course and Tracy knew it. She gave a groaning wail of embarrassment.

Steven Baxter now had Mr Crabtree's cane in his hand. He gave it an experimental swish through the air, then tap-tapped it across the crests of the pouting bottom globes. There was an apprehensive hiss from Tracy. The cane was raised...

THWATT!

It struck with juddering impact, momentarily sinking into the soft resilient flesh before springing out again. 'Aaaeeeooohh!!' Tracy's anguished yelp resembled the cry of a cat in heat, her hands coming automatically back to clutch at her burning bum which now displayed a bright red double-edged stripe.

Mr Baxter whipped the cane lightly across the backs of the clutching hands. 'Hands away, or you'll get extra ones. Come on!'

The hands were reluctantly removed; the jerking bottom became somewhat less agitated. Again the cane was raised and whipped down.

THWATT!.. Once more it bit sharply in, an inch lower than the first contact line. Another banshee yell from Tracy and a renewed frenzied dance of her ripe round bum. From the depths of the chair seat there came desperate cries.

'Stop, Mr Baxter! No more! You're killing me...'

Steve Baxter drank in the splendid sight of the now doubly-striped bottom, relishing his power over the nubile half-naked teenager. 'You're getting six, like I said.'

THWATT!.. 'Aaaoooowwch!!'

He had laid the third into the exact curve where bum cheeks became fat upper thighs, a splendidly tender region which produced a correspondingly desperate reaction from young Tracy. How that must have hurt her! He waited until her violent motion had subsided somewhat, and then went back up to the full crest of the bottom for the fourth.

THWATTT!...

She seemed to be sobbing how.

The final two Mr Baxter put on in a nice cross, top left to lower right and vice versa. A cross on top of three transverse shots, although he wasn't quite as accurate as he had wanted to be with the last of the six strokes. Then he let the cane fall to the floor. The girl's bottom, twitching and writhing, was an impressive sight and it was clear he'd done an excellent job. Gasping and sobbing, Tracy made no attempt to get up.

He reached out to pat the red-striped bum. 'Come on, it's over now. At least it is if you're sensible.'

He pulled Tracy to her feet, then put his arm round her. She was a nice kid, or had been until this recent bout of wildness. The sorrowful chestnut head reached his shoulders and her tear-stained face was pressed into his shirt-front, quickly wetting it. A bit further down a pair of firm full tits were pressed in as well. Very pleasant. Steve Baxter patted her back, then one hand slid down to likewise pat her bare bum. At which she flinched and gasped.

'Going to tell me about it now?' he asked.

She made a sound like 'Nnngghh...'

Mr Baxter backed towards the armchair, taking Tracy with him. He sat down in the now vacant seat, as he did so twisting her so that she finished up face down – and bottom up – over his lap. His left hand held her while his right slid softly and caressingly over the now heated bare bottom.

'You're going to have to tell, Tracy; otherwise I'll just have to continue your medicine.'

There was a silence and then, intermixed with sobs, it came jerkily out. They had gone to the disco where these two fellows had picked them up and taken them out in their car. Two young reps it seemed. According to Tracy's halting account nothing much had happened. So were they planning to see them again, Mr Baxter wanted to know?

'Y..yes...'

'No! Definitely not! You understand?'

She was silent. He gave the bare bottom which he had been stroking a sharp smack. 'Understand?'

'Y..yes,' she said, wincing.

The hand resumed its caressing. With a sniff Tracy said, 'You... you're awfully mean, Mr Baxter...'

* * *

A little later Michael Watson arrived with Elaine. The two men had a brief private word. It seemed that things had gone just as well at Holden Avenue as they had at the Baxters' house. Mr Watson went off with Tracy leaving Steven Baxter alone with his daughter.

'OK?' he asked. 'Had a nice little lesson then?'

Flushing red, Elaine made a face.

'Let's see,' he told her. 'Slip down your things.'

Elaine tried to refuse but her father insisted. Reluctantly she slipped down jeans and knickers, as she had earlier reluctantly slipped them down for Mr Watson. Her bottom bore six transverse red stripes, not the same pattern as Tracy's, but the effect would have been very similar.

'OK,' he said. 'That looks good! Pull them up.'

The two girls got together that afternoon, at Tracy's house. It was nice and private for her parents had gone out. Up in Tracy's room the girls commiserated with each other over their dreadful experiences of the morning. They told each other how really terrible their fathers were as they contemplated the prospect of no more late night discos and the fact that they wouldn't be seeing those two men again.

When they had said all this though, the fact remained that it had been a bit exciting, as well as painful. Awful but exciting at the same time. Because men were men and Mr Watson and Mr Baxter were both rather attractive in an older-man way. And having to submit to them in that very physical manner... well, the thought of it could undoubtedly make a 17-year-old female heart beat a bit faster. Not that they admitted this to each other.

'Do you think,' asked Elaine with a shiver, 'that they're going to want to do it again?'

'Gripes!' said Tracy.

* * *

In fact the two men decided, a couple of evening later in the Pig's Head, that a little reminder for the girls would be no bad thing. The short sharp shock had obviously been excellent and a second dose could only improve matters. Indeed they were both agreed that more doses could with advantage be handed out at regular intervals for although they didn't actually say so, each had found it a highly agreeable duty. For the second session, though, it was decided that the cane itself could be dispensed with. A sharp spanking would do.

It was not specified, the details were left open, but each of them privately decided such a spanking for the other's daughter would be more effective if it was delivered on her bare bottom with skirt raised and knickers suitably lowered

Tracy and Elaine were both this time given prior warning by their fathers of what was to take place on Saturday morning. There were looks and expressions of shock and indignation – while at the same time each felt a shiver of excitement. It was frightful but it was also an undeniably heady prospect, in a way as exciting as being asked out by those two men at the disco.

And indeed when the weekend arrived both girls prepared for the ordeal as if they were going on a date: washing their hair the night before and on the appointed morning having a bath and putting on some scent and blusher and eye-shadow and, in Tracy's case, some pink lipstick as well. And dressing in what they both considered to be their most glam outfits.

Furthermore both Tracy and Elaine decided that if they were going to be forced to reveal what was underneath their skirts, then boring old tights would not be good enough. So they arrayed themselves in eye-catching nylons and suspender belts, just like in those glamorous Sixties. Well, if you were going to be suffering the exciting indignity of having a man spank your bare bottom you had to be looking your best.

Caning as punishment

Story from Roue 07.

Caning as punishment

An account of some disciplinary methods in a South African girls school

There are many different views about what constitutes a sound spanking. For some a few smacks with the hand or a hair brush is sufficient. For others three or four cuts with the cane will suffice. Yet again there are people who would regard such mild treatment as ludicrous and nothing like adequate punishment. If punishment is given in all seriousness, and not as some kind of play-acting, then it must be severe, though it must be administered in a just manner.

This latter view is held by many strict disciplinarians who feel that much that is written about corporal punishment is unrealistic. One such lady has agreed to put forward her attitude and to relate some of her experiences. As she spent a long time in South Africa, a country well-known to be strict in the administration of justice and punishment, her remarks will be particularly pertinent and likely to throw considerable light on the subject. While not every one will agree with her, we feel that what she has to say is both interesting and relevant.

She is a widow in her late fifties and worked for many years as a teacher in Pretoria. During her last eight years there she was the Deputy Headmistress of a senior girls seminary. The pupils were white, of course, and of predominantly Dutch extraction, a people noted for their strong, puritan views and disciplined life.

She states that many people may not be aware that corporal punishment is still widely retained in South African schools and, at the discretion of the school governors, may be employed to correct wrongdoers of both sexes.

As she was raised in a well-disciplined environment herself, where defiant or unruly behaviour by herself or her sisters inevitably earned them a good whipping, she is a confirmed believer in the benefits of a sound thrashing for miscreant children.

She states, quite categorically, that in her experience, contrary to the views of so-called progressive educationalists, that most children and adolescents respond quickly and effectively to a painful spanking on the backside, providing they know why they are being punished and that justice is metered out fairly.

Here is what she has to say on the subject in her own words, in which she makes a strong case for the punishment aspects of spanking.

I am fully aware of the erotic interest that many men find in the subject of spanking and as a woman I cannot ignore the sensual attraction of the female bottom, but it is plainly apparent that the punishment view of spanking is only secondary to the erotic pleasure they are seeking. I am not a prig and I do not deny these erotic instincts. It would be hypocritical of me to do so. However, it is the punishment element in which I am most interested and it is about this which I wish to write.

A spanking or whipping must hurt to be effective. It must be inflicted to the point where it becomes unbearable. On the other hand, it must be stopped before there is any chance of doing serious injury to the person being punished.

It is for this reason that the buttocks are best suited as the place of chastisement for they are resilient and quickly recover in normal circumstances. They can be beaten quite hard, much harder than most unenlightened people may think, and because they are also quite sensitive, the punishment can be made to hurt as it should, and hurt abominably! Fortunately, the fierce unbearable pain is short-lived, and diminishes considerably after the cessation of the whipping, to a more tolerable though still uncomfortable level.

In my school, the youngest girls were 12 and the eldest approaching 18 – all boarders and well catered for in all matters of welfare. Those that behaved well had nothing to fear, but those who didn't were given punishment of a severity that generally assured a marked improvement in their behaviour very quickly. We employed two instruments of chastisement, the leather strap (similar to the Scottish tawse) and the rattan cane. The teaching staff were authorised to use the strap for routine cases of discipline or unruliness, in the classroom, but caning was restricted to myself or the Head and would be inflicted privately in the Punishment Room adjacent to my study. Canings were awarded for persistent misbehaviour or for more serious offences such as foul language, stealing, bodily assault, drug-taking, etc. Active lesbian or other forbidden sexual practices automatically merited a caning of extreme severity, and after this it was rare that a girl would commit a similar offence again.

In class the strap could be administered on the seat of a girl's knickers or if her teacher felt justified she could beat the pupil on the bare flesh. The maximum number of strokes allowed in this manner was twenty, but sentences were left to the discretion of each mistress. Class punishments were undignified as well as painful of course, for the miscreant would have her bottom strapped in full view of a dozen or more of her classmates, Usually she was held across a desk at the front of the class where the sight of her taut knickers (or bare seat, if the occasion warranted) being loudly and thoroughly thrashed had an intentionally sobering effect on any other would-be offenders. On these occasions a hushed silence would prevail, broken only by the loud cries and wails of the suffering culprit squirming across the desk.

On the other hand, a caning in the Punishment Room was always administered on the naked buttocks, in private. The Head was generally happy to delegate this task, when it was necessary, to myself and I don't deny that I invariably made a much better job of it. If one is talking seriously about a punishment whipping rigorously carried out, anyone who believes a girl will simply bend over and remain in position while the cane is laid on with full force is either ignorant or foolishly misled. My Punishment Room housed a small whipping horse which enabled the wrists, ankles and knees of the culprit to be secured with appropriately positioned straps riveted to the supporting legs. The horse itself was an old gymnasium item lowered and modified for the purpose, and when a girl was properly mounted she may have been reluctant and unhappy to find herself in such a revealing and helpless position but because of the padded upper surface she was not in any undue discomfort. I liked the horse because no amount of writhing or jerking, inevitable during a caning, would harm the girl's bare hips and tummy as they moved about on the padded leather.

As I said previously, a girl would only be awarded the cane for a serious offence, so it was mandatory that the whippings were appropriately severe and painful. They were intended to be, as a mild thrashing, in my view, would be quite ineffective and fail to have the permanent deterrent effect that was needed. The lightest sentence was 15 strokes of the cane, but 20 or 25 were more often given, and once I administered 30 strokes to an 18 year old who after two previous offences was discovered on a third occasion to be interfering sexually with young girls. She was also expelled afterwards as being a totally incorrigible and incurable lesbian.

I would like to describe the caning procedure which I normally adopted as it may be of interest to other disciplinarians.

The commission of any crime would first receive a full hearing of all the facts, and if I judged the offender guilty, a caning sentence was awarded. This would be administered after supper at 7.30 pm., when the culprit reported to my study. My reputation and ability with the cane was well known to all the pupils so the girl in question was usually more than a little nervous, blanched somewhat, and often visibly quaking. I would then instruct her to enter the Punishment Room and follow her, locking the door behind me. (It was not unknown for a girl's courage to fail her before mounting the horse, causing her to run to the door seeking escape. Locking the door precluded this eventuality.)

Inside, the girl was ordered to take off her pleated grey gymslip, fold it neatly, hand it to me which I then placed on a chair near the door. I never removed more of a girl's clothes than necessary and without gymslip the girl would be left clad in her short waist-length cotton blouse, black viyella knickers (all pupils were required to wear standard undergarments), dark-tone tights and lace up shoes. She would be told to stand facing the horse while I obtained the cane from a cabinet where several were kept, and then instructed her to climb across the horse and lie in the appropriate position. Any tardiness at this point was quickly dispelled with a deft cut across her calves. This made a reluctant culprit mount the contraption with some alacrity after which I made her fast with the straps buckled firmly around her wrists, knees and ankles.

I was aware that this part of the preparations was unnerving for the culprit, but necessary to prevent her leaping up or turning round during the caning, which could lead to possible injury of more vital parts. Once immobilized, I then proceeded to uncover her buttocks by taking down the girl's tights and knickers, well below the target area and as far down her legs as the straps around her knees would allow. In my view, the 'horsed' position is the nearest to the ideal presentation for an effective and painful caning. The doubled over position raises the backside into maximum prominence and causes a pronounced backward thrust that tautens and distends the buttocks in the most vulnerable manner. The position is a most ungracious one for any young lady to have to adopt since it unfortunately separates the stretched bottom cheeks and immodestly exposes her very private parts. If one intends to make the caning severe, and make it painfully effective, such immodest exposure cannot be avoided and this is why the cane was always administered privately between the walls of the Punishment Room. The indecency of a girl's position never offended me. Any young miss finding herself in this room was there for some form of gross misbehaviour, and I had no pity for her predicament! She was there to be punished and drastically so, and my feelings as a no-nonsense disciplinarian were those which produced an innate sense of satisfaction with the system that allowed me to administer the one form of punishment that produces the proper degree of regret in a girl for her bad behaviour.

Before commencing the caning I always took a few moments to study the field of operation very thoroughly, mentally assessing the size, texture and resilience of the two fleshy moons awaiting penance. As an experienced chastener, I am well aware of the most sensitive parts of a girl's bottom to strokes of the cane, but to administer for example, a twenty five stroke caning of maximum severity without unduly damaging or breaking the skin calls for a considerable amount of care and skill, and to some extent a pre-planned schedule of where one is going to place all the strokes.

After this short assessment I would then take up a position to the miscreant's left side, at the right distance to enable me to deliver a full-armed swing with the cane. Placing the end half of the long rod horizontally against that part of the taut cheeks I intended to strike, and ignoring the inevitable flinching of the flesh, I would raise the cane far back on high and deliver the first whistling cut with deliberate ferocity and force! The explosive crack of a flexible cane travelling at high speed as it connects with a properly presented pair of naked buttocks never fails to impress me. The effect is dramatic and astounding! One sees the thin, hard rod almost enveloped for a split second by the soft yielding flesh, then as the cane is lifted away, the momentary white impression across the reverberating mounds becomes a bright crimson. The success of the stroke is measured by the anguished scream it produces and the simultaneous writhing and squirming of the whipped backside. If I do not think the vocal protest is sufficiently loud, or if the girl's bottom fails to perform those adequately frenzied contortions, then I know that an even harder stroke is called for and adjust the infliction accordingly.

A thrashing, to be really effective should be systematically performed with timing, force and precision. The entire surface of the buttocks should be methodically whipped from just below the tailbone to no more than one inch below the gluteal area adjoining the thighs. In the transverse direction it is desirable that the striking end of the cane does not extend further round the body than the hip bone joints. With precision and care it is possible to convert the whole expanse of chastisable bottom into a uniform sheet of intense crimson, a mass of closely spaced cane weals that I guarantee will produce the most excrutiatingly painful behind conceivable.

When I cane a girl I invariably achieve this effect by dint of patience and a relentless determination to place every stroke where I want it to fall. This is very important, to place the strokes accurately. If the whipper does not do this properly the strokes will be applied wildly and likely to cause unwarranted damage to the victim's bottom, while at the same time failing to cover the whole expanse. It seems obvious that if the proper procedure is not carried out then some parts of the buttocks will receive an excessive amount of punishment, while the remainder will be scarcely touched.

To achieve my aim I ignore the unpleasant assault of the girl's screams on my ears, and the abandoned convulsions of her well-whipped hindquarters, waiting calmly for movement to subside before applying the next stroke. This is not to say that I am not impressed by the intense reactions the rod has aroused. They are necessary and satisfying and signify that the caning is having the desired effect.

The incredible gymnastics of a bound girl over a whipping horse, having her bare buttocks severely caned can even be quite awe-inspiring at times. Within the restrictions imposed by the straps, which clamp her arms and legs, her naked buttocks can become a veritable frenzy of jerking, twisting movement. This is no doubt one of the features which adds so much interest to the act of spanking.

In addition, the increasing degree to which the gluteal flesh undergoes spasmodic muscular contractions, as the whipping proceeds, is visibly reflected in the shivering ripples which run up and the taut flinching cheeks, before and after each stroke of the cane.

Sometimes there is an even more dramatic effect on the nerves and flesh of a teenage girl as she feels the agonising rod against her tender bottom. The combined stress of fear and pain can cause a girl to lose her self control. I have seen a number of young ladies reach this state to such a degree that they lose the contents of their bladders and urinate uncontrollably during a caning. I have no wish to offend anyone by revealing this unusual response to corporal punishment but I feel I have to mention it in the interests of understanding more about the effects which can arise, although rarely, when the recipient of a caning is an unusually sensitive or nervous subject. If note is taken at the time of this phenomenon it can be avoided on a future occasion by ensuring that the miscreant goes to the lavatory before she receives her punishment.

After I had completed a caning, the girl in question was always made to remain on the horse for a further ten minutes or so. This was in order that she could regain her composure, have time to stop any crying and howling she may have been indulging in and, most important, to give her time, in a most humiliating position, to reflect on her misdeeds and the punishment she had so richly deserved.

When I was satisfied that sufficient time had elapsed and that she had suffered enough pain to ensure her repentance and fervent resolve never to give cause for another visit to the punishment room I would release her. But before doing so I would apply some relief by applying a cooling ointment to her chastened buttocks.

I believe that this close personal contact with the girl helped her to understand because she then knew that I cared for her and that any punishment she was awarded was just; I do not bear any resentment towards her. She is in my charge, she has done wrong, she must bear her punishment but over-riding all the pain and humiliation she has suffered is the fact that it is all for her own good. It is my duty to discipline her, one I cannot flinch from. It grieves me to have to deal out punishment to my charges but I could not in all conscience allow that to influence my judgement in the interests of justice. In time those girls came to realise the truth of this and many of them thanked me for the way in which they had been treated.

Any sensitive, intelligent girl will learn that a strict regime is necessary for her eventual well-being. It is just not possible for them to grow up into well-behaved, decorous young ladies, capable of living in a civilised manner in a civilised society, if they are not taught and disciplined properly.

The application of corporal punishment, carried out under proper supervision, in a firm but just way is essential and I am convinced that any such action I have taken has helped in some way to avoid a more serious delinquency. Most of my pupils have eventually realised the truth of this proposition. They know in their heart of hearts that I had helped them.

The campaign to abolish corporal punishment in British schools is sadly misguided. Unfortunately, discipline has become a dirty word, and if the strap and the cane finally disappear, we will live to regret it. The writing is already on the wall as more permissiveness and lack of discipline and respect for properly constituted authority leads to a breakdown in society. The proof of this is the vast increase in vandalism, hooliganism and general disregard for the rules at the present time.

Moments in C.P. History. Numbers IV-VI

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

Number 4. Rose Keller

A woman stood outside the Church of the Little Fathers in the Place des Victoires in Paris begging for alms. Her name was Rose Keller and she had done this every day since losing her job as a cotton spinner. She had been a respectable married woman from Strasbourg but the premature death of her husband and the loss of her job had reduced the thirty six year old Rose to a life of begging of which she was ashamed. In the Paris of 1768, however, there were few choices for working women thrown into penury and Rose had taken the one she believed to be the least dishonourable... the other choice being one such a modest woman would not contemplate. Who knows how long Rose would have continued this sad ritual until disease and ultimately death from cold and exposure would claim her... but it was not to be, for one fateful day, events occurred which would have significant consequences for both Rose and for another.

The day was Easter Sunday, April 3rd 1768 and the man who approached the wretched woman begging for alms was named Donatien Alphonse Francois, the Marquis de Sade. He watched for a few moments as passers by thrust their small change into her grateful hand and then offered her two livres, a substantial sum, if she would follow him to his country cottage. Rose Keller was no fool and immediately sensed what she might have to do for such a considerable sum. Indignantly she protested that though she may have been reduced to begging she was 'not THAT sort of woman' and initially refused Sade's invitation.

Sade glibly informed Rose that, temporary resident in Paris as he was, he needed a housekeeper and this was a way to help her out of her difficulties. She was persuaded that the job carried a guarantee of plentiful food and shelter and this seductive promise convinced her to accept, a welcome relief from the desperate circumstances in which she had been living. De Sade's coach took them both to his cottage at Arcueil, just outside Paris, where the smooth convincing nobleman showed his guest to her new bedchamber and promised her some food and drink. Rose was overwhelmed by her new surroundings, hardly able to believe her good fortune, when Sade returned and invited her down to the breakfast room.

Once inside, Sade locked the door and ordered Rose to take off all her clothes. Genuinely shocked, Rose angrily refused declaring that she had been tricked and had explained that she was not a prostitute. Sade told her brusquely that unless she did as he ordered he would kill her and bury her in the garden. Terrified, Rose began to undress but, being a modest woman, refused to remove her chemise. The enraged Sade tore off the chemise then pushed the terrified naked woman face down onto his bed and began to whip her back and buttocks with, alternately, a bundle of canes and a cat o' nine tails.

During the whipping, as Rose was later to testify, Sade poured what felt like molten wax into her weals. The louder Rose screamed the harder Sade whipped until eventually she heard the Marquis shudder and groan, a sign that he had reached orgasm, and only then did her whipping cease.

Sade then locked Rose Keller in the bedroom after telling her he would take her back to Paris that evening but the shocked and terrified woman still feared that she might be murdered.

Left alone, Rose tore the sheet into strips and knotted the strands, escaping through the bedroom window. The woman then ran down the village street despite being spotted by Sade's valet who ran after her and offered a purseful of money for her silence. Hysterical and afraid, Rose brushed him aside and kept running until she reached the village where three women took her in hand, ultimately taking her to the home of the Chief Bailiff and to a police officer, where she repeated her story. The Bailiff's wife, a Mme Lambert, heard the story and examined Rose Keller's wounds, an experience which upset her so much she burst into tears and retired to her room.

The next day, Easter Monday, the charge was heard by a judge and it became apparent that Rose Keller was a very reliable witness. Sade's family was now certain that the Marquis was in serious trouble. A deputation was dispatched to see Rose, who was still recovering at the home of the town bailiff, and they were shocked to find that this 'simple' beggar woman had a sound financial head on her shoulders despite the ordeal. She demanded 3000 livres, the equivalent of about £9000, in order to drop any charges. The Sade family were stunned by the demand but eventually Rose Keller settled on 2600 livres, a truly sizeable sum.

Rose Keller's life changed for the better overnight as a result. A nightmare encounter which she feared might result in her death had in fact provided her with riches beyond her dreams, a chance of a new life and the opportunity to meet and marry a new husband, thus fate can deal a strange hand. For the Marquis, who appeared to have got away with it, this incident allied to others provided his enemies, primarily his mother in law, with the opportunity to convince the King that Sade should be put away for good. Ever the hedonistic libertine, Sade managed to commit more outrages on the moral senses of his neighbours, including a weekend long orgy involving sexual and flagellant activity with a number of very young girls before his eventual capture. Finally, after protracted attempts to fend off the inevitable, Sade was arrested and sent away to prison where he would spend most of his life until released by the forces of the Revolution, an old and sick man. During his long incarceration, Sade wrote some of the most controversial works of literature, the content of which is now being reevaluated by literary critics as something deeper than merely hideous and cruel pornography, a label with which it was once dismissed.

Number 5. Boadicea

The humiliating flogging of the Druid Queen Boadicea, certainly the earliest example in this series, was truly a defining moment in the history of corporal punishment and prompted a violent and unexpected backlash which took the occupying Roman army by surprise and forced it into a terrible and bloody conflict.

Boadicea was the wife of Prasutagus, Druid King of the Iceni, a tribe whose lands spanned the modern counties of Norfolk, Suffolk and parts of Cambridgeshire and Huntingdonshire. Prasutagus ruled his people through a long period of Roman occupation and, politically astute, had allied himself with his Roman conquerors in order to guarantee a peaceful life for his people. The Romans were prepared to allow this arrangement, like most occupying armies, on the basis of mutual benefit. However by the year AD60, Roman patience with the ancient Britons was running very low and anger had replaced tolerance, particularly following an attempt to subdue the ancient Isle of Mona, long a refuge for Druids and discontented Britons who wished to escape the Roman yoke. Although the Romans eventually triumphed on Mona they had at first to suffer the humiliation of a retreat under the onslaught of more than 2000 virtually naked Druid women and priests, their hair wild, eyes wide and screaming abuse as they charged the Roman ranks armed only with fiery torches. The terrified Roman soldiers broke ranks and backed off to a safe hillside fort only to be galvanised by the anger and contempt of their officers for an army which had allowed a group of women to intimidate them. They regrouped, advanced and took a fearful bloody revenge, killing virtually every man, woman and child in the community.

The atmosphere in the rest of Britain was close to boiling point with anti Roman revolt simmering everywhere. Prasutagus, by now ailing, was aware of the danger to himself and his family of the highly volatile climate. He sought to protect his wife and daughters from harm by making a will which gave his master, the Roman Emperor Nero, a third share in his property and lands on his death. Duly in AD61 Prasutagus died in the misguided belief that his wisdom had ensured a safe outcome for his family.

Unfortunately, when the terms of Prasutagus' will were made known to Paulinus Suetonius, Nero's British Consul, he was roused to irrational anger that this Druid underling should have the temerity to decide exactly what the Emperor was entitled to receive. Telling his commanders that these Iceni needed a lesson in humility, he told them to take whatever steps were needed to achieve just that. The result was swift and shocking for within days of the decree a Roman force, including some slaves, was despatched to Prasutagus' palace where they forced an entry and the slaves began to ransack the palace of all valuables.

Boadicea, then aged around 45, and her two daughters, possibly in their twenties, were then dragged out of the palace by the Roman soldiers into the grounds where the shocked Boadicea was forced to watch while the two girls were stripped and raped by the Roman soldiers who then handed them over to the slaves for further violation. Boadicea herself was taken to Winchester where she was put on a platform in front of the Roman troops and many of her Iceni subjects, tied to a whipping post then stripped naked and flogged severely with a whip until blood was drawn.

Before this moment, Boadicea had been a quiet and dutiful Queen but these events were to scar her mind and from that moment she lived only for vengeance. With powerful and emotional speeches, Boadicea and her daughters travelled their tribal lands inciting the Iceni to rise up against their cruel masters, a plea which needed little urging and soon the Iceni were joined by other neighbouring tribes sick of the Roman yoke. Because Britain had been relatively quiet compared to problems elsewhere in the Empire, there were only four Roman legions, approximately 20,000 men, in the whole island. Two of these were in Wales, one in Lincoln and the other in Gloucester as the furious Britons marched on Colchester, the centre of Roman culture and religion, defended only by a handful of town militia.

The inhabitants hadn't a chance. Everything Roman that stood was burned to the ground and everything Roman that lived was murdered. The temple was destroyed and the town burned to a cinder. Part of the Roman legion at Lincoln was despatched in haste to the scene but, to their horror, found a tribal force twelve times their size. By sheer weight of numbers the Britons slaughtered every one of the Roman infantry, the commander escaping along with some of the cavalry, on horseback.

Suetonius, whose humiliating treatment of Boadicea had begun this reaction, was horrified and went with a small force to London expecting to be reinforced but his Legion commander refused to commit his troops and Suetonius decided he must leave the Londoners to their fate. The Britons fell upon the town killing every man, woman and child who stood in their way including those Britons who had given aid to their Roman masters. After that Boadicea's army turned on St Albans with similar results, the death toll in the three cities exceeding 70,000.

In the face of such military might as the Romans possessed, it was inevitable that these successes would be short lived and, within weeks, Suetonius was reinforced and now had two legions totalling ten thousand men at his command. Still they were outnumbered 8 to 1 by the Britons, but the Romans' military skill had led them to choose a battlefield which suited their strategy. With consummate nerve they awaited the onslaught of the populous but indisciplined Britons, Boadicea and her daughters riding through the British ranks in a chariot exhorting their troops to victory. It was not to be, for the tactical skill of the Romans overcame the weight of numbers and at least 80,000 Britons including many women were massacred without mercy, the Romans losing only 400 men. The battle was one of the earliest recorded examples of deliberate terror tactics being used, the Romans mutilating the bodies of the dead Britons, men and women, and hanging them up for all to see.

Boadicea herself, seeing defeat inevitable, took poison and died on the battlefield, while her daughters were captured and sent into slavery. The price Britain paid for the revolt was massive, Nero sending forty thousand more troops from Germany to keep the province under control, which they did with dreadful violence. Thus, finally, Suetonius prevailed but at what an appalling cost. One wonders if he ever reflected on his original decision which had sparked all this and decided 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scourged!'

Number 6. Lady Sophia Lindsay

In 1660, after a bitter Civil War and many years of Oliver Cromwell's Protectorate, England was restored to a monarchy with the triumphant return of Charles II as King. For many, their delight at seeing the restoration of the monarchy was soon tempered by the degree of retribution exercised by the new King for past crimes against his father and his own followers under the Cromwellian regime.

Before his return from exile, the new King had promised that all religious opinions throughout the lands of England and Scotland would he respected, yet soon signed a series of Acts of Parliament which outlawed any religious gatherings except those which pursued the authorised Prayer Book. Dungeons in England and Scotland were soon overflowing, a prime target for the new King being the rebellious Presbyterian Scots whose religious dissent was put down with ruthless ferocity.

The King's brother James, Duke of York, became extremely powerful and, in many parts, feared, because as well as being a man of ruthless ambition he was a Catholic and therefore distrusted by the new restored Anglican Parliament. After some years as a kind of roving ambassador for Charles II, James was given a Scottish estate and appointed his brother's unofficial representative for Scotland, which gave him sweeping powers of attorney. The Scots were suffering great hardship and torment in defence of their religious beliefs and rose up in revolt, eventually being routed at Bothwell Bridge by an army led by the Duke of Monmouth. The Duke of York now increased his campaign against Scottish dissenters but, with breathtaking hypocrisy, secured his brother's permission to institute a Scottish Protestant Parliament dedicated to preventing a 'return to popery' while ensuring that he, a Catholic, would remain all powerful in Scotland.

The new Scottish Parliament instituted an oath which was confusing in the extreme but which intended to ensure that every sitting Member pledged allegiance to the organised Protestant faith. One of those members was the Earl of Argyll who was a Presbyterian and took the opportunity of such confusion to announce that he saw nothing in the oath which would prevent him from favouring changes to the law regarding Church and State while still remaining loyal to the Crown. In such a climate, these words were as a red rag to a bull and Argyll was arrested and charged with high treason. The Earl was tried by a jury of which the Marquis of Montrose (a Charles Stuart loyalist) was foreman, found guilty and sentenced to hang.

The news was received with horror by Argyll's family and it was resolved that something daring needed to be done to avert this fate. One of the visitors allowed the Earl during his incarceration was his beautiful daughter, Lady Sophia Lindsay, the wife of Alexander Lindsay, Earl of Buccleugh. Lindsay himself was known to be a 'soft' Anglican thus trusted by the King's representatives but who allowed his wife her Presbyterian views just so long as they were not publicly expressed. A very daring plan was hatched within the Earl's family, apparently unknown to Alexander Lindsay, whereby Lady Sophia would visit her father accompanied by maidservants and pages. Because of her position, the family gambled that no obstacle would be placed in the path of such a visitation. They took extra clothing with them and, after distracting the guard for some minutes, they made up the Earl's bed with blankets to make it appear that he was sleeping then the Earl of Argyll escaped, dressed as a page, as part of his daughter's entourage. The deception was not discovered until too late and the Earl had contacted influential friends who spirited him away in a boat to Holland.

When the prime agent of this deception was discovered, Lady Sophia Lindsay was arrested and tried by a Civil Council. Such was the anger at her effrontery that the Council voted that the young woman should be stripped to the waist, tied to a cart tail and whipped all day through the streets of Edinburgh. The sentence was received with horror by Lady Sophia's family, not least by her husband who sought urgent talks with the Duke of York, pleading desperately for some reduction in the sentence, emphasising the degree of humiliation for the whole family including himself, a Stuart supporter, should such a sentence be carried out.

The Duke of York listened sympathetically and, to Lindsay's relief, agreed to substitute an alternative private punishment. He told Lindsay that as his young wife had behaved like a spoilt child she would be treated like one and pronounced his alternative judgement.

Thus it was that on a May morning in 1681, a very tearful Lady Sophia Lindsay was taken to a private room in Edinburgh Castle and there she found waiting a Sergeant-at-Arms, her embarrassed husband and her frantic mother. Knowing her intended punishment, she pleaded with her husband that she be spared this indignity but Lindsay bluntly pointed out that she had brought this upon herself and was fortunate that the affair was not public as originally intended. The Sergeant-at-Arms motioned the duty guard that Lady Sophia was to be made to kneel down over a low stool with her face pressed to the carpet, bottom thus fully raised. When that was done, her long dress and petticoats were lifted up and pinned to her shoulders thus completely exposing her naked bottom. The Sergeant-at-Arms then took up a birch rod and proceeded to give the young woman a very thorough and painful birching lasting half an hour after which she was released into the custody of her husband, amid floods of tears, presumably unable to sit down for a week! Some unsubstantiated reports have said she was given 50 strokes of the birch rod, wearing out two substantial birches in the process. The experience must have been painful and deeply embarrassing but surely preferable to the original sentence!

Sadly, the lady's sacrifice was all too short term for the Earl of Argyll made his way secretly back to Scotland where he was caught, tried once more and this time he was executed.