Head Girl

Story from Roue 18.

Head Girl

AS THE singing died away she got up from her seat among the school prefects and walked, clip-clop on the medium high heels which the Head allowed for Sixth Formers, along the front of the hall and then up the short flight of steps onto the stage. All eyes — well, all boys' eyes at least — focussed on those flexing bare calves beneath the thin summer uniform dress, for Gillian Blair, Head Girl at Greenfields Comprehensive, undoubtedly had a very shapely pair of legs. She stood in the centre of the stage ready to read out the various day's announcements as was customary at the completion of morning assembly.

For most people the business of standing up there in front of the whole school would be quite an ordeal: all the eyes upon you — the girls, many of them envious, and the boys, well, undoubtedly quite a few enlivening the boredom of assembly by indulging in varied lustful thoughts about Gillian, for her physical attractions did not stop at those shapely legs: she was shapely all over, not least those swelling breasts pushing out the front of that crisp blue-flowered dress. And she moreover had a pertly pretty face to go with all this. But lustful or envious looks did not perturb Gillian, for she was a notably self-possessed young lady: poised, confident, intelligent, a sure prospect for university. No, speaking at assembly was purely routine.

Well, that is to say it normally was. But today for some reason things were inexplicably different. She started off in a most un-Gillian like halting manner; then was seen to glance at the Head, sitting in his customary position on the left of the stage, and then she dried up completely. She stood there desperately for about half a minute, her face getting pinker and pinker, and then blurted out: 'I... I'm sorry, I seem to have forgotten...' She stumbled off into the wings of the stage. The Head quickly followed her. Those near enough to see said she was crying and the Head was heard saying:

'Really Gillian, you're just going to have to try and forget about it.'

What a drama! The whole school was naturally agog. What had happened? What was happening? Who knew? Nobody seemed to know anything. Somebody must, though. The Head? And then the word spread round that something odd had been going on the previous day: Gillian and the Head going off in the afternoon on some mysterious errand. This only deepened the mystery, unless you were prepared to listen to Robert 'Nose' Parker (Five B): 'It's obvious. The Head took her out for a fuck and now she thinks she's got one in the oven.' This theory followed naturally from the premise, commonly stated by Parker-type elements in the Fourth and Fifth, that all girl prefects were 'fucked' by member of staff and that was how they got to be prefects. But the Parker theory and its premise were not widely believed — not even by those boys who eagerly repeated them. No, it must be something else.

The Head knew all right, though both he and Gillian fervently hoped that no one else ever would. To Mr Kendall, Headmaster of Greenfields Comprehensive, it had been a most unfortunate, deeply regrettable, happening. And that of all people it should be Gillian Blair, one of the best girls the school had ever produced. Unbelievable, though of course this kind of thing did happen. The papers had cases all the time — including the most prominent people — but that didn't make it any easier to deal with. Roger Kendall, 40 and young to be Headmaster of a large comprehensive, shook his head. He had told Gillian to go and work in the library: he would have another talk with her in half an hour when he'd dealt with his morning's correspondence. But try as he might he was unable to concentrate, his thoughts persistently returning to the unfortunate events of the previous two days.

* * *

It had been Wednesday lunchtime when it had all started and really it was still almost impossible to believe that Gillian of all people had done it. But there was no doubt that she had. In Carter's, the old family firm of office suppliers and stationers in the town centre. Where Gillian had been seen by one of the assistants to pick up an expensive Parker pen and after nervously looking around had slipped it into her blazer pocket. The assistant told Mr Carter and as Gillian walked out of the shop she had been apprehended.

As Gillian had tearfully told the Head later, she had just no idea what impelled her to do it; she had never even thought of such a thing before, and if she really wanted the pen she could easily have bought it, for she had a not-ungenerous allowance from her parents. A fresh outburst of tears at the thought of her parents and what they would think if they heard about it. And not just her parents of course but the whole public humiliation.

Because Mr Carter wanted, if not blood, then certainly full and proper retribution. According to him shoplifting was halving his profits and now he had caught someone red-handed he had every intention of making an example of the culprit, whether or not she happened to be Head Girl of Greenfields Comprehensive. 'It's just another example of the way this country's going to the dogs,' he ranted at the Head. 'And you in your position, Kendall, are personally responsible.'

For sure, Wednesday afternoon had not been the easiest time of the Head's career. First the turbulent meeting in his study with Carter, then the phone calls, followed by both of them driving over to the home of Major Fortnum, Chairman of the local magistrates. A further harrowing meeting at which he pleaded desperately about Gillian's position: the coming A Levels, the possible effects on her whole University career. Not to mention the position of the school itself. And finally he won his way. The incident could be treated confidentially — hushed up, in other words. At a price of course.

The price? Paid the next day, Thursday, yesterday afternoon in fact, at Major Fortnum's. Tight-lipped and not liking what had been decided or his role in it one little bit, the Head had driven Gillian over there for the 2 o'clock meeting. She was naturally in a bit of a state, wondering what would happen; for she had not yet been told, only that the Head thought they could probably keep it quiet. 'You will not find it pleasant, though.' She bit her lip, with difficulty holding back the tears. That morning, after assembly, she had broken down, weeping, when he had lectured her on what had happened. At assembly itself it had fortunately been the turn of the Head Boy to perform and not Gillian — for really she was in no state to do it.

The drive over to Major Fortnum's house, neither of them speaking, and neither of them speaking as they stepped out of the car and were ushered in by the housekeeper, was all a bit like attending a funeral. The Head for some reason was carrying his overcoat, in a funny kind of way, almost as if it were concealing something. But Gillian was too preoccupied to reason it out.

They were led into the Major's study where he and Mr Carter were already waiting. The door closed quietly behind them. 'Right, young lady,' said the Major. Then to the Head: 'You've brought it, I assume, Kendall?' And then the Head shamefacedly drew from his folded overcoat what had indeed been concealed there — a longish thin whippy cane.

Gillian blanched. She knew that the Head had a cane; but it was used only rarely and then of course only on boys, never girls. Surely they couldn't possibly propose to use it now... on her...

She looked to the Head for words of reassurance but he was rather pointedly gazing out of the window. Fearfully she turned to the other two men. Mr Carter, who of course she'd already encountered — middle-aged, balding, who had ranted angrily at her yesterday. Yes, he was quite capable... But Major Fortnum — 60 perhaps, tall and distinguished-looking with silver-grey hair? He was Chairman of the Magistrates and there were rules, and therefore surely he couldn't agree to such a thing.

What had been proposed by Mr Carter, was indeed highly irregular as the Major knew only too well, and if it were ever to get into the papers (Magistrate Canes Teenage Girl) well, it didn't bear thinking about. But the whole object of the exercise was to avoid publicity. If she chose this rather than the due process of the law, well, so be it. He gazed impassively back at the frightened-looking girl in the thin summer dress and blazer. His eyes said nothing. His thoughts said that here was a very tasty young piece: his task was going to be... highly stimulating.

'Your Headmaster has explained the situation to you, Miss Blair?'

He hadn't, of course. He just hadn't felt able to tell her, it had been bad enough having to bring the cane. 'No, I... I thought it best if you explained the options, Major.'

The Major glanced briefly over at the Head (a look which clearly said that he had shirked his responsibility), then placing the cane carefully on his desk and assuming a bland neutral expression he led off in his best Chairman-of-the-Magistrates voice.

Shoplifting — or more simply theft — could not be condoned, he said. Those who indulged in it must accept the full consequences: due process of the law. The Magistrates Court. The inevitable attendant publicity. All this was unavoidable if Mr Carter pressed his charges as he was fully entitled to do. However Mr Carter and he, the Major, were aware of the very unfortunate effects which the publicity could have for Gillian at this present time. And in the light of this Mr Carter would be prepared to drop the charges if a suitable alternative punishment was meted out.

All eyes at this point were directed automatically at the cane lying ominously on the desk. There was no doubt what form the proposed alternative punishment would take. 'Yes,' said Major Fortnum, a suitable alternative.' The three of them were agreed that then the matter need go no further.

Gillian stood immobile, head bowed, only her hands fiddling nervously with her blazer betraying her emotion, as what he had said sunk in. She knew, though, that she had no option but to accept. Her head still bowed, she said faintly: 'I... I'm to be caned then?' She stopped toying with the edge of her blazer and unhappily rubbed her hands together.

Gillian's unconscious gesture was not lost on Major Fortnum: 'Yes, you will be caned, Miss. But not on your hand: on your bottom.'

He paused to let this statement sink in, and then added: 'With your knickers down.'

There had been a deathly hush, Gillian unable to believe what she had heard and indeed the men, including the Major, just a little stunned at the prospect.

The Major broke the silence: 'I should perhaps say that if you accept a caning and then subsequently feel inclined to divulge what had happened we would all of course deny it, and I think it unlikely that you would be believed. Also if you don't accept and feel like revealing that the option of a caning was made to you we would deny that too. Anyway, as I say, it has to be your own choice. And that is the option.'

He repeated, with emphasis: 'The cane on your bottom with your knickers down.'

Gillian started weeping silently. At this point Mr Carter decided to intervene, perhaps afraid that sympathy for the girl might make the others look for some other, lesser, punishment. 'Well come on! I haven't got all day. If she agrees to it let's get it over.'

'Right then, Miss Blair,' the Major said. 'If you agree please take off your jacket and we will proceed.'

And proceed they did, for Gillian obviously had no choice. Abjectly she removed her blazer, to reveal the clear shape of those firm rounded breasts, contained in only a thin bra under the summer dress, which at Greenfields Comprehensive were so much admired by the boys, and indeed by most of the male staff. A slight pause as the eyes of both Major Fortnum and Mr Carter likewise registered admiration, then the Major indicated that she was to bend over his desk. She stepped forward and his hands guided her down until her face (and those breasts) were flat against the top. She was made to stretch out and grip the other side with both hands.

Then the skirt of that blue flowered dress was ceremoniously pulled up and with it the white lace-edged waist-slip underneath. Long slim bare legs; and as the skirt and slip were pulled further up, up over her back, the rounded thighs and then the white nylon knickers tightly enclosing the rondures of her bottom. The Major's hands at the waistband of the knickers, fingers inserted, easing them down, down over those bare thighs to just above the knees...

A tense silence fell in the room as three pairs of male eyes focused intently on the full pale rounded cheeks, the deep dividing cleft, the glimpse of brown curling hair at the confluence with the thighs. A tense, electric silence... finally broken by the sound of the Major, now redfaced, clearing his throat as he reached for the cane. 'Kindly keep still, Miss. You will receive six strokes.'

He stepped to the side and laid the cane testingly across the fullest part of her buttocks, making them jiggle. Then smoothly he raised it and brought it down with, to the Head's ears at least, quite a sickening Thwack! The girl gave a strangled gasping cry and jerked up off the desk. A bright red stripe had appeared across the centre of her bottom.

'Hold her down please,' the Major curtly barked. Mr Carter sprang forward to push Gillian back down and this time keep her there with his hands pressed onto her back.

'Good!' Unruffled he continued: Thwack!... a second stroke and a second stripe appeared across the bottom of the now sobbing girl.

Thwack!... a third stripe across those desperately squirming cheeks...

Thwack!...

The Head looked on, feeling definitely sick. He had never caned a girl himself, and never even a boy on the bare bottom and what was now happening... Well, it was just sickening. But nonetheless he found he couldn't look away, couldn't take his fascinated eyes off that soft pale flesh and the angry red stripes which one by one were being systematically imprinted on it.

At last there was the stated complement of six. Major Fortnum put down the cane; Mr Carter relinquished his grip (then moving round behind the still bent-over girl was seen by the Head to quite deliberately slide one hand over her bare glowing behind). It was over. Gillian, sobbing, averting her eyes, got up, fumbled her knickers back up under her dress.

Yes, it was over. Mr Carter had had the satisfaction of seeing the Head Girl at Greenfields caned on her bare bottom, and Major Fortnum had had the further satisfaction of actually doing it. The account was paid. The Major's clipped tones: 'Well, I think that concludes matters.' He looked at Gillian: 'And I'll just repeat that nothing of what has taken place here this afternoon will ever go beyond these four walls.'

It had been a quarter to four. Silently, not knowing what to say, the Head had taken Gillian out, then driven her to her home where fortunately no one was yet in. He made her a cup of tea and stayed until she seemed at least to have got over the worst of it; then he left, telling her to phone him if she felt it would help. She had not phoned so he had assumed she was all right. But this morning's performance in assembly clearly indicated that she was not.

* * *

He finally finished his correspondence and sent for Gillian to come to his study. It was the first time he had really had a chance to talk to her since he'd left her at four o'clock yesterday, and it was clear that she was if anything in a worse state than she'd been then. He put his arm round her waist in an avuncular manner and tried to reassure her. The caning was over and best forgotten. No one was ever going to know about it. But this merely precipitated another outburst of tears through which he could just about make out her saying: 'It's not just that.'

He persevered, his arm still round that delectably slim waist, telling her that the only way, if she was worrying about something, was to talk about it. Finally, wiping her eyes, she said haltingly: 'Well all right. Talking won't make it any better, though. But... but last night I... I did something... really awful.'

Mr Kendall was naturally at a complete loss. What now? Had she gone on a round of house-breaking or something? Gradually he coaxed it out of her. It wasn't housebreaking, but it was something just as completely out of character...

* * *

After the Head left her following her caning, Gillian had just sat brooding, doing nothing, letting what had happened go round and round in her head: the actual awful shock of that cane on her bottom, and perhaps even more the sheer humiliation of at 18 being bent over a desk and having her knickers taken down in front of three men. She brooded, and of course said nothing to her parents when they came in; and later barely touched her meal.

She had been due to go to the cinema with her boyfriend, Kevin Goodall, but she just couldn't face him and rang to call it off saying she had a migraine. (Kevin, also in the Upper Sixth at Greenfields had queried her absence from school that afternoon and she invoked a migraine for that as well, saying she had gone home.) She went back to her room to sit once more just staring at the wall.

But after a while she just couldn't stand it any more and felt she had to go out, and happened to see in the local paper that there was a disco on that evening. Discos were something neither she nor Kevin normally ever went to, but perhaps because of the mood she was in it had an appeal. Yes perhaps she would go there for an hour...

She changed from her school dress into a skirt and blouse, and put on the pair of nylons and suspender belt she had recently bought (they were now, after years of tights, to a certain extent being worn again as something 'different'). She brushed her hair, then some lipstick, her high heels, and a coat; and went out. Unfortunately, though she didn't realise it, she had no knickers on: she had taken off the ones she had been wearing but in her distracted state had forgotten to put on another pair.

However, what happened was not simply the result of having no knickers on: for with Gillian's state of mind it would in all likelihood have happened anyway. A state of mind in which together with the sense of humiliation there was the feeling that she had let everyone down; and together these combined to produce a state in which she didn't much care what happened to her. And so, in a distracted sort of way, she had let it happen... the two men, sales reps on an overnight stay, who happened to have turned up at the disco... not actually encouraging them but not discouraging them either, just acquiescing, numbly saying 'All right' when really she must have known where things would lead. Undoubtedly, though, the absence of knickers had an effect; an added stimulus to them when they realised, in the course of dancing with her, that she had none on. Well, a pretty girl, going alone to a disco and not wearing any... the conclusion was obvious. They could scarcely believe their luck.

It had actually happened on the Common, a local lovers' haunt just outside the town, where they had driven Gillian after leaving the dance. Saying they would drive her home but first, as it was a warm evening, why not go for a little drive? Where was a nice quiet spot? Gillian, in the back seat with one of them, her mind further numbed by several drinks and weakly protesting at what her companion was doing, gave directions: she had been to the Common more than once with Kevin, on their bikes. Though definitely not to do what she was now to do with these two men nor indeed to allow what a hand was already doing to her in the car. For she and Kevin, unlike many teenagers, did not mess around indulging in sexual experimentation.

Yes, Gillian was a virgin all right and had planned to stay that way until marriage. But clearly that was not now to be as they got out of the car and she was persuaded to sit, then lie, on the blanket which her companion produced from the car boot. A minimal amount of foreplay (a continuation of what had been happening in the back seat) and then he was on top of her; a firm sharp painful thrust, and Gillian was a virgin no more.

Afterwards, when they'd finished, they drove her home. She went numbly to bed and it was only when she woke in the morning, with the worst of the shock from the caning now over, that she fully realised what she had done, or what she had allowed to be done, the night before.

* * *

Haltingly, tearfully, Gillian reluctantly told all this to the Head (or almost all, for she omitted the fact that she'd had no knickers on). He listened in silence, and when she'd finished just did not know what to say. Well, what could he say? As she continued crying he put one arm, then both arms, round her. And then he did think of something to say: the crucial question. Did she think she could be pregnant? Gillian shook her head. She had carefully understood and remembered her Sex Instruction Class. She was pretty sure it was her safe period. Well at least there was not that to worry about, thought Mr Kendall, as he did his best to comfort the unhappy girl. But as he did so, feeling her body, her breasts, soft but firm against him, he realised to his alarm that he was beginning to get an erection.

Hastily he turned away and went to sit at his desk — where his errant organ continued its unfortunate enlargement, but at least did it unobserved. It was a development which really was most unfortunate, as the Head would have been the first to admit. The trouble was that she was such an attractive girl and what she had just recounted, while it was truly regrettable, was also, well, definitely arousing. He had very clear visions of Gillian, her long legs parted, underneath first one and then the other of those unprincipled men. And he also had vivid memories of earlier yesterday: her full pale bottom being caned over Major Fortnum's desk. Yes, it was all too much: a most unfortunate reaction indeed.

He did his best to ignore it, as he continued to make sympathetic sounds. There was no point worrying about what had happened and she mustn't blame herself. It was not the end of the world. She would soon forget it, as she would likewise soon forget the caning. No use crying over spilt milk etc., etc. But while he was saying all this his hidden organ was remaining obstinately erect. And that part of his brain which had caused this by savouring the recent happenings was also producing most unfortunate thoughts. Really unacceptable ones.

To the effect that what had happened in the last two days had placed his delectable Head Girl completely in his power. To do with as he wished. And what he wished, these thoughts were saying, was to do exactly what those two opportunist men had done last night. To fuck her, in fact.

The decent, headmasterly side of his brain fought back. Such thoughts were disgraceful: it was quite deplorable that he should even contemplate having intercourse with his Head Girl. But that other side of his brain immediately countered: Don't be foolish, Kendall, you know you want it and you know she'll have to let you. And remember that Angela (his wife) will be going off to her mother's this weekend. There's your golden opportunity. Strike while the iron is hot.

The Head seemed to be sweating somewhat. Still seated at his desk, (still in fact in a state of full erection) he mopped his brow: 'Gillian. Look, what you need is a good... I mean what you need is a change of scene. Why don't you come round to my place tomorrow afternoon. We'll have a nice chat... and some tea... I'm sure it'll make you feel a lot better.'

He had said it in spite of himself. He hadn't really meant to but it had just come out. Perhaps she would decline, though.

But no. Gillian looked doubtful and then, pushing back her hair from an unhappy face said: 'Oh, all right Sir. Thank you.' For one thing there was no one except the Head she could talk to about any of this. Not Kevin, not her parents, not anyone. And the Head was, well, very sympathetic. 'When should I come round Sir?'

It was a question Mr Kendall did not hear as he was busy listening to the thoughts whizzing around in his own head. Thoughts as to how he would best accomplish his goal. A drink first, of course. Two drinks. And then should it be the settee. Or, let's face it, it would certainly be more enjoyable to actually do it in bed...

Whatever he decided, he must use the rational approach. Point out that what had happened was not really such a dreadful thing: girls not infrequently started doing it at her age, or indeed younger. But once she had started it was advisable to continue, at least at a certain level of frequency. For the sake of her health, otherwise she could get very tense. At the same time it was not a good idea to think of starting it with her boyfriend — Kevin Goodall, was it? It could very well distract him from his studies.

No, what she needed was an understanding, older man. That was the line to take. And if she wasn't convinced, well, he would just have to use a little pressure. Remind her (if she needed reminding) of what had happened these last two days and how unpleasant it would be if Kevin or her parents got to know about it all. Yes, that would certainly do the trick. But she was a sensible girl and probably he wouldn't need to much of this...

'Sir?'

'Oh... er, sorry Gillian. I wasn't really listening.'

'I said what time should I come round, Sir?'

* * *

Gradually all the excitement died down and by lunchtime Greenfields Comprehensive was more or less back to normal. Gillian herself, after her talk with the Head, though definitely not back to normal was putting a brave face on things, trying not to think about it all. The word had gone round that she simply hadn't been feeling well. Not that characters like 'Nose' Parker were going to be so easily put off. 'Morning sickness, I suppose,' was his comment on hearing this. 'Just goes to prove what I said. Old Kendall has got one in her oven.'

It goes without saying that Parker was not Kevin Goodall's favourite character, for Kevin was all too familiar with the kind of dirt that individual liked to spread around. 'Really, I don't know why we can't get rid of shits like him,' he said angrily on hearing Nose's latest quote.

Of course the school was stuck with him: the only thing you could do with such people was to ignore them, but it naturally made Kevin's blood boil to hear his girlfriend spoken of in such a manner — especially when she was such a super, decent sort of girl. The last girl in fact to get involved in anything at all. She and Kevin had discussed all that sort of thing — sex, emotions, etc. — in a sensible way and had both decided that sex was something properly kept for marriage. They naturally smooched a bit but only within strict limits. Yes, Gillian was just a super, sensible girl and when Kevin heard that Parker had come up with another of his prize statements, well, he felt like going and punching his head. Except that as a senior prefect you had to set an example.

He had to admit, though, that Gillian's illness was a bit of a mystery. Because when he saw her at break she was very vague about it, although he could see that either she was still not feeling well or something was bothering her. Also it was decidedly unusual, when she hadn't been feeling well yesterday, for the Head to take time to personally drive her home, as he had apparently done. And now this business about tomorrow. He and Gillian had planned to go together on the local archaeological dig, as they had each Saturday for some weeks past; but now Gillian said she wouldn't be going. Naturally he could understand if she thought she might not be feeling well; but when pressed about it it turned out she was going round to Mr Kendall's, who had offered to help her with her French.

Well it was unexpected, that was all. And if that turd Parker heard about it the news would be all over school, with the immediate Parker interpretation. Kevin bit his lip, imagining all too easily that unpleasant character's words: 'Kendall had Gillian Blair round to his house again on Saturday. For another cosy fuck.'

* * *

Saturday afternoon, warm and sunny, the sky a cloudless blue; the sort of day when you should not have a care in the world, thought Gillian, as she set off on her bicycle for Mr Kendall's. Naturally after the last three days she was hardly quite in that happy state herself but she was in reasonable spirits as she pedalled along, bare thighs flashing under a skirt which refused to stay down.

She had been round to Kevin's house in the morning and it hadn't been too bad. Of course she had felt desperately guilty, especially when they were kissing on the settee, but she managed to control herself and stop the tears coming. Because she knew she was just going to have to live with what had happened. She would have liked to be going with Kevin now: it would be really nice out at the dig on an afternoon like this but on the other hand another talk with the Head would probably do her good. Mr Kendall was right of course, there was no point crying over what had happened. She had been foolish, dreadfully foolish — and twice over — and none of it could be undone. But at least it was over and done with. She gave a sudden grab at her skirt as she noticed the look on the face of a man she passed. The gentleman in question was left gazing after her, blinking, still seeing in his head a sharply defined picture of bare creamy thighs and brief pink knickers.

Anyway, blinking gentleman or not, we must hope that Gillian was right in thinking that it was over and finished with. As we know, though, she could at this moment be cycling towards more that she expected at Mr Kendall's house: because if the less admirable side of his character has gained the upper hand, as yesterday it seemed quite likely to do, then Gillian will be getting more than just tea and good advice.

And there are additionally a couple of other as yet unseen clouds on Gillian's horizon. Small insignificant things, but the trouble with clouds is that you never know how they will develop. One such is that phone call to her home just a few minutes ago asking for her. From a certain Major Fortnum. On hearing that Gillian is out he has told her mother not to worry, he will call again later. Well, it could be nothing at all. Or it could on the other hand be that the Major so enjoyed caning Gillian on Thursday that he has in mind a repeat performance. (On reflection, six is definitely not sufficient for an 18-year-old girl. Another six. Kendall and Carter need not be present of course.) Well, we just don't know.

That is Cloud No. 2 (No. 1 of course is Mr Kendall.) And there is also a Cloud No. 3, this one involving no other than our friend Robert Parker. Robert, or 'Nose' as he does not particularly like to be known, is this afternoon going out with his girlfriend. Quite a new girlfriend as he only met her a week ago. She is Mandy Brown, aged 16. Mandy just happens to work in Carters, Stationers and Office Suppliers, and moreover just happens to be the assistant who started everything by noticing Gillian put that Parker pen in her pocket.

Things are not as bad as they might be because Mandy does not know what happened to Gillian after being caught, only that the whole affair seems to have been hushed up and she herself has been instructed to say nothing to anyone. So our friend should remain in ignorance. But it is a fact that 16-year-old girls are not always noted for keeping secrets, and there is also the obvious connection of a Parker pen and Robert Parker which just might trigger something. If he did find out, well, he is unfortunately the sort of person quite capable of using the threat of disclosure to blackmail Gillian into something decidedly unpleasant.

Looking on the bright side though, the Parker cloud, and the Major Fortnum one, could well develop into nothing. The first cloud — Mr Kendall? Well, it must be admitted that this one does look a bit more ominous and it is now decidedly close. Gillian, not yet at Mr Kendall's house, can still see nothing of it; but she is quite rapidly approaching, pedalling and tugging at intervals at her skirt. Overhead the sky is still a clear light blue.

Moments in C.P. History. Number XIII-XIV

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

Number 11-13. ***

I should explain something.

In Februs in the 90s were published on 14 issues of this series. Alex in his blog in 2008 posted the edited version only 13 stories from 14. I, in turn, have only 9 original texts from the magazine. So it happened that I don't know in what order in the magazine were published texts from 11th to 13th, and I do not have one of these texts at all.

I can only assume that this picture belongs to the missing issue:

but I'm not sure in this.

If I ever find the missing issue of this series, I am sure I'll post it in my blog and tell the visitors...

Number 14. Martha Douglas* (Original text from Februs 45)

The United States, throughout its history, has long had a tradition of corporal punishment and even today, when 'civilised' Europe has made the use of beating illegal in prisons and schools, the US continues to exercise 'state's rights' in the application of corporal punishment, particularly in its schools, to both males and females should the public be perceived to favour it, thus there is no common policy across the country.

Why then, you may ask, is 'Moments' going back to the schoolrooms of the United States of nearly 200 years ago, to 1823 in fact, when CP is so prevalent in the country's schools today? Well the reason is that the case in point created a flurry of attention for a number of reasons and eventually led to a change in the law of the state concerned.

In the United States today, most of the states which allow school beating, in the form of the paddle, are in the deep south and, sadly, a disproportionate number of the recipients are black.

The case of Martha Douglas back in 1823 was very different both in the nature of the state, the background of the girl concerned and the nature of the punishment. She was a white girl, a middle-class grocer's daughter, well educated and living in Massachusetts, a state which, despite its notoriety during the witchcraft hearings, was regarded as civilised and 'decent'... a far cry from its 'country hicks' down south. The ripples from the Douglas case changed American perceptions for a time, the resultant furore and highlighted legal anomalies keeping the lawyers busy for a long time.

Martha Anne Douglas was born into a well to do household in Cambridge, Massachusetts in 1805, an attractive and intelligent girl whose parents had always taught her to respect her elders, to be polite but to stand up for herself, honestly and firmly. The young girl took the words of her parents to heart and grew up to be a daughter of whom they could be proud. At the time of the incident in question, Martha Douglas was one month short of her 18th birthday, a young woman rather than a child, and already 'walking out' with a young man with marriage a distinct possibility in the not too distant future. Until then Martha had to behave like any other obedient schoolgirl studying hard for her examinations.

She was a keen and enthusiastic attendee at the Leonard Rushmore Public School in Cambridge where she received glowing reports of her attitude and application. Like most public schools the classes were mixed ones with boys and girls equally divided.

The school employed an English teacher named Jessica Stowe and rumour had it that Mrs Stowe was not over enamoured of Martha Douglas, considering the girl to be too smart, too ready with a quick answer and, in effect, a show off. Such feelings were maybe a recipe for what was to occur on the fateful day in May during Jessica Stowe's English class.

During her lesson, Mrs Stowe heard what she later described to a packed courtroom as whispering and giggling from behind her as she wrote on the blackboard. She also swore that the voice, which was unmistakable, belonged to Martha Douglas. She turned round and ordered Martha to walk out to the front of the class and extend the palm of her hand for one stroke of a thin cane.

It was now that the girl's parental advice, to be honest and stand up for herself, were to prove her undoing. Red-faced with embarrassment, the girl rose to her feet and said politely 'Ma'am I have done nothing to be punished for'. Aghast at this show of insolence, Jessica Stowe demanded that the girl come out to the front where the punishment would be increased to three strokes for her insubordination. Close to tears, Martha remained defiantly in her place and muttered 'With respect, Ma'am, no I will not! I am guilty of no offence'. The class was now buzzing for no pupil had dared to behave in this way before.

Jessica Stowe, while-faced with rage, stormed out of the classroom and returned some ten minutes later accompanied by the male Principal and two other male teachers. Whatever story Mrs Stowe had told must have been convincing because at the behest of the Principal, the two teachers grabbed Martha and dragged her kicking and screaming to the front of the class where she was forcibly stretched across the teacher's desk by one of the male helpers.

As the girl shrieked in horror and shame, the other teacher pulled up her long skirt and petticoats while the Principal untied the strings of her drawers and pulled them down, baring her bottom to the entire mixed class. Producing a birch rod, he then told Martha she would receive a punishment she would remember all her life, then delivered twelve scorching strokes of the birch to the girl's naked buttocks as she wept and squealed. When the punishment was over she was made to stand in the corner, red bottom on display for the rest of the lesson.

When the lesson was over, risking further punishment, the humiliated Martha fled from school and went home, collapsing in hysterics into the arms of her mother. When the facts were known and the damage inspected, Mrs Douglas sent for the magistrate. As a result the three male participants in the affair were arrested and charged with indecent abuse of a minor.

The court case lasted three weeks and the legal wrangles went back and forth as the prosecution argued that the laws of Massachusetts had clearly been broken in that the whipping of females on the bare buttocks was forbidden by statute. Defence lawyers argued that a school is 'a state within a state' where decrees affecting the judicial treatment of females do not apply. They argued that the school had a written constitution and a clearly evident corporal punishment policy.

The prosecution then replied that this did not cover the bare bottom punishment of pupils AND in full public view of the opposite sex too, that the teachers had exceeded their authority and committed a punishable offence. The defence replied that the corporal punishment policy was deliberately non specific in order to allow situations such as that of this 'unruly girl' to be dealt with in the appropriate manner and that all parents who valued the preservation of in loco parentis authority would support the action of the Principal and his staff. They argued that the laws of the Slate had no place in this matter and that, unless wilful and malicious cruelty could be proved, the school was within its rights to punish the girl as it saw fit.

The defence argument won the day and the three teachers were acquitted without a stain on their characters. The arguments about the decision raised hackies in the US press with the Conservative newspapers supporting the decision and the Liberals calling it an outrage.

Martha Douglas' parents appealed against the verdict but to no avail. They then sued privately and lost that too, the girl now forced to leave school after so much notoriety meant she could no longer expect to receive fair and unbiased treatment.

Although she lost the battle, in the long term, Martha Douglas and her family won the war, although a little late to save Martha from humiliation and indignity. The Massachusetts Senate, embarrassed by the adverse publicity, brought forward at its next sitting a bill which encompassed the State's public schools and which expressly forbade the corporal punishment of pupils of either sex on the naked buttocks either in public or in private.
________________

*This is the last in the series.

The Schooling of Lady Caroline

Story from Janus 11.

The Schooling of Lady Caroline

PART ONE

The Victorians took their spanking seriously. How seriously can be appreciated from this sequence of letters discovered recently, which recount the strange events that led to a proud heiress receiving a vigorous bare-bottom birching at the hands of an indomitable suitor who simply wouldn't take no for an answer...

* * *

Cheyne Walk,
Chelsea, London.
p.m. 24th January, 1894

My Dear Cousin Rodney,

Knowing full well how desirous you are of pressing your suit with the beautiful heiress Lady Caroline D'Arblay (despite her having rejected your every advance) I hasten to avert you at the earliest opportunity that on Friday 2nd February Lady Caroline, together with her maid, will be taking the morning train from Paddington to Birmingham, arriving at the Snow Hill terminus of the Great Western Railway at twenty-five minutes past eleven. On arrival at Snow Hill she will procure a hansom cab to carry her to the village of Tanworth-in-Arden, lying at the western extremity of the city, where she will spend several days at the country seat of her husband-presumptive, the Hon. Eustace Bateman, that effete though wealthy tea-broker. Her father, too, will be making a special journey down from Carlisle to be present for the occasion. For this precious piece of information I am indebted to that notorious gossip, Baroness Heyhoe! I doubt not but that you will make the fullest use of it, if your celebrated resourcefulness, initiative and audacity are anything to go by!

Your friend and cousin,
Edgar.

* * *

Oakfield Road,
Tunbridge Wells,
Kent.
a.m. 27th January, 1894

My Dear Edgar,

Your timely intelligence gratefully received! Accordingly, an elderly widow of my acquaintance has placed at my disposal a modest secluded villa residence in a northern suburb of Birmingham.

In a hired conveyance, with my man Higgs capped, mufflered and greatcoated – looking every inch the part of a Brummagem hackney-carriage driver, and yours truly similarly attired, we shall make every endeavour to intercept Lady Caroline and her maid as they emerge from the Snow Hill terminus at the time and dale you specified.

Believe me, Edgar, I am in no mood to be trifled with! This is to be a 'do-or-die' venture. Lady Caroline has spurned my devoted attentions and thwarted my desires too long now for her to gaily exit from my life scot-free! She must and shall be brought to heel! Her entire life thus far has been lived in spoilt, pampered luxury – hence her deplorable tendency to play fast-and-loose with the affections of half the eligible bachelors in the kingdom! I tell you, Edgar, she shall be taught a lesson, even if it means taking my belt off to that precious, aristocratic rump of hers! Stern words and a firm hand may succeed where sweet blandishments and terms of endearment have so far signally failed.

I solemnly stake my life, my reputation, and above all, my honour as an officer, on the successful outcome of this desperate business. I mean to make her love me, Edgar, and to that end have procured birch-rod and cane – in fact all the accoutrements of school-room discipline to assist me in my Grand Design! I shall emerge from this affair, dear cousin, either a broken man facing ruin, gaol, or worse – or else the proud possessor of a loving, devoted fiancée.

Yours ever,
Rodney

* * *

Cheyne Walk,
Chelsea, London.
p.m. 30th January, 1894

My Dear Cousin Rodney,

Intrigued yet alarmed by your plans. They are indeed desperate. I fear for the outcome. I hasten to add, however, that you may rest assured of my every assistance, should it be required. I expect – nay demand – a full and detailed account.

God be with you in your hour of hazard!

E.

* * *

Grosvenor Road,
Edgbaston,
Birmingham.
1st February, 1894.

My Dear Edgar,

Here we are safely billeted in Birmingham – a vast, teeming metropolis wholly devoted, it seems, to the noisy bangings and clatterings of the manufacturing trades that have helped to make our country great. The populace are coarse-tongued, drunken and dirty: the streets gloomy and inhospitable. To make matters worse, a swirling 'pea-souper' of a fog envelopes the city and shows no sign of abating – although this very same fog may yet prove our greatest ally in tomorrow's business!

A cab is at our disposal; the house is well suited to our purpose – small and at some remove from the main thoroughfare. There are no servants apart from the housekeeper, whom we have liberally paid to stay away. The ground floor consists of a drawing room, dining room, breakfast room and kitchen – all with lockable doors. Upstairs there are three capacious bedrooms, similarly securable.

The birch rods are soaking in the kitchen pail. My man Higgs informs me that he has met Lady Caroline's personal maid, Eliza Bradstock and, though buxom and well-informed, she is every bit as audacious a minx as her mistress! Accordingly I have counselled Higgs to follow my excellent example, spare her not, and lash the impudent baggage into a state of true contritionl

Tomorrow, Edgar, is the day when the proud, haughty Lady Caroline D'Arblay and her maid Eliza will disappear from the face of the earth. How soon they re-appear will depend on how long it takes to break their intractable spirits!

I am, dear Edgar, ever sensible of your goodwill and anxious solicitude!

Yours as always,
Rodney

* * *

Grosvenor Road,
Edgbaston,
Birmingham.
midnight, 4th February

My Dear Edgar,

All has gone according to plan, fulfilling my wildest expectations! At the appointed hour Higgs and I, disguised as cabbies, sat anxiously outside the rail terminus, awaiting the arrival of the London train. By an amazing stroke of good fortune the fog was at its thickest and there were only a handful of other cabs plying their trade. As the time grew near I despatched Higgs to sally forth into the main concourse of the terminus to secure the ladies' custom before another cabby was able to lay prior claim to our precious burden.

Those minutes waiting alone in the fog, tending our cab, were the longest in my life! What if they slipped through our nets? What if they had missed the train, or decided to come by the other railway – the London Midland and Scotland, and thus arrive at New Street Station instead?

But my fears were allayed when three figures materialised out of the swirling mist. The two ladies looked pale and fatigued after their journey – so much the better. Higgs installed them in the cab, secured their baggage, climbed aboard next to me, winked conspiratorially and urged the horse into a trot. Twenty minutes later we reached our destination. We escorted the ladies from the carriage; they seemed surprised that we had arrived so soon, since they had been told that Tanworth was a good hour's drive away. Lady Caroline looked about in growing bewilderment as she realized, despite the blanketing mist, that we had not left the environs of the city.

'But this cannot be Tanworth!' she declared in annoyance. At that moment the muffler slipped from around my face. She recognised me and cried out in alarm: 'Sir Rodney! What on earth...?' but I seized her and carried her bodily up the steps to the front door, impervious to her shrill protests. Higgs dealt likewise with the indignantly squawking Eliza. Before the whole neighbourhood was roused, we were safely indoors.

While Higgs bundled the vociferous Eliza up the thickly-carpeted stairs to the servants' floor, I removed Lady Caroline's cloak and hat and led her into the drawing room where a log fire was burning merrily. Without a word I lit the gas lamps and drew the velvet curtains, while my lady, pale but defiant, eyed me with suspicion and distrust. I motioned her to be seated, which she did with ill grace.

'Lady Caroline,' I began firmly, 'there is much we have to discuss. I make no apologies for the manner in which I have brought you here – necessity compels it.' She listened with a kind of sulky attentiveness, a constrained expression on her face and her hands clasped nervously together in her lap. I could not help but feast my eyes on the splendour of her proud beauty – the exquisitely curled blonde tresses, the clear, deep blue eyes, the aristocratic nose and the firmly resolute yet undeniably sensual mouth. From her neck down to her ankles she was a shimmering study in blue – a lavender organdie gown that rustled when she walked, betraying the presence of several layers of frilled, starched petticoats beneath.

'You have led me a merry dance!' I continued. 'You have thrise cruelly rejected my proposals of matrimony – wrung from the heart of your truest, most besotted admirer. Worse, you have frivolously – nay maliciously – broadcast the humiliating details of my scorned offers throughout every salon and drawing room in Society! I am not the kind of man to suffer the mortification of defeat lightly! Therefore I have brought you here – albeit against your wishes – to tender my proposals once more: Lady Caroline, will you make me the happiest of my sex and consent to be mine?'

She drew herself up to her fullest height and, eyeing me with the utmost disdain, replied indignantly:

'Surely, Sir Rodney, you cannot but be aware of the fact that I am now betrothed to the Hon. Eustace Bateman, a better man, in every respect, than you will ever be: where you are proud and cruel he is modest and kind; where you are rash and impetuous he is far-sighted and cautious. But were I unfortunate enough not to be betrothed to him, my answer, Sir Rodney, would still be the same. A thousand times no! Whatever respect I may have once held you in has been forfeited forever by the criminal way in which you have abducted me! I demand you release me here and now, and set me on the road to my friends and father!

'Very well, Miss Caroline,' I continued, my patience sorely taxed, 'since you do not consent of your own free will, then it is up to me to make you! You must know that you are entirely at my mercy. To all intents and purposes you have vanished from the face of the earth – not a soul knows where you are! It is my intention to detain you here until such a time as you change your mind and consent to be my wife!'

Her beautiful blue eyes blazed in fury and she tossed her pretty head in brave defiance.

'Sir Rodney, I care not a fig for you, nor for your wicked, wicked designs!' She stamped her dainty foot in angry petulance. 'You may keep me here for as long as you wish. I swear I shall go to my grave a grey-haired old maid before I submit to...' But she broke off in amazement and horror as she heard the unmistakable sounds, coming from upstairs, of a loud and painful whipping in progress! Fleshy 'THWACKS', closely followed by shrill female cries of distress. Higgs had begun work on Eliza – he could not have timed it better had he tried!

'Oh my God!' Lady Caroline exclaimed, half rising from the ottoman, 'what in heaven's name is that?' I simply smiled and made artful reference to 'the maid doubtless proving as recalcitrant as the mistress!' The veiled threat in this remark was not lost on my lady, and she sank back into the cushions, pale and agitated – obliged to bear oral witness to the lusty birching that Higgs was enthusiastically inflicting on the nether regions of her maid.

The swishing, thwacking sounds proceeded at a steady interval, as did the fervent cries of the victim. My man was certainly going to it with a will! Eliza's gabbled protests and pleadings for mercy assailed our ears: Lady Caroline bit her lip and a deep crimson blush suffused her checks.

'First he stripped her, then he whipped her!' I rejoiced facetiously, and commenced humming a popular air, while birch-blows and accompanying cries attained a frenzied pitch. I glanced at my lady. She had placed her hands over her delicate ears in an effort to obliterate the unseemly noises emanating from above: the disciplining of Eliza was evidently unsettling her lady-like sensibilities.

The whipping and the cries ceased. This seemed an opportune moment to re-open negotiations with my now somewhat cowed captive. I approached her, gently but firmly took her hands away from her aristocratic ears, and repeated my demands.

'My dear Lady Caroline, before a similar fate overtakes you,' (here she shuddered palpably) 'will you, or will you not, consent to be mine?'

Steadfastly she returned my gaze and, her spirits rallying, murmured: 'Never! Never in a million years! Do your worst – I defy you!'

'Very well,' I sighed solicitously, 'but first let me enlighten you as to where your stubborn wilfulness is leading you.' I went over to the open door and called up:

'Higgs! Bring down the girl!'

A moment later, footfalls could be heard descending the stairs, together with girlish snivellings and whimpers. Lady Caroline looked up from the ottoman as Higgs led in a weeping Eliza, clad only in chemise and black stockings gartered above the knees.

'Oh please, oh please don't let them see me like this!' Eliza burbled amid her tears, vainly trying to conceal with her hands the black, bushy outcrop between her thighs.

'Well now, Eliza!' I greeted her cordially. 'It pains me to see that you've been a naughty, disobedient girl! Tell your mistress what you have had to suffer at the hands of my servant in order to curb you of your waywardness.'

'Oh ma'am! It were awful, ma'am! He b-birched me on my... my posterior!' she wailed, rubbing the afflicted parts. I asked Higgs whether the girl had shown true contrition. A broad grin creased my burly manservant's weather-beaten face. He spun Eliza round by the shoulders so that her rear view was shamelessly displayed, her chemise tucked up at the back and the broad amplitude of her naked, well-birched posterior on full show. It was indeed a sorry sight!

Lady Caroline gasped in horror at the thin tracery of weals criss-crossing practically every inch of her maid's saucily plump buttocks and upper thighs.

'Oh you brutes! You brutes! What have you done to her?' my lady cried in outrage. Her outburst prompted fresh floods of tears and lamentations from her maid. Clutching her emblazoned seat in both hands, in a vain endeavour to ease the throbbing smart, Eliza sobbed out a warning through her tears: 'Oh m'lady have a care! Don't provoke them, else they will treat you likewise!' I studied Lady Caroline's face in order to gauge the effect of these salutary words on her... but I saw imprinted on her fair features only obduracy and smouldering rebellion. The birching of Eliza had undoubtedly at first shaken and alarmed her; but the end result had only been to stiffen her resolve. I could not help but applaud her courage! I warmed to the ensuing battle of wills; she was in every respect a worthy adversary.

Higgs, still flushed and perspiring from his exertions, enquired of me whether that would be all. The conspicuous bulge in the front of his breeches signified that, having delivered his attack on the rear of the enemy, he was now more than eager to force an entry via another quarter. His rough, calloused hand explored the dark, shadowy cleft between Eliza's haunches. He licked his lips in anticipatory pleasure and delivered a hearty smack to her bruised, burning rump, as he would to a prize filly. Eliza winced and trembled at the fresh onslaught. His hand resumed its former exploratory operation, and the excellent lubricity he encountered down there convinced him that she was indeed now ready for a rod of a different nature.

'The bitch is in heat, milord!' he observed with a ribald chuckle, 'and the stud is eager to service her!'

'Very well, Higgs,' I relented. 'Take her and fall to't! They do say a woman well whipped is at her hottest!' Higgs propelled the weeping, red-bottomed maid from the room with sharp swipes of encouragement to her blushing derriere.

Once more I confronted my lady alone.

'Lady Caroline, the choice is yours, and yours alone! Accede to my wishes and we'll be the happiest couple in Christendom – I swear to it: or else prepare yourself to be schooled by me! I warn you in advance that I am a stern, exacting tutor. Whatever prowess with a birch possesses, he acquired from me, by emulation, in the flogging academies of Albion Street!' (Albion Street was notorious in the late nineteenth century for its whipping brothels, possibly frequented by Swinburne – Ed.)

'Do thy worst,' she whispered through clenched teeth, 'I defy you for the blackguard and scoundrel you are!'

Deeds, not words, were the order of the day.... Dear Cousin, it is past four in the morning and I faint for want of sleep. Fatigue and an ever-increasing drowsiness decree that I conclude herewith this already over-long epistle. I shall despatch Higgs with it to ensure it catches the morning post, and resume my narrative at the earliest opportunity.

Your ever-loving cousin and friend,
R.

* * *

PART TWO

Grosvenor Road,
Edgbaston,
Birmingham.
p.m. 6th February, 1894

My Dear Edgar,

A night at the music hall has only served but to confirm my worst suspicions of this provincial capital! For utter coarseness and vulgarity it is unsurpassed! Footpads abound and it is more dangerous to walk the streets here than it is in London. 'But pass the port and proceed with your tale!' do I hear you impatiently cry? Now, where was I? Ah yes...

Without further ado I ordered her to remove her gown. 'And if I refuse, Sir Rodney?' she rejoined icily. There is no creature in this world, dear Edgar, more beautiful than a disdainful, obdurate young woman – of that I am convinced. Her brave words fanned my already enflamed passions – I burned to take her there and then! As for her refusal to disrobe, I merely warned her that if her flounced and be-ribboned, exquisitely cut Paris gown was not off her back within the minute – I would summon Higgs and together we would strip her forcibly! The threat was enough. Reluctantly she rose to her feet and commenced loosening the catches and buttons. With a silken hiss the organdie gown cascaded to the floor and Lady Caroline, growing paler by the second, stepped out of it, retrieved it, laid it out neatly over the ottoman, and then turned back to face me, clad only in her white layered outer petticoat, black stockings and gold-buckled, calf-leather shoes.

'Now your petticoat please, my lady,' I instructed her. 'No place for false school-room modesty here! I am resolved to birch your impudent, bare backside until you beg for mercy!' and to demonstrate my intent I moved over to a brass ewer from whence I withdrew a sturdy bundle of birch rods that had been left conveniently soaking in brine. I swished them about vigorously to clear the drops of water that still clung to the buds. There were six switches, neatly peeled, with a black cloth tied around the handle end. It was evident to me that Lady Caroline had never viewed such an implement before in her life, let alone felt its admonishing kiss across the magnificent swell of her seat of learning, for she drew in breath sharply and gazed at it in wide-eyed alarm. 'Surely, Sir Rodney, you can't be intending to beat me with that cruel device? And with me in such a shameful state of dishabillee too? Is there no limit to your villainy... to take advantage, in such an utterly caddish manner, of a helpless, defenceless lady?'

Ah Edgar, should you ever be blessed with the opportunity of whipping such a woman as she, then you will savour the full import of those immortal words of that illustrious Scot, Robert Louis Stevenson: 'To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive, and the true success is labour', because even before I had as much as laid a finger on her, the haughty, imperious Lady Caroline was beginning to quail perceptively at the mere idea of being visited by the birch! She had now doffed both her under-petticoats and stood before me, shyly vulnerable in her silken chemise and very pretty white batiste drawers that tightly hugged her proud womanly curves and finished at her knees, where they were lovingly secured with blue ribbons. A tempting morsel indeed with which to delight the jaded palate of even such an inveterate roué as I! The winsome garment clung to the upper reaches of her sturdy thighs and intimately delineated the swelling proturberance of her mound of venus. No gourmet had ever been served such an appetising dish as this! Impatiently I swished the birch against my thigh. A rich, deep-hued blush suffused her cheeks. In desperation she bartered for the retention of her drawers. She swore she would gladly suffer the severest discipline I could administer, if only she might be allowed to keep that one vestigial veil of modesty.

'But Lady Caroline!' I bantered, 'as any little school-age minx will gladly tell you, all remedial treatment in the classroom is delivered to the naked seat! Now, do I have to call Higgs? Doubtless he'll not take kindly to being interrupted in the midst of his labours!' and my hand strayed towards the bell.

Having perceived the futility of barter, my lady changed her tune to begging and pleading:

'But... but in front of a man – it's not decent! It's shameful and immodest, and unbecoming to a lady!' Now real tears were glistening in her eyes. 'No man before has ever seen me in this state of disarray' (alluding to her undergarments) 'let alone the even more indecorous condition which you are proposing. That was to be a sight reserved for my husband alone!'

'All the more reason, Lady Caroline, for you to gratefully accept my proposal of matrimony! That way, your honour will be safeguarded and mine wholly satisfied. Just say the word and I'll spare the rod, and your drawers into the bargain!'

So fully aroused was I by the sight of my lady reduced to her chemise and drawers, and so fully resolved to soundly birch her into abject submission that, even had she recanted at this eleventh hour, I doubt I would have granted her the reprieve she so earnestly sought! But none was called for. Instead, my beautiful hostage tearfully reminded me that as she was already pledged to another, her only honourable course lay in the direction of preserving that pledge. (Did I detect a discernible weakening in her fortitude? The haughty contempt had certainly evaporated. But then, dear cousin, what maiden facing for the first time in her life the rigours of a bare-bottom birching can afford the luxury of disdain?)

'It strikes me, Lady Caroline,' I opined helpfully, 'that you are well and truly impaled on the horns of a dilemma: either you forsake your pledge but retain your drawers, or else you retain your pledge but forsake your drawers! The former course of action will pain you morally, the latter physically. Am I right?'

She nodded tearfully – a very different, chastised, Lady Caroline to the one who had defiantly entered the room an hour ago.

'Am I also right in supposing that you elect to suffer the stings of the birch, rather than endure the stings of your conscience?' Again she nodded lachrymosely.

'Then, my lady, what in heaven's name are we waiting for? Take down your drawers immediately and prepare yourself for the whipping you so thoroughly deserve!'

The once-proud heiress, who had poured scorn on my name in every London salon, burst into choking sobs and desperately fumbled with the offending drawers. But even then she halted in her tracks, crying out in despair: 'I cannot! I just cannot! It's too shameful!'

'Very well then,' I retorted implacably, 'since you refuse, I'll prepare you myself. Of course, that will mean extra strokes!' and I approached her with the intention of yanking down her drawers to below her knees.

But with a cry of alarm, Caroline D'Arblay performed the shameful duty herself, pulling them down to her ankles and stepping out of them – heedless of the highly indecent spectacle she was making of herself. I feasted my eyes on the sturdy growth of blonde pubic bush, and on the unravished, virginal slit coyly hiding beneath. I bade her turn around, for I was eager to inspect the target area. She guessed my purpose and bit her lower lip in anguish, but nevertheless did as she was told.

Her chemise ended where her back ended: her black silk stockings were gartered just above the knee. My lustful gaze lingered on her naked behind. Broad-cheeked and womanly, it jutted out in the most enticing manner, wobbling slightly whenever she moved. I measured the birch experimentally across the full width of her naked seat. She flinched to feel the sharp prickle of the buds. I turned it on its end and rubbed it teasingly up and down between the broad division of her cheeks. She shuddered and squirmed to feel it probe her cherished maidenhood. Then I rubbed and kneaded her trembling buttocks with my other hand. They felt deliciously warm and birch-worthy! I laughed out loud to think of that nincompoop, Bateman, fondly feeding on air: fantasising about the joys that I was palpably tasting! Joys he would never now know – for she was mine, all mine! A might of blazing birchings and furious fuckings would see to that! No woman is proof against such drastic medicine.

With one hand still clutching the birch, and the other firmly grasping her round the middle, I guided her to the door and up the stairs to the master bedroom. I had taken pains to procure a small step-ladder, over which I made her bend. Her long blonde tresses fell in delicious disarray almost to the floor, concealing her face and the deep blush thereon. Her bottom was raised up at an almost grotesquely indecent angle. It struck me as being a comic parody of a schoolroom chastisement. The twenty-four year-old heiress's bottom was a trifle too well-fleshed and generously proportioned for a stripling schoolgirl's!

During the preparations Lady Caroline had been mute to the point of sullenness, but when I measured the birch judicially across the width of her plump seat, she broke into fresh lamentations and tightened the muscles of her bottom, tensing her cheeks in agonised anticipation of the pain to follow.

I brandished the birch high above my head, took careful aim, and delivered a whistling cut to the base of her saucy big behind. Lady Caroline uttered a stifled gasp as if she had just been doused with scalding water, squeezed her bare buttocks together even tighter to try to conceal her virgin charms, and emitted a strangled sob as she struggled against her bonds and endeavoured frantically to glance up at me. Her bottom writhed and convulsed as the sharp needle-like little buds did their work of leaving a pattern of tiny weals which soon merged into an all-over sanguine stain, incarnadining the whole surface of her well-endowed posterior. Before she had time to recover what little composure she possessed, I swished her again, hard, aiming for the plump rotundity of her right buttock cheek – causing it to redden up more fiercely than its neighbour. She flinched at the hissing, sibilant impact and gave a loud groan of despair. While she was yet struggling to regain her self control, I landed another stroke on the same spot with such force that she cried out:

'Oh PLEASE no more! I beg you! No more! No more!' And she contorted her roseate backside in a series of vulgarly suggestive – though I hasten to add, totally involuntary – muscular spasms.

'Keep still, Lady Caroline!' I warned her, obliged to raise my voice above the swelling tide of her sobs and wails, 'or else I shall aim for your legs!'

'Oh you brute! You brute!' she shrieked hysterically. 'How can you go to such lengths to degrade a lady so?'

'Lady Caroline,' I retorted wryly, 'from where I am standing I see no lady – only a wanton, shameless, bare-arsed trollop!' And with that I delivered two whooshing cuts, one after the other, to the smooth coppery crown of her left buttock so that it too, crimsoned and broke out in a rash of goose-pimples.

Its pretty owner was now mewing and blubbering in abject submission. Try as she might, she was unable to keep her bottom still – it seemed to have taken on a life of its own. The pain of the birching was as nothing compared to the bitter mortification she felt at being made to appear to deliberately flaunt her well-birched bottom at her oppressor.

Towards the end Lady Caroline abandoned all efforts at hiding her private parts from view. Her crimson, welted derriere danced hither and thither in a desperate attempt to evade the stinging torment of the flailing birch rods, and I was rewarded with uninterrupted vistas of her blonde pubic hairs, and of her unmistakably damp, fully engorged little fortress of love that I was soon to lay siege to. The helpless rudery of her frantic bottom-rolling; her once-proud, disdainful features now wet with tears, nostrils flaring (a sign, Edgar, of true contrition! ); the agonised biting of her lower lip, and, above all, the heaving sobs that shook her entire body and filled the room – all eloquently testified that the schooling of Lady Caroline had indeed been accomplished.

No rebellious schoolgirl had ever suffered such a birching! Although I had taken care not to break the skin, there were angry purple blood-blisters forming in several places, notably on the sauciest prominence of both out-thrust cheeks. The over-all hue of her behind was that of pillar-box red – as though she had sat down on a hornets' nest; the criss-cross streaks and striations caused by the birch buds resembled an intricate cartographical design – a map of India, or maybe one of our lesser colonies in Africa!

I then led the weeping girl, over to the bed (she went like a lamb, without protest), freed my erect, swollen member from its bursting confines and, with one bold thrust, breached her precious maidenhead. It proved to be an easy task since she was swollen and abundantly lubricated – the birch had seen to that. Her tender, enflamed buttocks made her agonisingly sensitive to every thrust I delivered, but though she flinched and grimaced several times during the early stages, she made no complaint and even returned my embraces with reciprocal fervour, as we bucked and cavorted our way to mutual bliss. We entered the gates of paradise many times that night before our spent bodies dissolved into the arms of sleep.

Next morning over breakfast, with our servants as witness, a sore, chastened, yet thoroughly contented Lady Caroline gave verbal expression to what her body had so eagerly demonstrated the night before: she gave her consent, freely and unforced, to be mine forever!

'Could I do but otherwise, Rodney dear!' she laughed teasingly, 'with the marks of your ownership so plainly, so embarrassingly, imprinted upon my private person!'

I turned to our grinning, nudging servants, who seemed every whit as jovial as their master and mistress.

'And have Higgs's disciplinary measures effected a cure in you, too?' I demanded of Eliza. But she blushed and hid her head coyly in remembrance of her well-whipped bottom on full display the night before. Proudly my manservant announced that I was in fact looking at the future Mrs Higgs!

'You've made a good catch there, Higgs!' I congratulated him heartily. 'She's a comely, buxom wench – broad in the beam and thus excellently built for bearing you a dozen or more little Higgs! Treat her well – but never fail to whip her when she's contrary!' Eliza blushed and giggled as she and he respectfully left us to our own devices – he slapping her bottom all the way to the scullery, she laughing and shrieking encouragement.

In deep contentment I regarded my radiant bride-to-be across the breakfast table. Our hands met over the marmalade.

'Promise me, dearest one,' she appealed coyly, 'that you'll whip me too, whenever I am wicked?' She held her breath, waiting for my answer.

'On one point, dear lady, you may rest assured!' came my merry reply. 'Ours shall be a household where the man is truly master – above, as well as below stairs!'

Dear cousin — my cup runneth over! My pen leaps for joy! We are to be married secretly here in vulgar old Brummagem within the month... My lady assures me that her father will, given time, bless and approve our union – for she is the apple of his eye, his spoilt darling, and can do no wrong...

My heartfelt thanks to you, dear, dear Edgar! Without your timely intelligence all this might never have come to pass. Hasten to join us! Your services are required as Best Man!

Your loving cousin,
Rodney

Valerie – as promised

Story from Blushes 07.

Valerie – as promised

The continuation of the story of Valerie's 're-education' at the hands of a certain Mr Fultonby.

THE NEW GIRL MEETS MR MIGGINS

'Hey! No touching, Mr Miggins. Anyway your hands must be quite filthy messing about with those pots.'

In the potting shed in the corner of Mr Henry Fultonby's extensive gardens Cynthia Harlow was still sitting on the bench with one foot raised high to display the full extent of two slim and shapely legs, but as she spoke she pushed her skirt firmly down between the tops of her thighs thus closing off from view what Mr Bert Miggins had been raptly gazing at and indeed what he had now, lurching forward, attempted to get his hands on. What to be frank, Cynthia had been deliberately displaying to Mr Miggins' aroused eyes, namely that very essence of her young girlhood, that split peach, adorned with soft brown curls and with its outer lips parted by her spread-legged posture to reveal delectable and quite irresistable coral pink inner parts. All this, quite bare due to the absence of knickers was now abruptly covered up by the skirt.

But the chances were that this most delicious part of Cynthia would soon once more be revealed and indeed made available. For she calculated that Mr Miggins was now sufficiently on the boil to be prepared to open his wallet and pay for certain esoteric pleasures. Naturally, though, a girl did not want hands which had come straight from cleaning out old plant pots to be in contact with that most intimate of parts.

Hot-faced, Mr Miggins went to his sink and made a big show with soap and water, and then with a reasonably clean towel. Breathing somewhat like a panting dog he came back to Cynthia who made a quick inspection of the scrubbed hands.

'I don't know that I should let you,' she pronounced coyly. 'And also you shouldn't want to do such things.'

'Come on, young Cynthia,' urged the aroused gardener. 'You know you love it.'

Cynthia would not admit to 'loving' it, certainly not to Mr Miggins, or indeed to that new girl Valerie or to Mr Fultonby who in any case were not privy to the fact that she permitted such intimacies from the gardener. But it did give her a nice tingle of excitement letting a member of the lower classes get his work-gnarled hands on her. The thought of what Mummy would think was really quite a turn-on.

'How much're you going to give me?' she inquired sweetly. It is an unfortunate fact that some girls can get to know the value of what they've got at a very early age.

'A pound,' ventured Bert Miggins, though not too hopeful that this would get him very far.

'You've got to be joking, Mr Miggins; you won't get much of a feel for that I can tell you, I am not one of your common village girls, you know.'

'Two pounds for the whole works then. With me 'and, I means.'

Mr Miggins had better mean only his hand, he certainly would not be allowed anything else. Anything else could only be permitted to a proper gentleman, e.g., Mr Henry Fultonby. But yes, for £2 Mr Miggins might be allowed quite extended manual manipulations.

'Let's have it first,' Cynthia stipulated, aware that if she waited until after Mr Miggins had had his pleasure he can easily claim to have no money on him.

Two one-pound notes were handed over. Clutching them, Cynthia lay back on the bench and drew both legs up with raised knees spread in an abandoned manner. Mr Miggins, bending over her, pushed Cynthia's skirt back to her waist and slid an eager hand between silky thighs. Cynthia emitted an urgent gasp. Fingers explored and entered and then commenced a very expert massage. In no time at all Cynthia was grunting rhythmically and rocking her crotch against the busy fingers.

A visitor from Mars, say, might be excused for asking why it was that Mr Miggins was paying for something which would seem to be at least as much for Cynthia's enjoyment as for his own – but that, happily or otherwise, is the way it can be with desirable young ladies. Cynthia's orgasm was not long in coming, for she had a short fuse when expertly handled and though Mr Bert Miggins might be a common gardener, nevertheless in certain areas he knew exactly what he was doing. Perhaps that is they mean by having 'green fingers.'

When she was finished Cynthia pushed Mir Miggins' hand away. But Mr Fultonby's sturdy retainer was not yet ready to call it a day, complaining that he had not had his full £2's worth. He would, he said, finish up by giving Cynthia a little spanking.

She protested but not too desperately as he moved to his chair and pulled her over his lap. Having your bare bum spanked by a member of the proletariat was also a turn-on, even though it could hurt. Cynthia wriggled and yelped, feeling Mr Miggins' throbbing bulge pressing urgently against her soft belly. The hand kept coming crisply down; and then by way of variety slid firmly in between her hot thighs.

She gave a strangled yell, and immediately started thrusting rhythmically against the hand in much the same way as she had five minutes earlier when on her back on the bench. Cynthia climaxed, for the second time, just before Bert Miggins reached his own satisfying conclusion.

Meanwhile, in the house, Henry Fultonby had also just finished his first disciplinary session with the new girl, Valerie. The cane vigorously applied to her pertly pretty 16-year old bottom and then what, if you weren't used to it, was an equally breath-stopping massage afterwards. With a dismissive smack to her bottom, Valerie was told she could go outside until lunch time; she would probably find Cynthia somewhere out there. Quite devastated by what had happened, Valerie was only too eager to go. At least she would be away from Mr Fultonby.

They met on the lawn, Cynthia feeling nice and sprightly, thank-you very much, and Valerie decidedly the worse for wear. Cynthia asked brightly about the caning which she knew the new girl would have had. 'When you're not used to it it can really make you feel sick, I know.'

Valerie did feel sick. They sat under a magnificent copper beech tree. In the distance Mr Miggins was now to be seen dutifully trundling his wheel-barrow. Everything looked quite idyllic and it was really difficult to believe that those horrendous happenings had just taken place in Mr Fultonby's study. Considerately Cynthia offered to rub Valerie's bum for her. It would ease the soreness, she said. But Valerie said no thanks.

'I 'spect he'll give you another one, before tea or just after,' Cynthia said helpfully. 'The softening-up process, like I said.'

'Softening up for what?' asked Valerie.

'Oh you know: it! What every man wants from a girl. Beasts, aren't they? Not Mr Fultonby of course, he's not a beast. But most of them. Mr Miggins for instance. Mr Miggins has very beastly instincts.'

For the moment Valerie wasn't too worried about Mr Miggins and his instincts. It was Mr Fultonby. 'What about Mr Fultonby; what does he want?'

'It. I told you.'

Valerie's eyes widened as understanding dawned.

'Yes,' said Cynthia. 'But like I say I wouldn't call it beastliness with Mr Fultonby. He's really super. You'll like it. Why, haven't you done it before?'

'No!' gasped Valerie, who truly hadn't done it before; she hadn't even thought very much about doing it. Like Mummy said, as she conveniently forgot her own little lapses with 'Mr Smith' and others, doing it was for marriage and should definitely be kept for your husband.

'It's very good for you,' stated Cynthia. 'Stops you getting spots or anything else. Yes, a girl should really be doing it by 16 for her health. It's a natural function; Mr Fultonby will tell you that.'

Valerie could well believe Mr Fultonby would tell her anything to get what he wanted. And anyway she didn't have spots, her fair skin was quite free of any blemish. Cynthia's was too but what did that prove? With any luck Mummy would respond in a day or two to her plea to come home. But before then...?

They went into lunch, a salad prepared by Mrs Douglas who asked brightly, 'Had a good morning, girls?' Henry Fultonby greeted both his young guests by squeezing their bottoms, then said something to Cynthia which Valerie didn't catch. Cynthia licked her lips in a sexy way. Over lunch Mr Fultonby said he wanted to see Cynthia afterwards. Valerie, recalling what had just been said outside and also that sexy look of Cynthia's, felt her face colouring. Was Mr Fultonby going to do it to Cynthia again?

Whatever he was going to do at least it wouldn't be her and so she was spared a bit longer from another awful caning. Mr Fultonby said Valerie was to help Mr Miggins. When their host left the table for a moment Cynthia rolled her eyes in a most suggestive way. Afterwards, before going off with Mr Fultonby, she managed a whisper, 'Remember: Mr Miggins has got very beastly instincts!'

Valerie gulped out that surely he couldn't be worse – or even as bad – as Mr Fultonby, gentleman or not.

'You'll probably find Mr Miggins in the potting shed, I shouldn't wonder,' advised Mrs Douglas.

It was over in a far corner of the grounds screened by some shrubs. In less than 24 hours at Mr Fultonby's establishment Valerie had noticed the potting shed but had had no reason to go there before. A nice secluded little hidey-hole for Mr Miggins where he could do more or less what he wanted. Like, as we have seen, get his hands on his employer's young ladies. Now, after his lunchtime sandwiches, Bert Miggins was seated comfortably in his chair puffing at his pipe and serenely contemplating life – including the morning's encounter with Cynthia – when Valerie knocked at the door.

He got smartly to his feet. The tentative nature of the knock made it unlikely to be anyone other than the new girl – whose acquaintance Bert Miggins had not yet made though he was eager to do so. Yes indeed! 'Come in!' he welcomed, a large and rustic-looking spider confronting a delicious young fly. 'Come in, Missy. You must be our new young girlie.'

Valerie explained that she had been told to help. She stood hesitantly just inside the door. Here she was alone with this man who according to Cynthia had 'very beastly instincts', while she for her part was free of knickers under her dress – a fact which Mr Miggins could be very well aware of.

Bert Miggins was indeed aware of this, for Mr Fultonby always insisted on the 'no knickers' rule when girls were about the house. He licked his lips: she was another very tasty specimen. You had to hand it to Mr Fultonby, he certainly knew how to find girlies.

There was only one chair in Mr Miggins' hideaway – perhaps designedly so. He told Valerie he would have to explain what had to be done. He sat heavily down again on that one chair. And then told Valerie to sit on his lap.

Valerie went red. 'Thank-you,' she stammered, 'I... I can stand.'

'Come 'ere,' growled Mr Miggins in his most aggressive tones. 'You does what I tells 'e and no 'oity-toity nonsense, or Mr Fultonby'll 'ave 'is stick to that pretty bum again.'

Unwilling to contest such an argument Valerie moved unhappily forward. Bert Miggins pulled her onto his lap – at the same time holding up her dress at the back. It was therefore Valerie's bare bottom which made intimate contact with Mr Miggins' somewhat work-grimed flannel trousers. She gave a startled yelp. This was dreadful! Mr Miggins pushed and pulled, getting her just right – so that the considerable bulge which had rapidly appeared in the front of his trousers fitted nicely to the declivity between bottom cheeks and tops of thighs.

'Please!' pleaded Valerie weakly. It was all a bit overwhelming. At close quarters like this Mr Miggins had a very strong odour of pipe tobacco which if not entirely unpleasant did rather take your breath away. In addition to this there was what was happening – whatever it was – beneath her bottom. And in addition to that was the fact that Mr Miggins had straight away cupped two large sinewy hands round Valerie's pert breasts, protected as they were, if protected was the word, only by the thin material of her summery frock.

Mr Miggins was saying something about plant pots but Valerie's head just wouldn't take it in, what with everything else. His hands were really squeezing her breasts and Mr Miggins was sort of rocking about. Then he abruptly pushed her to her feet, getting up himself as well. Still clutching her tightly from behind he propelled Valerie the two steps to the work bench. His hands left her breasts for a moment to reach for a flower pot and put it in Valerie's hands. These pots had to be cleaned out, it seemed. Valerie's head was still spinning round and round and it seemed that Mr Miggins' voice had a breathy excited edge to it now.

As Valerie took hold of the pot Bert Miggins' hand went behind her and did something to the zip of his trousers. And then some other fumbling action in the same area. Red in the face, he again came tight up against Valerie's back where her dress was still up round her waist. Leaning over her, describing the pot cleaning operations, Mr Miggins' hands seemed to be everywhere, almost it seemed in front and behind at the same time. He seemed to be rocking himself against her again but Valerie's mind was still not working properly, almost as if the powerful tobacco odour had narcotized her, and she just wasn't sure what was happening. Then it seemed Mr Miggins made a sort of groaning sound and after that he let go of her and went over to the corner of the room where a sink was.

With her mind clearing now, Valerie realised her dress was all rucked up at the back. She pulled it down, conscious that her bottom was bare. As she did so she felt she was all wet and sticky. It was hot in the potting shed and she must have been perspiring, she thought. She carried on cleaning out the pots as Mr Miggins had showed her. Miraculously he seemed to have suddenly stopped all that groping and rubbing up against her.

* * *

In Henry Fultonby's bedroom the heavy curtains were drawn against the bright early afternoon sunshine but a slight gap in the centre near the top allowed a narrow shaft of light to enter, splitting the soft gloom. The ribbon of light crossed above the broad bed, where figures could dimly be seen in measured rhythmic motion, to produce a bright pool of light on the far side. The patch of light moved slowly with the earth's rotation but at 2.30 or thereabouts, when Valerie was being instructed in horticultural duties in the potting shed, it was impinging directly onto Henry's bedside table. Thus by chance brightly illuminated on the polished rosewood surface were a small jar and a little foil packet, broken open. Next to the table on the floor, but out of the bright beam of light and therefore not to be clearly seen, were a girl's crumpled summer dress and a pair of white high-heeled sandals. Also some items of male apparel.

A girlish giggle from the centre of the broad bed. Then a likewise girlish voice: 'When's Valerie going to get this treatment, Mr Fultonby?'

Henry Fultonby did not stop what he was doing. 'Don't you worry about Valerie, if you please, young lady.'

* * * * * * * *

THE NEW GIRL LEARNS WHAT LIFE IS ALL ABOUT

Four o'clock and the sun was still high in a cloudless blue sky over Lower Grindleham in the county of Suffolk. The two girls were once more lying on the grass in the shade of Henry Fultonby's splendid beech tree but the rest of the garden, shimmering in the heat, seemed deserted.

'Old Miggins should be watering those plants,' pronounced Cynthia. 'Look, they're all wilting.'

'No, I don't think you're supposed to water them in the hot sun,' said Valerie. 'It's too much of a shock. You wait till the evening and then do it. That's what my father told me.'

Cynthia considered this information for a moment. 'I bet old Miggins doesn't water them in the evening either. Lazy old sod. He's only interested in one thing. Did he do anything particularly beastly to you in the potting shed?'

Valerie's memory of events in the shed was a bit hazy. He had certainly made her sit on his lap and had squeezed her breasts in a not very nice way. And then at the work bench...

She broke off her thoughts to listen to what Cynthia was saying. Describing what Mr Miggins had tried to do to her. Got her up against the work bench and pulled her skirt up at the back. She didn't have any knickers on, of course. Valerie listened in increasing horror as Cynthia went on to describe in graphic detail exactly what Mr Miggins had then attempted. She now saw her own experience in a new light; as if someone had suddenly wiped away mist from a window. Mr Miggins' hands, which had seemed capable of being both in front and behind Valerie at the same time... And that stickiness... Valerie felt suddenly sick.

'Of course I pretty soon made him cut that out,' stated Cynthia primly. 'But that's what a lot of these men like Mr Miggins are like. Wanting to do all kinds of things to nice middle-class girls. You have to be on your guard.'

Valerie felt like weeping. 'Should soon be teatime,' said Cynthia. 'I'm starving.'

'D...d'you think that I... could have a bath?' queried Valerie doing her best to keep her voice firm.

'Why not? Anyway tea might be a bit late if Mr Fultonby's taking a nap.' Cynthia gave a coarse laugh. 'Resting after the enjoyment of his pleasures.'

Valerie certainly did not feel like pursuing that line of discussion. She got up. 'I... I think I'll have a quick bath. I feel all... all sticky,' she finished weakly.

'It is sticky with all this heat,' Cynthia agreed. She lifted her skirt, flapping it up to her waist. 'But I'm also starving. Doing a certain thing makes me really hungry.'

After tea, when Cynthia certainly showed a very healthy appetite, Mr Fultonby said he wanted to see Valerie again. Cynthia gave another eye-rolling performance behind his back. In his study Henry said, 'Time for another little disciplinary session I think, young lady.'

Valerie protested that she hadn't done anything. Henry smilingly agreed that this might be so but the discipline was required for general improvement and was not aimed at a specific fault. 'Over these next few days you're going to need it quite regularly, my dear. After that, well, we'll see. But don't worry, it's quite normal.'

Don't worry! All Valerie had to hang on to was the desperate hope that Mummy's letter might arrive tomorrow saying that she could come home and all this awful business would just be a bad memory. She clutched at this thought whilst she did as Mr Fultonby told her. Not up on the desk on her back this time, but almost as bad if not as bad. Kneel on a leather-covered stool, about 14 inches high, and put her hands down on the floor and then lower her body until her head was down on the carpet as well. Valerie was upside down with her bottom high in the air. Mr Fultonby flipped her dress back so that it fluttered down about her head. Cringingly she knew that her high-arched buttocks were quite bare.

Henry reached out his hand gently to stroke the pale moons which still bore marks from the morning's caning. A choice young lady with a delectably choice bottom and Henry really could hardly wait for the full enjoyment of her. Indeed it had been the excited arousal generated by his morning caning of her which had necessitated calling Cynthia to his bedroom for that extra afternoon session. According to that young Miss Valerie was somewhat shy at the moment and that did seem to Henry to be a reasonably accurate assessment of the situation. But shyness, as he knew from much experience, could be overcome and then the pleasure was that much the greater. The cane was an extremely effective agent in overcoming shyness. The cane followed by a nice show of affection for the distressed recipient.

And so in the pleasantly cool confines of his study Henry proceeded to apply his long thin rattan; to those firm pale globes and to the upper rear surfaces of the slimly rounded thighs. Nice fresh red stripes to go with the darkening ones of the morning. The delectable bottom jerked and bucked, not at all happy with what was happening to it, while from the blonde head down on the carpet came unhappy sounds. Sharp shrill yells and cries, and sniffling sobs. Henry's study had naturally seen and heard all this, or something very like it, many times before.

With the rattan's work completed Henry pulled Valerie to her feet. The flowered dress fell back into position to cover that smarting bare bottom and at the same time reveal the tearful face. Henry drew the exquisitely distressed girl to him. Arms went round the shaking slim shoulders. Firm young pointed breasts, confined under the single thin layer, squashed deliciously against Henry's shirt front. One hand slipping down to gently play with those quivering rear quarters, Henry uttered words of comfort and solace.

Later that evening over a game of scrabble, Cynthia asked, 'How's it going?' Mr Fultonby was in his study doing some writing. Valerie knew what Cynthia meant, not the game but the caning. She made a face. Her bottom still hurt horribly and she knew that for two pins she could burst into tears again.

Cynthia said, 'Let him know that you're ready for it, then he'll stop caning you all the time. When he comes in to say goodnight give him a nice big sexy kiss. Stick your tongue in his mouth. Then he'll get the idea.'

No doubt Mr Fultonby would get the idea but Valerie could not possibly see herself doing that. She had never kissed anyone like that, not man or boy, and the thought gave her goose-pimples. And besides she wasn't ready to do it. Mr Fultonby was not unattractive, for an older man, but the thought of doing it, even if it did stop the canings, was quite outside Valerie's orbit. Her only hope was that Mummy's letter would arrive tomorrow. She couldn't tell Cynthia that, though; she might tell Mr Fultonby.

'I couldn't possibly do that,' Valerie said, meaning put her tongue in Mr Fultonby's mouth. 'And I don't want him to think I'm ready to do it because I'm not.'

Cynthia shook her head. 'When you've had a few more canings I bet you change your mind. Anyway, doing it is what life is all about, isn't it? And you are old enough!' Smiling, she reached over and squeezed Valerie's knee. 'Would you like me to rub some cold cream on your bum? I've got some in my room.' Flushing, Valerie said no thanks.

Mr Fultonby did come in to see Valerie later, coming into her room with a cup of cocoa when she had just got her pyjamas on and was about to get into bed. He said he had looked in to see if she was all right; then he made Valerie take her pyjama bottoms off again. For a moment she thought she was going to get her third caning of the day but that didn't happen as Mr Fultonby said he wanted to inspect Valerie's bottom. He sat on her bed and made her get over his lap, face down, as he had after that caning in the morning. Mr Fultonby ran his hand gently over Valerie's bare bottom, stroking it. And then he did what he had also done in the morning after the caning – put his hand between her legs and took hold of her.

Valerie started crying. Not that what Mr Fultonby was now doing hurt because it didn't, but it was just too awful having his hand there and on top of everything else it was simply too much and all she could do was cry. As she cried Mr Fultonby's voice, soft and understanding of young females, told her to be a good girl and open her legs nicely. It was quite devastating what he was doing but it was also a relaxation from all the tension and Valerie couldn't help herself; she started reacting to it, her hips automatically rocking against Mr Fultonby's hand. She couldn't stop herself and that made it even worse and made her cry even more. She was sobbing and gasping as Mr Fultonby brought her to a climax.

After she'd finished he stood her on her feet and put his arms round her. 'There, that was what we needed, wasn't it?' Mr Fultonby said. Valerie just went on sobbing.

Mr Fultonby made her drink the cocoa he had brought and somehow she managed to get it down without choking. After that he helped Valerie into bed, then bent down and kissed her on the mouth. She remembered what Cynthia had said. Stick your tongue in his mouth. Valerie didn't do it but instead Mr Fultonby did it to her. Pushed his tongue between the soft trembling lips and right into her mouth. Valerie didn't resist, but for a moment thought she was going to choke just like with the cocoa.

Valerie intended to get up early and get the post but she slept soundly – perhaps her body feeling it needed rest after all the excitement – and she was only woken at 9 o'clock by Cynthia bursting in shouting, 'Hey! A letter for you, lazy dog!'

It was from Mummy all right, Valerie could recognise the writing. She grabbed it with trembling hands and tore it open. The words were at first a blur, her eyes reluctant to focus after the abrupt awakening. Then it cleared. Her mind put the words together. Valerie's heart started thumping. She re-read it.

Dearest Valerie,

Just a note. I don't know if you have written by now but as you see from the address I am not at home but staying with Mrs Carrington. I really felt I needed a short break, to relax. Anyway I expect you are having a really super time with Mr Fultonby who I believe has another girl staying, is that right? If so I expect the two of you can have a really splendid time. As regards Mr Fultonby I am writing to him separately to see if he would mind having you for three weeks. I really do need a rest, darling, as I said, and I am hopeful that Mr Fultonby can oblige. I understand he is usually very accommodating in such matters. Quite a Godsend actually.

Mrs Carrington is not on the phone, dearest, but you can of course write and I shall look forward to that. Be a good girl for Mr Fultonby, won't you, and do just as he tells you. And I'll look forward to seeing you in three weeks.

Love and kisses,
Your very loving Mother.

It was impossible; quite quite impossible! The words again became blurred, this time because Valerie's eyes had filled with tears. The tears brimmed over and started trickling down her cheeks.

'What is it, Val?' asked Cynthia sitting down beside her on the bed. Blubbering, Valerie managed to convey the horrendous news. Cynthia pushed her back onto the pillows and came down on top of her. 'Don't cry' she commiserated, and a pretty pink tongue came out to delicately lick away the salty tears from Valerie's face.

'But now you'll have to be nice to Mr Fultonby,' Cynthia told Valerie between licks. 'I mean you can't take that sort of caning for three weeks.'

Valerie's distress, confronted with this bleak prospect, became decidedly worse.

Henry received his own missive from Mrs Hartnall by the same post and perused its contents with considerable pleasure. He would, naturally, be delighted to oblige, as he always did in such circumstances. Shortly afterwards he had a word with his delightful Cynthia and from that young lady learnt of Valerie's distress. It seemed the unhappy girl had been hoping to be summoned home immediately rather than hear of this proposed extension to her stay. Henry assumed a thoughtful air – while his hand absent-mindedly fondled Cynthia's bare bottom. Some further thought was accompanied by continued bottom fondling, an excellent stimulus to the mental processes. Finally Henry made a 'hmm' sound which might indicate a decision had been made, and gave the bottom a conclusive slap.

'Send Valerie to see me, would you, Cynthia dear?'

The girl was evidently shocked and distressed and it seemed to Henry that the proper course of action was encompassed in the time-honoured saying: Strike while the iron is hot. 'Strike' in this instance could be taken very literally.

A smiling Henry informed the pretty young girl of the contents of her mother's letter. He would naturally be only too happy to oblige. Valerie looked as if a fresh flood of tears would appear at any moment. 'Among other things,' said Henry, 'three weeks will provide a nice extended period for your training – if that proves necessary of course.'

'Now then,' he went on in brisker tones, 'I rather think it's time for another little session, don't you? Get up on the desk, my dear; on your back. Then lift your legs up and grip your knees, as you did yesterday.'

Henry fetched the cane and, following the old adage, duly struck. Six nice crisp cuts to the up-ended bottom. There was a stimulating show of quite extreme unhappiness from the youthful recipient. An hour and a half later, after his coffee, Henry delivered a second dose of the same medicine. Six more. Another very arousing display of distress. As Henry Fultonby saw it, that old saying would better have been: Strike, strike and strike again while the iron is hot.

With the second dose well and truly delivered he sent Valerie out into the garden to sit and contemplate her unhappy lot. After ten minutes of such contemplation Cynthia was told to go out and have a quiet word,

'You know what I mean, Cynthia. Tell her she doesn't have to suffer.'

'I already have, Mr Fultonby,' said a bright-eyed Cynthia. 'But I think it will be different now she knows she's here for three weeks. I think it will sink in more.'

Valerie was sitting morosely under the beech tree. She didn't answer but made some sniffing sounds when Cynthia flopped down and asked how she was.

'Well, you don't have to have it, Val. He doesn't cane me all the time.'

There were more sniffs and then a quiet, hesitant voice said, 'It's really awful, you letting Mr Fultonby do that.'

'Who says so?' demanded Cynthia. 'I'm 16, you know, I can do it legally if I want.'

'What about your mother,' asked Valerie. 'I bet she'd kill you if she knew.'

'My mother can't talk,' Cynthia replied spiritedly. 'She does it with whoever she wants. One time at a party at our house she did it in my bedroom on my bed! With this man. I opened the door and there they were and I had to shut it again pretty quick. While my father was downstairs pouring the drinks. That's what mothers do, Val. I bet your mother's just the same.'

Valerie said her mother didn't do that but as she said it the whole thing crystallised in her mind. Those horrible thoughts she had had the first night here. Three weeks was how long Daddy was going to be away. All at once Valerie was quite certain that Mummy wasn't with Mrs Carrington, she was with that Mr Smith somewhere. Letting him do it to her. For three whole weeks presumably.

Cynthia said, 'I bet your mother does, if you knew. They all do it, whenever they get the chance. When our fathers are out of the way, at work or something. And then they tell us we must be so good and pure and not even think about it. But why shouldn't we do the same as them?'

Valerie had stopped sniffing, the pain in her bottom and indeed her whole general misery much less intense with the excitement of this new insight. And really, if Mummy could be beastly and abandon her just so she could do it with Mr Smith, perhaps Cynthia was right. Perhaps she should do something to pay Mummy out – and at the same time avoid Mr Fultonby's sickening cane. She gave Cynthia a wary look.

Cynthia said encouragingly, 'It's not against the law, you know. You should be doing it. It's what life is all about when you're grown up.'

Hesitantly Valerie asked, 'What... what is is like? Doing it, I mean.'

* * *

'I don't want to be caned any more,' Valerie stated, doing her best to control the emotion in her voice.

Mr Fultonby smiled. 'I don't suppose anyone wants it, Valerie.' It was still morning, about 12.30, and Henry was intending to strike once more before lunch. And then continue striking through the afternoon and evening.

Valerie said, 'What I mean is I want to be like Cynthia. Whatever you... you do to her. But I don't want those canings all the time. Please.'

She couldn't actually bring herself to say any more than that but Mr Fultonby seemed to get the message. He put his arms round Valerie in an affectionate way. She knew what to do now and, knowing about Mummy, she was ready to do it. She kissed Mr Fultonby; a real grown-up kiss, pushing her tongue firmly into his mouth. It felt funny all right but also sexy. Valerie didn't know anything about such things and just trusted to instinct. She pushed her tongue in as far as it would go and then slid it in and out. This seemed to be the right thing for she could sense Mr Fultonby getting quite excited, his hands really gripping her and then one hand going down between her thighs. She opened her legs to allow free access because obviously there was no sense trying to hold back now as she had made her decision. Actually Valerie found she was getting excited herself – all wet between her legs for this thing.

Valerie wondered for a moment if Mr Fultonby will do it to her right there in his study. On his settee perhaps. But after getting her all excited like that he stopped and said it would be better if they continued after lunch. For one dreadful moment Valerie thought that might mean another caning first as he hadn't actually done it yet. But Mr Fultonby, rather red in his face, said no. So that was all right.

They went into Mr Fultonby's bedroom right after lunch. He had a big double bed, for everyone else it seemed. How funny, being in bed in the afternoon, and also not having the clothes on, not even pyjamas. Valerie was scared, quite naturally, it being her first time, but it turned out OK. It hurt a bit of course but you expect that in first time. It was a tight fit but Mr Fultonby managed. Mr Fultonby got very excited indeed, grunting and groaning. He didn't take long to finish which was just as well as it was very tight and also hurting. And as Cynthia said the first time was bound to be tight but after that you were opened up and ready for it.

While Valerie was in Mr Fultonby's bedroom getting her initiation into what life is all about Cynthia and Mr Miggins were in the potting shed again. In that cosy sanctuary Bert Miggins was angry opening his wallet as Cynthia, once more, told him firmly that you certainly couldn't to expect that sort of things for free from a nice girl. It was getting to be quite a drain for his resources and he thought that he might have to cut bargain something – perhaps pipe tobacco. And there was else that other girl. Valerie. Once the two of them got talking together Bert knew she'd want paying for it too. Still, this is the life and, like a child in a sweet shop, he found such delight impossible to resist.

END

We believe we predicted this would happen, didn't we, in Blushes number Six? Well, there's no telling some people – at least she has the grace to blush for letting herself get into this position – or was it him who put her into this position? One can never be quite sure in these cases, can one.