Video Lessons

Story from Uniform Girls 38.

Video Lessons


The TV screen is blank as the video begins to roll. Just the fuzzy, flickering grey light. Then abruptly it starts, shaking a bit, a hand-held camera, and slightly out of focus, but it quickly adjusts. To show a close-up of a bed. And a girl's head, her face, framed by fluffed-up pillow and duvet. The pillow and duvet are in a pretty pink-and-white flowered pattern, bright and cheerful, as in a teenage girl's room perhaps. The girl's face is turned to the camera and she is awake, wide-awake. A pretty, rounded face beneath somewhat disordered short, auburn-brown hair. Her full mouth with its ripe pink lips is slightly parted and the big brown eyes are wide. With fear? Anticipation of something frightening she can see? There is only this close-up of the face, it is not possible for the viewer of the video to see anything else in the room. To see what the big brown eyes could be looking so wide-eyed at.

He shudders. The viewer of the video hunched in his chair before the screen. Unconsciously gritting his teeth. Not wanting to look but of course it is impossible not to. He knows the face of course. The girl with the pretty auburn hair and the soft, vulnerable mouth. Oh yes, he knows who she is.

The picture abruptly terminates, to be followed by the flickery grey light again. Is that all: that short piece of film? The video flickers on. Then... a voice from the blank screen. A man's disembodied voice: soft, caressing almost. The sentences spaced out.

'Sweet dreams, eh?'

'Isn't she lovely?'

'A man would be lucky to be snuggling down with that.'

A longer pause. Then: 'I wonder what Young Miss has got on under there?'

'Could be nothing, I suppose. Nothing at all.'

'Could be a girl's sweet pussy in there with nothing at all on.'

Another of the longer pauses. Then: 'I wonder if that sweet pussy had a visitor last night?'

'Mmm? Do you wonder that? If it had a friendly visitor?'

* * *

That is the end of the voice. Just the flickering grey light again now. Is that all? It is enough, more than enough. The short piece of film and then the voice, digging under his skin. He has stiffened at the voice. His hands gripping the arms of his chair in the darkened room. He recognises the voice as of course he knows the girl.

The silent flickering continues. And then... a picture again. His eyes narrow. His breathing is tight, raspy.


The girl again. But she is not in bed now, she is standing. In the doorway of a bedroom with the bed, that pretty pink-and-white duvet and matching pillow, in the background. The room behind her is brightly lit, throwing the girl into sharp focus. She is standing with her hands at her sides in a white baby-doll nightie of silk or some similar material which clings to her ripely rounded figure. The nightie is virtually transparent and her firm, prominent boobs are especially in evidence, their pink nipples thrusting out, full, swollen it seems. As if perhaps someone has been playing with them. Sucking them maybe.

The baby-doll reaches only as far as the upper curve of her hips where it terminates in a fluffy hem. Below this are very tight, brief, matching pants. Sheer like the upper garment and tightly stretching over the ripe roundness of her Venus mound. The camera closes in. Focussing on her mound. The pants are so sheer that her auburn pussy hair shows clearly through, and sufficiently brief at the crotch that on either side a few curly hairs are uncontained.

The camera lingers on this intimate view and then the picture abruptly breaks off again. To be followed by more of the tantalising blank light.

He waits. For the voice. For the voice to probe again. Like a surgeon's scalpel. He could turn the set off but of course he can't. Shortly it comes:

'Wasn't that lovely?'

'Isn't she lovely?'

'Prime.'

A little giggle. 'Prime pussy.'

'And those really lovely tits too.'

'Yes, she's got something on now.'

'But maybe she's just put it on, eh? To be decent for the camera.'

'She really is lovely though.'

A longer pause. The talking has stopped perhaps. Then:

'But pretty girls can't be in bed all day, can they?'

'Even if they are having visitors.'

'Pretty girls do need... some discipline.'

'Now and then...'

* * *

His breath hisses out. The voice has stopped now, the screen is flickering silently. But from the teasing words there is not much doubt that it will shortly come to life again. To dig deeper under his skin.

Yes. Here it is. A view of the bed again. A wider view, you can see something of the room, white walls with exposed dark brown timbers. It is not in fact the same room, or the same bed at least. The duvet is different, a different pattern, brown and white. But of course his eyes are not on any of that, they are on what is central in the picture. Filling a good part of the screen. The girl.

She is bent face-down over the edge of the bed in a half-sideways angle to the camera. She is in the baby-doll and pants again but the former has been pulled up above her waist. To reveal fully the swelling curves of her ripe rump in the tightly-stretched pants.

There can be no doubt what is happening. Or has been happening. Because across the exposed flesh which swells tightly out on either side of the brief and half-transparent pants can be seen two cane marks. Two sets of bright red tram-lines.

The camera lingers on the view: the immobile girl; her obediently offered bottom. Then it cuts out. The blank flickering again.

Some seconds pass. Then the voice again:

'Oh yes. A little discipline.'

'If a girl has been at fault.'

'Disobedient.'

'Disobedient to a visitor perhaps?'

* * *

More blank flickering. Is that it?


No. The picture is suddenly there again. The same view. The same bedroom scene. But different of course. The girl's bottom more directly facing the camera. The brief pants have now been drawn down. So that what is facing is her completely nude bottom. And it is not only her bottom that is on view. In this position with her knees forward there is everything on view. A full view of her pussy. The pink slit in the auburn curls.

The picture cuts out. The flickering light. Running on. No voice this time. Then the picture again. The same view only now there is also a part-view of a man. His arm plus part of his torso. In a yellow sweater. His head is out of sight. But his hand... is at the girl's bottom. The girl who is in the same position with her pants down.

The hand slides over the smooth-fleshed buttocks... and then onto her pussy. Onto her cunt. The hand is there, on her cunt, as the picture breaks off.

And that is the end. There is no more picture, no more voice. The tape runs blankly on and on. Until it comes to its end.

* * *

Numbed, he got up to rewind the tape. Maybe he should watch it through again. Force himself to, to see if there were any clues to where she was. But there was anyway nothing he could do. And he didn't know if he could stand watching it a second time. Especially that last bit. When he had his hand on her.


The video had come by special delivery this morning. He had frantically opened the package to find the cassette and a brief printed note: Just to let you know she's fit and well. Indeed in the pink of health. What a lovely girl! A letter will follow, with details of what I want. When you've had a little more time to consider your foolish behaviour.

He went to switch on the light. When would that letter come? Later today? Tomorrow? Next week? It would depend on how long that character wanted to toy with him. Torture him.

It was two days now since Pam had been abducted.

* * *

She had been picked up from the office where she worked as a data processor. Picked up when she left work, at five o'clock as usual. Graham knew this because there had been the phone call in the evening. Telling him to be sensible. Pam would be alright as long as he was sensible.


Sensible of course meant accepting it. Not creating a fuss. Not going to the police. He hadn't gone to the police. For one thing the police nowadays, in 1995, were helpless in some areas. Nowadays people with power and influence could take the law into their own hands and the police would do nothing.

So Graham hadn't made a complaint. Hadn't reported that his young wife of only three weeks had been abducted. Even though he knew who it was. His name was Carling. Ronald Carling. Or that was the name he had used.

It was two weeks ago, almost at the end of their honeymoon at the seaside resort of Southcliffe. Graham and Pam had been in a pub on the front in the early afternoon, having a drink at the bar. The stranger had introduced himself and wanted to buy them a drink. A middle-aged man with glasses and a clipped military moustache. Ronald Carling he had said.

Graham had said, 'No thanks', rather curtly perhaps. He had already noticed the stranger eyeing Pam. His sharp eyes on Pam's slim but ripe shape in her pretty short-skirted pink frock. Mr Carling had tried to insist and Graham had repeated his refusal and said they had to go. They had left the pub, Graham conscious of Carling's eyes on Pam's rear view.


The next afternoon they came across him again when they went for a stroll along the promenade. Perhaps Carling had been on the lookout for them but he suddenly appeared.

'Hello. Remember me? Ronald Carling. How about that drink now?'

Graham said, 'No. Really. And we'd rather you didn't keep bothering us.'

Mr Carling has coloured slightly and then made the threat. Saying it wasn't a good idea for young people to be discourteous, impolite. When someone was trying to be friendly. His eyes had been on Pam, eyeing her tits in the brief sun-top. Then he had looked straight at Graham.

'You could regret being unfriendly, young man.'

He had gone on to suggest that if Graham didn't want a drink he could take Pam by herself. He was sure the pretty lady would like a drink, and sure she didn't want to be unfriendly.

Graham had a sudden hot vision of Mr Carling taking Pam off somewhere. In his car perhaps. Taking her somewhere and fucking her. That was what this man wanted, Graham could see it in his eyes. Or he thought he could. A nice juicy young piece that he had suddenly taken a fancy to.

Red in the face at the thought, Graham blurted, 'Fuck off!'


Afterwards Pam said, 'You shouldn't have said that. He was really annoyed. He might do something.'

Graham had been dismissive. The man was just some stupid character trying to annoy them. Pam said maybe she should have gone and had a drink with him. It wasn't worth making enemies. Not nowadays. She repeated: 'He might do something.'

Graham said, 'He wanted to... you know. Fuck you. That's what he wanted.'

Pam had coloured. 'Well, I wouldn't have let him. And maybe he didn't want that.'

Graham said, 'Yes he did. And you wouldn't have been able to stop him. He would have driven you out in the country and just done it. Taken your knickers off and just done it. You wouldn't have been able to stop him.'

Pam wouldn't agree. And she even spoke of going back out by herself, on the chance of seeing this Mr Carling again. To apologise for Graham's words and accept his offer of a drink. Graham indignantly refused to agree to this and they had a bit of a tiff. But maybe he should have agreed. Definitely he should have agreed, he thought now.

What was that character doing to her.

* * *

Pam had remained nervous at first. They had one more day at Southcliffe following Graham's stupidly (as Pam saw it) provocative remark, and she had been on tenterhooks all that day. Fearing some sort of action from Mr Carling though she didn't know what. But they hadn't seen him again. Back home the sense of apprehension had initially remained, because he could have found out where they lived: the town, and the little council flat that Pam had moved into just before the wedding and where now they were both settling into.

But there had been nothing. No sign to indicate that Mr Carling was going to pursue the matter and exact some sort of revenge. So gradually Pam stopped worrying about it. She had thought about it a lot at the beginning. Wondering if Graham had been right and the stranger had wanted to screw her. She had seen his looks of course, as Graham had, and it was certainly possible, likely perhaps. And it was true too what Graham said, that if he had really wanted to she couldn't have stopped him. He could have pinned her down and taken her knickers off and simply done it. Screwed her.

Pam knew that even if she had denied it to Graham. At 19, as she was, a girl knew it as a fact of life. Nowadays. 1995. Pam knew it in particular from Predent Insurance where she had worked for the last year. A girl found out there were certain things she couldn't argue with. Not if she wanted to keep her job. Graham of course didn't know about work. About that side of work. About her boss, Mr Forton. And he of course wasn't the only one at work.

No doubt that Mr Carling would have been the same. His eyes on her had said he wanted the same. And if he was going to cause trouble otherwise, Pam would have let him have it. Though not telling Graham because what was the point. Just saying they had a friendly drink and that was all.


Things were not greatly different back at work. She was a married woman now, Mrs Gilfield and now Pam Mercer, but that didn't change things. Not for Mr Forton certainly.

'How was Southcliffe?' he greeted her. 'But I suppose you didn't see it. I suppose you were in bed all week. Doing it continuously day and night for the whole week, eh?'

And then Mr Forton wanted it. Right away. When she was scarcely in the office. Wanting it there, with the door locked.

No, things were still the same. And with that and their new flat to occupy Pam's mind the thought of the importunate stranger quite quickly faded. He could be forgotten. Until two weeks later. Thursday evening, just after five o'clock when she went to her car in the car park. There he was. Smiling. Waiting for her.

With adrenalin suddenly flooding in her veins she thought of running, but didn't. It wouldn't do any good. If he had found her he was going to get her.


Breathless now she walked up to him.

'Good girl,' he said softly. 'Mrs Gilfield, correct? The new Mrs Gilfield. And she's going to come and have a drink with me.'

He had moved in close. His hands were unbuttoning her light coat. One hand sliding in lightly cupped Pam's pussy through her thin dress.

'Yes, young lady?'

'Y.. Yes.. Alright..' she stammered.

* * *

The note with that first video said he would receive a letter, but it is not a letter it is another video. A package by special delivery again the next morning which clearly contains a video. He feverishly opens it. This time there is no note, just the video tape. With his heart pounding Graham draws the curtain and puts the cassette in the machine. The grey flickering light again, but this time the voice starts almost at once. Mr Carling's voice.

'Hello, Graham. Can I call you Graham? Did you like the other tape? A lovely girl, isn't she? And so photogenic. And cooperative too, I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear. That's good because it means we have no problems. Although we do have to have a bit of discipline, as I said. And of course showed you. Discipline is always good for a pretty girl. So I'm doing you, and pretty Pam, a service, aren't I?' There is a smug little chuckle.

There is a pause. Is the picture going to start now? He dreads it starting because it is bound to be another exercise of sticking the knife in and twisting it around. But there is no way he can avoid watching. And Mr Carling knows that. It is not yet, though. There is more talk:

'I only sent you excerpts of course. Of that first video. You might not have wanted to see all of it. All the action. She was very good, though. Very cooperative as I say. So we had no problems.'

'But anyway, what you have now is my second effort. It's more complete, there's more continuous action. It's not fully complete of course. There is more action that I haven't sent. Action that perhaps you would not wish to see.' One of those smug chuckles again. 'You see I am a very sensitive person. I am concerned about people's feelings. Perhaps in contrast to yourself, Graham. With your rather rude dismissal of my friendly overtures. But I am sure you are learning. This film incidentally was taken by a good friend of mine who is staying with us here. He is very impressed with your Pam. Very taken with her.'

The voice stops at that point. Now the film will come. Graham tenses himself. Yes. The screen is abruptly flooded with colour. Dazzling at first, as his eyes focus...


Mr Carling is sitting in what looks like a cottage kitchen, at a large table covered with a check cloth. In tweed jacket and tie and with the light glinting off his spectacles, he is drinking from a teacup. At the same time Pam is standing in the corner of the room. She is wearing a transparent green plastic mac and it seems very little else. The mac reaches scarcely as far as her crotch and below that her legs are bare. And she seems pretty much bare underneath the mac too. Certainly she is otherwise bare above the waist for her nude tits can be seen. Below the waist there is perhaps something. White. Tight knickers, or equally tight and brief shorts. Pam is looking contrite – or apprehensive. Or perhaps both. She is standing holding the hem of the rain jacket, as if trying to pull it down to cover more of herself. She is watching Mr Carling.

He puts the cup down and beckons her. There is no sound, but he has said something. Pam is coming over and Mr Carling is getting to his feet. Wagging his finger. Admonishing her. Perhaps she has made the tea and it is not to his liking. Pam is saying something, with now a decidedly unhappy expression on her face. Shaking her head. And then bending over. Bending herself down over the check table cloth.

Mr Carling pulls the rain jacket up above Pam's waist. She in fact has on some sort of tight stretch knickers. In her bent-over position Pam's ripe bottom seems to be virtually bursting out of them. Mr Carling slides his hand sensuously over the taut seat of the knickers. And briefly in between Pam's thighs. Then he is going over to a cupboard. And taking out a cane.

Pam is going to be caned.

Yes. Graham holds his breath.

CRACKK...!

Squarely across those ripely out-thrust cheeks. Pam's bottom writhes and rolls. In eerie silence because it is clear Pam must have yelled out.

CRACKKK..!

This time the camera is focussed on her face, which as the cane slices in gives a silent yell of agony.


The caning continues, as Pam's bottom squirms and writhes. Now and then her head jerks up and then goes down again, with her left or right cheek flat on the table cloth. Graham is not counting, he couldn't bear to count, but there must be six or eight, each one zipping searingly into the straining seat of those ultra-tight knickers. At last Mr Carling stops. He turns to smile at the camera.

The film breaks off, to be replaced by the flickering grey light. And Mr Carling's voice.


'How was that? Took it very well, didn't she? Made a bit of noise, although you won't be hearing that. But apart from the noise, very good. Now we'll have another piece of discipline. This time harder to take because she has her knickers down. Her shorts and her little knicks down and her pretty bottom nice and bare. So definitely harder to take. Some girls, if you give it to them on the bare they're hopping up and down like a banshee. So let's see how our Pam manages, shall we? I hope you're enjoying this, Graham.'


The voice stops. The picture restarts. Yes. Pam over the table again, in the green transparent mac and now a pair of white shorts with little white knickers underneath but both of these garments have been pulled down close to her knees. Pam's bare bottom is fully facing the camera and she is in that knees-bent position of the first video. Which fully exposes her pussy to the camera. It is there staring at the camera, staring at Graham. He gazes back, transfixed, hypnotised almost. The spell is broken as Mr Carling's cane slices devastatingly in.

* * *

They didn't go for a drink of course. When Mr Carling confronted Pam in the car park and then took her over to his car. They weren't going to a pub for a drink, they were going to his cottage. He had a pretty cottage on the coast, not too far from Southcliffe in fact and that was where they were going. He was taking Pam off to teach Graham a lesson. A lesson in politeness and friendly behaviour.

Mr Carling told Pam this as they sat in his car. He had her coat completely unbuttoned now so that he could fondle her nice firm boobs. She didn't object to this of course. But the thought of being taken off scared her.

'I'm sorry,' she stammered. 'Really. About Graham being rude. He didn't... really mean it. And please don't take me off. It's not just Graham, there's my job. I have to be at work.'

Mr Carling said she could phone them in the morning. Say she was sick. She wouldn't be off for too long, a few days maybe. Long enough to teach Graham a lesson. And of course long enough for him, Ronald Carling, to enjoy her for a little while. Was that OK, he asked.

Pam said an unhappy, 'Yes.'

'Good. So let me have a nice kiss.'

Pam kissed him. She was going to have to cooperate. That way it would be easier and hopefully he would let her go earlier. So she made it a nice sexy kiss to show she was cooperating. The kind of kiss Mr Forton at the office liked. Well, the kind Graham liked too of course. Pushing her tongue right into Mr Carling's mouth.

'That was lovely,' he said. 'Now what about a really nice kiss.'

He grinned... and unzipped his trousers. Then pulled out his erect cock. Red-faced, Pam glanced nervously around. Knowing what he wanted of course. He wanted her to suck it. But they were over in the corner of the car park and there was no one around. No one to see. So she did it. Lowering her head and taking it in her mouth.

* * *

The cane was the worst thing. At the cottage. Definitely the worst thing. 'No! Not the cane!' she yelped. 'Not that. Please!'

But Mr Carling said she had to have the cane. He was going to send it to Graham. Video shots of Pam being caned. 'That's part of his lesson,' Mr Carling said. 'A nice painful lesson for him.'

Of course they could send shots of other action, Mr Carling said. Other action of Pam with himself and with Mr Mamforth, Mr Carling's friend who was staying with them at the cottage. Pam knew what action he meant and she couldn't possibly bear having that sent to Graham, not if she had any choice in the matter. So in that case... she had to take the cane.

It was really killing. On her bare bottom. Or with just a pair of skin-tight diaphanous knickers on. Making her think she wanted to be sick. Feeling like her bottom had been sliced in two.

'I've got to do it properly,' Mr Carling said. 'Nice and zippy. I don't want it to look as if you're not really getting it, as if we're just playing around. Otherwise it wouldn't be a lesson at all for our dear Graham, would it?'

Apart from that dreadful cane it wasn't too bad at the cottage. Apart from the cane and worrying about Graham. Pam begged to be allowed to phone him but Mr Carling wouldn't allow it. It would relax the tension, he said. And they couldn't have that. 'He's got to have his little bit of suffering.'

Poor Graham! There was nothing he could do except accept his lesson. And suffer. He would know he had no choice but to accept what had happened.

'He won't be silly,' Mr Carling said. 'He's a silly young man but he's sensible enough to accept it and not make a fuss. If he tried anything silly he might never see his pretty Pam again. I could sell her off, to Arabs for instance. They would absolutely love her. Or perhaps the German trade. How about that?'

Pam gave a little yelp of fright. She was sure Graham would be sensible. And he knew she was alright. Safe and sound. He was getting the videos sent to him.

* * *


The third video showed Pam playing Ludo with Mr Carling. It was different from the game as normally played though. It was strip Ludo. For Pam at least, Mr Carling wasn't doing any stripping off. But when Pam lost she had to take something off. She started off in her yellow dress, the one she had worn to the office the day Mr Carling had taken her. The dress came off the first time she lost a game. Underneath Pam had on a pretty pale yellow set of underwear: slip, bra and panties, a matching little suspender belt with her stockings. These items came off in turn one by one.

When she was down to just the little yellow pants Mr Carling took Pam over his lap and took down the yellow pants and spanked her bottom. Then he gave her a caning. Bending her over the card table with her hands behind her back. And slicing that cane zippily into her bare bottom.

* * *

That was the end of the videos. Mr Carling thought Graham would now have learnt his lesson. 'Oh I'm sure he has!' Pam exclaimed. 'Please!'

Mr Carling gave her a quizzical look. 'You're keen to get back then?'

'Yes! Yes! Well I... I love him. He's my husband... and we'd only been married for three weeks.' She felt a bit like bursting into tears. It really was a dreadful thing to have happened.

Mr Carling said sardonically, 'So you don't want to be sold to the Arabs? Or some German contacts I have?' Pam shook her head. This time the tears did start. But he was only joking. He said she could phone Graham. Tell him she could come back. If he had learnt his lesson.

So Mr Carling drove Pam back home, on the Saturday afternoon. She had been with him at the cottage for just over a week. At the flat she asked him if he wanted to come in, for a cup of tea. Mr Carling said yes, certainly. He would certainly accept their hospitality.

It was a little embarrassing of course. After Pam had given Graham a big, relieved hug. But it passed off alright. Mr Carling said he hoped there were no ill feelings. He intended to keep in touch. And he hoped to have Pam come and stay with him again from time to time. If that was alright. Graham said a somewhat unhappy 'Yes'.

They had the tea. It was time for Mr Carling to go. But maybe he thought Graham should have one more lesson. Not a video this time but real life action.

'Ah... you wouldn't mind if I took the lovely lady into the bedroom? For a few minutes. As we're all friends now.'

It was an effort but Graham managed a stammered, 'Noo... oo. That's OK.'

In the bedroom Mr Carling screwed Pam on the bed.

* * *

And then it was life back to normal. Back to the office for Pam on Monday. Her little enforced adventure was over. Although Mr Carling had said he was going to want to see her again from time to time. But for the moment it was back to normal. Apologising to Mr Forton for being off all last week. She didn't tell him of course, just said she's been ill.

'Maybe married life doesn't agree,' Mr Forton said. 'All that screwing you're getting every night is too much. Maybe we'd better put a ban on it. Mmm?'

Then of course he wanted it himself. In his office, with the door locked. Over the desk. Pam didn't object or argue. In 1995 you didn't argue with the way things were. Pam knew that. And Graham knew it too now. After his lessons.

THE END

Fancy man

Story from Swish Vol.6 No.4.

Fancy man

I didn't really fret about Mum and Dad getting divorced. There had always been rows and they never really got along. No really bad faults on either side. Just one of those things. Anyway, I was seventeen and my sister, Susan, two years older than me, so no 'howling kids' were affected by it. We went on seeing Dad in his other house. Things evened out pretty well.

Up to the first year, anyway. Then Mummy began going out more, for which I didn't blame her and one evening asked, tentatively, if we minded if she brought a friend home. We got the message immediately, without her saying it, that the said friend was male and I thought it rather cute and touching she should ask. Of course, we didn't mind – in fact got worked up with curiosity about him. It wouldn't be fair to stay in all the evening that he was visiting – Susan and I decided – so we got ready to go out and just 'paid our respects' to him for a few minutes when he turned up.

"He's not bad", Susan remarked as we left. – "No, not bad at all", said I. He was forty-five or so – a couple of years older than Mummy – and very much what I call the City gent type, even down to a neat, military-style moustache. Well-spoken and polite – about, but also secretly likes. It doesn't come often nowadays.... but that phrase, entering my mind as it did, was one I was to remember in quite unforeseen circumstances.

Phillip, as he was called, became a regular visitor, not only in the evenings but at weekends, so that we got to know him better – or thought we did. Susan and me, I mean. He had a good range of conversation, though he could get a bit boring when he talked about discoveries being made in quantum physics and astronomy, which I didn't understand, but then he would switch and talk about books and novels and even poetry, and Mum would listen to him fascinated. You could tell she was hooked.

Then one evening he suddenly asked Mummy, "Do the girls wear stockings? Not tights, I hope? Tights are unhealthy and very constricting". I gulped a bit. Susan looked at me, mouth open. – "Why, I'm not sure. It depends....", Mummy began and then looked at me first and asked, "Do you?". – I shrugged. "Depends what I feel like", I said, "– same as Susan", I added for her. He didn't say anything but the next night he opened his briefcase and took out a very flash, small carrier from a posh West End boutique.

"There you are", he said to me and Susan as if we'd waited all our lives for this, "Six pairs of black stockings for you each. No more tights. I don't like you wearing tights". There was a bit of silence, though we dutifully said thanks, and it was obvious that the Dior nylons were the very best. – "We don't always wear black, of course", Susan said a bit apologetically. – "I realise that, Susan, but indoors I shall prefer you to". His voice was a bit sharp as he said it. – "Ah", I said, or some sound to that effect. – "Bloody cheek!", Susan said when we went upstairs and put them on. – "Well... it's not important", I said feebly. I kept mine on to go out in. Delicious, sleek and tight-fitting, they were. I liked them. Susan stayed in.

I got back at about eleven thirty that night and the house was pretty quiet. It occurred to me then that little by little we had all started to go to bed earlier at weekends since Phillip was around. When he was staying over, I mean. – "Well, time for bed", he would say and even Mum would go up meekly. Susan didn't always, though. As I passed her door I could hear a faint sobbing. Oh dear, I thought, there's been a row. I like to keep out of such things until they've cooled down, but I had to go in and see her. She was lying on her bed like I'd never seen her – in her jumper, black stockings, shoes.... and nothing else. Her face and body were turned to the wall and her lovely pale bottom wasn't. It wasn't exactly pale, I mean. Looked more like strawberries and cream with deep pink splotches over it. And she was snivelling – like she was fifteen instead of twenty.

"Hey!", I said quietly and closed the door. Realising it was me, Susan sat up more quickly than I thought she could with an obviously hot bottom like that and said, "He... he... he sp....spanked me!" – "Phillip?", I asked. Silly question. I sat on the side of her bed and the thought went through me – uninvited – that she looked pretty sexy in her black Diors and matching suspender belt with her navel twinkling, not to say her well-bushed pussy. Her skirt was flung behind a small white folding chair. I couldn't see her knicks.

"Wh...wh...what for?", I stammered. – "He st...st...stung me.... oh!", was all the reply I got. I didn't immediately ask her any more. It should really have struck me as a bloody outrage. I should have said something else. Don't know what came over me. I drew her face into my shoulder and made hush-baby noises and stroked her hair. – "T..t...took my p..p..panties off, he did", Susan sobbed. I felt a tingle go through me. – "Did he... did he spank you hard, then?", I asked. She nodded blindly. I didn't feel any actual tears on her cheeks against my shoulder. – "D...D...Daddy never did", she whimpered. – "No", I said vaguely, "but... but what did you DO?"

"I cheeked him – that's what he said. CHEEKED him – at MY age!" – "Oh... well... didn't Mummy try to stop him?" I asked. – "Huh! No, she didn't. Of course, she didn't see it. He was crafty about that. Followed me up to my room and I yelled but he p...p...put his hands up my skirt and just yanked my panties down. Oh honestly, Jane, it was AWFUL – you can't imagine. He put one foot up on my bed and bent me over his knee and...."

"I bet you kicked", I said helpfully. – "Kicked! I yelled, too, but he said if I did he would give it to me harder – and, oh, how his palm blasted in! He kept my skirt up all the time, and then...." – "What?", I asked. I held her tighter. – "Oh, shut up", she said pettishly and pushed away and sat up with her legs coiled under her. "If... if he does it again....', she said, and like many people she never finished the sentence. We'd both had spankings before – not fierce ones or anything – but not with our panties off. – "What... what did he do.... I mean what did he say afterwards?", I asked, all agog.

Susan stretched her legs out against my back and flung her arm over her eyes and wiggled her hips a bit. – "I'm going to sleep", she said sullenly. – "O.K. Well, put your nightie on at least", I said and went out. Struck me that she was playing up a bit. With me, I mean. The way she hadn't answered everything and the way it obviously hadn't stung her the way she tried to make out. When I was undressing and thought about it more, it was almost like she had been boasting about it. Made me think all right, though. I'd have to be careful if things were going to get like this. Phew.... VERY careful. I knew what a large male palm on my 'globe' felt like, but not on my bare bum, thanks.

Cautious is as cautious does, though, and if you try to be too careful you fall into it. First of all, Susan had a row with Mummy the next morning, but it didn't help. "It was only for your good, Susan", she got told vaguely and stamped her foot (yes, really!) and rushed out. I wanted to ask Mummy if I was going to be spanked, but it seemed a daft question. I fell for it three days later, on a Sunday, when we were all together and Phillip suddenly asked me, "You haven't got stockings on, have you?"

I blushed. He wasn't supposed to be able to tell that. Mummy coughed and said nothing. Susan said "Oh!" and walked out of the room. – "Yes, I have, why?", I asked. – "Jane, you are NOT to fib. You have a thin skirt on and I can see no sign of suspender clips", he said and stood up in the living room. Kerrist, I thought, he looks THAT closely? He was right, anyway. – "Now, listen", I said defensively, "I'll wear what I.... NO! You dare! Mummy!"

The way he stepped towards me told me everything. I turned from him and he tried to grab my arm. I was out of the room like a bolting rabbit and through the kitchen into the garden. I didn't think he'd try anything there. Silly me. I'd forgotten about the shed. "No!", I screeched at him over my shoulder, for he came out almost as fast as I had done. – "MUM!", I yelled again, but no help from that quarter and, worse, I saw Susan peeping down onto the garden from her bedroom window. Oh, bloody hell, I wasn't going to let her see! I ran for the shed and tried to get inside and lock it before he reached me. I didn't.

Didn't get there quite in time, I mean. I got it half closed and then he sort of hurled in and slammed the door himself. It was darkish in there, too. – "No, you don't! No, you don't!", I screeched and tried to back up and nearly fell over my father's old sawing horse. – "You make THIS sort of noise, Jane, and you'll get a dozen – you HEAR me?", he demanded and grabbed my wrist. – "No, don't – no, don't", I heard myself pleading and then uttered a more muffled shriek as he spun me round and in the gloom very adroitly and bent me over – yes! – over Dad's sawing horse.

"YEEE-OW!", I screeched. With one well-practised grab of his hand, up came my skirt – baring me to my hips – and with a sense of total disbelief I felt his hand go into the back of my tights and my blue nylon knicks and draw them very decidedly down. – " WHOO-OO!", I gasped, for his foot went into the loop of them then, just below my knees, and by pressing with it he snuggled them to my ankles and gave me such a big smack on my naked cheeks as made my mouth open wide before a yelp came up from my throat. Bloody hell, it burned! I wriggled my hips crazily, tried to get up, but his free hand clamped me down so that I was doubled right over.

"Now, Jane, THIS is discipline, and I mean you to have it. You want twelve like that?" – "NOOO-NOO-NOOOO!", I sobbed, tightening my hot bum and very, very much aware of all he could see. – "Very well, Jane, I will reduce the score to six and I'll count the one you've just had among them. Five only to come – IF you stand up and take your ridiculous tights and knicks right off, then your skirt". – "NO-WOH-WOH! Susan didn't!", I squealed incautiously and heard him laugh. Yes – LAUGH!

"Oh yes, she did, Jane – whatever she might have told you. After the first two she did. Now.... OFF with them, young lady, or else! I mean it! If you really want a full dozen...." – "N...n....no, I don't!", I wailed. I knew he did mean it. Shamefully, as his hand slowly released me, I unbent shakily and, blushing like mad, stripped off to my blouse, keeping my back to him. I felt naked and practically was. I didn't know whether to stand or bend over. – "D...d...don't spank me", I said and hated saying it. It didn't do me any good.

He didn't make me bend. Standing sideways to me he put one hand under my chin and held my face up level. I stared at the dark wall. "A good mark for that, Jane. Your sister wasn't so obedient – but she will be. Now – move your feet apart and stick your bottom out. Come on, now!" – I wanted to blurt "Huh?", but instead, I gulped and obeyed. It was a funny position. I felt rude. – "For a good mark, Jane, you get a light spank only. Remember that always. Will you?".

With his hand tight up under my chin I couldn't really answer. I made a hissing noise through my nose. He took it as consent. In the next second his free hand gave me a sharp quick stinger that made me straighten and bounce forward. "YEEEK!", I gritted, though to tell the real truth it wasn't half so bad as I thought. My cheeks burned, though, and tightened. – "Position again, Jane – as before – stick it well out", he soothed. – "It st...st...stings me", I whined.

"Only a little. You know it doesn't really hurt. Would I hurt you, eh?" SMACK! – "YEEE-OUCH!", I gritted. The way my botty stung already, the second made the flames burn hotter. My cheeks squeezed tighter and my eyes blurred. – "HO-HO-HO! Please!", I sobbed. He was implacable. I know I could have twisted my face away, but I didn't. Something stopped me from doing so. 'Discipline' he calls it now.... HUH! I pushed my botty out more delicately for the next one, but he wasn't having that. – "More, Jane", he ordered me and I blinked and bit my lip and did, having to keep my feet and knees bent inwards a little.

"NA-HAAAAR!", I gasped at the next for it was really hard – a full stinger that sent flames and onrushings of fire right through me. I really did straighten up, and with my chin still firmly held. "OOOH-WOOO-WOO-OOH!", I sobbed and worked my bottom all about to try and shake the heat off. You can't, of course. It's best to draw it in by tightening your flaming cheeks. He gave me a long minute, though, to recover from that one and me softly blubbing all the time. When I finally and cautiously pushed myself out again for the next, he said quietly, "Good girl" and gave me a really light one so that I didn't even jerk in.

In fact, much as I was really burning up that first time, it still felt a funny one, like an URGING smack, I'd call it – almost mischievous. "There's my good girl", he said all amidst my muffled sobs and gulps, "You are going to be good, aren't you?". I closed my eyes. I knew I was going to get a hard one if I didn't say now. As far as I could do so, I gave a little nod. It might help, I thought. How naive could I get! I got a blaster. "NEE-OW-OOOOH!", I squealed and in that moment he spun me round and held me tight against him. I mean tight. I could feel something hard jamming up against my bare tummy through his slacks.

"GOOO-GOOO-GOOOO!", I sobbed. My stockinged legs worked this way and that. My bottom felt truly cherry-red hot. I wanted to plunge it into cold water. I wanted anything but this. "Stings, stings, stings!", I choked. – "Shush, darling, yes, I know", he soothed and stroked the back of my hair. Well.... first he stroked the back of my hair but then his hand wandered down gradually (the other arm ringed tight around my slim waist) and finally cupped the throbbing, glossy cheeks of my bum. That made me wriggle more, but since I could only work my hips I was in a real fluster.

"Take it easy now – take it easy", he murmured. – "I c..c...can't!", I sobbed. I made a feeble attempt to push away with my hands, but I didn't get away. That something of his, hard and long as I could feel it was, started to throb. – "Easy now, easy", he kept saying and kissed my forehead! – "Hey!", I wanted to gasp, but you can't do everything at once. He kept me like that for a whole two or three minutes in the dark shed until the stinging receded and a warm glow took its place. All the time his hand was soothing round and under my bottom like it never ought to have done – but truth to tell I knew I wanted it there. The same big palm that had spanked me was comforting me, and I was to learn gradually about that, too.

"You didn't squeal half as much as Susan", he said. That was supposed to mollify me. Actually it did a bit. – "I s'pect you sp...spanked her harder then", I snivelled. – "No, I didn't – exactly the same way as you", he said, and somehow I knew that was true and that she hadn't gone over his knees at all, the lying little so-and-so! – "You've a lovely tight bottom for it – you know you have?", he asked. I shook my head wildly and hid my face into his shirt. I didn't want to know, and he shouldn't be holding me like this. His forefinger was right under my..... Well, it was. Then I really gave a squeal, for the tip of his finger – right under my hot bottom – brushed suavely across my pussylips.

"D..d...don't", I stammered feebly, but I wanted to giggle instead of cry. My tummy felt all swimmy. – "All right, Jane. Put your panties on again, but NOT those tights. No more tights to be worn ever – you hear me?". He released me then and as he did I pushed my skirt down quickly so that he couldn't see my quim. – "All right", I mumbled, and wondered why I wasn't screaming the place down. But then Susan hadn't been QUITE as outraged as she might have been. Had we really been conquered so easily? I was soon to find out!

In the third person - photo story

Photo story from Janus 90.

In the third person


'THE PEST is here again. Crossing the road right now, Sugar.'

'Don't call me that, Lydia.'

'But you are my sugar-daddy.'

'I'd hoped I was something more.'

'We'll have to see, won't we? I don't know how I'm going to feel – I've never done this before.'

The entryphone buzzed from below. 'Come on up,' said Lydia coldly into the speaker. 'You'll find some clothes on a chair in the hall. You will change into them, and wait there until you're called.'

They heard the lift in the mansion block rumbling upwards. 'My dearest,' he pursued, 'you will feel as intensely erotic and stimulated as I feel just to look at you in that outfit. In this respect I know you better than you know yourself.'

Lydia had slipped off her Mandarin wrap and turned to him. She wore a skimpy bra and panties trimmed with lace; seamed stockings with suspender-belt, glossy shoes with five-inch heels. All in black. This was his fantasy made flesh, and the thought of that already warmed her. Beautiful and erotic as Lydia looked, the long crook-handled cane she was flexing in her hands completed the picture for him.

He watched her slender fingers sensuously stroking the shaft. 'Well, Lydia,' he breathed. 'Now you are ready to put your "pest" firmly in her place, aren't you...?'


Beyond the closed door of the room they were in, Jean entered the apartment and looked wonderingly at the scraps of clothing Lydia had instructed her to change into. Why? A small girl of 18, as plain as her heroine Lydia was lovely, she was not aware that her frequent visits here had become a nuisance. It was simply that she seemed unable to keep away from the tall, auburn-haired beauty with the perfect face and figure and network of adoring manfriends! Jean knew she could never aspire to be like Lydia, but to be with her seemed the next best thing.


Although the instruction perplexed Jean, if it was Lydia's wish then she would do it. Stripping off her day clothes she slowly pulled on the snowy white pants, top and socks. They felt snug and cool against her skin. 'Wait until you're called,' Lydia had said. So Jean waited. And waited. Minutes passed, she began to fidget. Whatever was Lydia doing in there? Apprehension stirred – this had never happened before. For Jean, the worst possible thing would be Lydia's ignoring her. Perhaps she had forgotten she was there. Should she knock?


'Stand up straight, girl! Hands to your sides!' a cultured male voice commanded through the intercom. Jean jumped with fright. There was a man in there! She stood to attention, blushing fiercely. Her heart raced. More minutes passed; Jean began to feel alarmed. Her palms and feet were moist with sweat. Should she dress again and slip away? More minutes ticked away, then more...


'Enter!' came the same deep voice through the speaker. Jean turned and opened the door, shivering and anxious.


'Come here – Jeanie.' This time the voice was Lydia's, with a sneer in it as she used the diminutive name. The girl gasped at the sight of her worshipped friend standing there in scandalous scanties, her expression severe in a manner Jean had never seen before. But what riveted her attention was the long, springy cane Lydia was flexing in her hands.

A cane.


Jean sensed rather than saw the man standing watching behind her. 'Don't dare turn round!' said Lydia. 'As far as you're concerned, only you and I are in this room. Do you understand?'

'But Lydia... And why are you wearing...?'

'Quiet! Do you understand?'

'Y-yes!' Jean swallowed hard. 'Lydia, why am I wearing this? I – I only dropped in for a chat.'

'You've "dropped in for a chat" once too often, my girl. Are you a puppy dog? A duckling that's lost its mother? It's time you were taught a lesson – and I intend to do it!'

'Lydia...' Jean half-turned, apprehensive and confused, towards the man in the shadows.

'Don't turn, I said!' rebuked Lydia. 'How dare you disobey me. Get down!' Her voice was harsh as never before, and she tapped the cane on the girl's shoulder, making her flinch. 'On the floor. Kneel before me!'


More confused than ever, Jean sank to her knees. 'Lower! Prostrate yourself!' Jean found herself responding. Strangely, it seemed somehow beautiful, as she lowered her face to the carpet with haunches in the air, to perform this act of self-abasement before the one she so admired.


'Kiss my feet.' Lydia's voice had become lower, huskier. Jean pressed her lips against the glossy blacknesses, inhaling the tang of leather. She began to kiss the shoes more fervently as entirely new sensations awoke in her; lapped and kissed and sucked as though Lydia's shoes were the face of a lover. The watching eyes behind her were, for the moment, forgotten.


'Turn around.' Lydia's voice had changed again, was slightly hoarse. 'Turn round and show me that part of you I'm about to attend to with this.' Jean felt the cane tap her left buttock, and she scrambled around the floor as bidden. 'Arch your back,' she was instructed. 'Push your wicked little bottom up and out.'


Jean did so, experiencing a warm, novel thrill. She had long since convinced herself that she was dull and plain, that no part of her could possibly arouse the least interest in man or woman. Yet here was Lydia looking at her bottom, of all things, as though it were something special. At least, she was looking at it.


'Stand up and turn to me!' Jean scrambled to her feet and stood humbly before her friend. Lydia's expression was stony as she surveyed her with a cold sneer, the cane in her hand raised admonishingly. 'Hang your head, you shameless pest,' she said, and watched the girl flinch and grow pale. 'You are about to be punished. By me. I shall cane your bottom, and I promise it will be an experience you will never forget.'

Lydia saw how submissively the girl stared down, biting her lip as the words sank in. 'You may well look guilty, my little pest,' Lydia hissed, 'but you thoroughly deserve to be punished, don't you agree?'

Jean was unable to meet her eyes. 'I... yes... I suppose so, Lydia,' she mumbled, 'I know I've been a nuisance...'

She drew the unresisting Jean to her feet and turned her about, then prowled behind her, heady with power. The cane felt lithe and flexible in her grip. She longed to swish it down as he had made her practise earlier, with a cushion as the target.

The sound of the cane flashing down with whop after whop to thump into the cushion, together with the movements of Lydia's body and her squeals of effort as she put her force behind each stroke, had so evidently stimulated him that the exercise itself had become erotic to Lydia too. She had gradually grown more proficient in her aim and swing, and had reached that critical point he spoke of, where the cane seemed literally to become a living extension of her right arm. When that same cane struck Jean's living flesh, how different would the sound be? Lydia had never even guessed at this latent, now urgent, desire within her psyche to dominate another – but he had seen it and induced her to address it.

It will come naturally to you, he had said. Sure enough, she found herself fingering the cane with an exquisite gloating feeling, longing for that quivering, pencil-slim shaft to come alive in her hands for a real purpose.


'Bend forward across the bed... Jeanie. I want your bottom tightly over.'

There was no longer any doubt in the girl's mind what was about to happen. For the first time in her young life she was to experience the possibly unbearable pain of a stick hitting her rump. This practice had long since been banned at the school she had left only two years before; but sometimes, in the midst of fantasy, she had wondered vaguely what it must have been like. Jean found herself leaning steeply over the bed, taking her weight on her hands and presenting what she had always referred to as her 'bum' for the promised punishment. This was, alter all, Lydia, and not some hatchet-faced schoolmarm of a bygone decade. Lydia, about to cane her! Jean's thoughts and emotions were in turmoil.


'Please, Lydia,' she began. 'I'm very tender there... My bottom hurts easily.'

'Quiet, or I'll hit it even harder!'

'But...'


'Push it UP! OUT! Push that arse OUT. Come along, good and tight!' As if frantic to please, or too frightened to do otherwise, Jean made an incurving arch of her back, straining backwards and rising on tiptoes, and Lydia watched with satisfaction how the while pants tautened across the suddenly tempting rumps.


'Ple-e-ease.' Jean turned her head, eyes pleading then widening in alarm as they watched the cane rise then speed down with a shocking hiss, striking her tensed bottom and skidding off. The girl yelped, in surprise rather than pain, for the impact had not really hurt.

Lydia could feel his disapproval. A ripe young bottom at your mercy, and all you can do is tickle it! Preparing for the second shot, Lydia lifted the cane above her shoulder, eyes smouldering, muscles tensing. This time she took careful aim and swung with greater force. The cane struck full across Jean's buttocks with a loud report, and the jarring of the contact shuddered up her arm.


Jean shrieked as a streak of fire burned through the thin fabric of the white pants and deep into her bottom, spreading like a shockwave. It was intolerable. But before the frightful hurt abated, another searing brand blasted across her buttocks, then another, and another as the cane swung back and forth through the air to collide with her tightly-knickered flesh: whick-whick-whopp.

Lydia watched the girl trample her feet and draw deep, gasping breaths. Somehow it wasn't Jean any more, but an eroticised object on which she was wreaking a glorious vengeance. As she continued to swing the cane strongly against the tender globes in the tight white pants, felt and heard the explosive impacts, swung high and down again, driving the stick hard to its target, the sound of it all was bliss – the jolt as each stroke connected, the shrieked response and convulsive shudder, the sense of absolute dominance over the stooped, trembling girl – all thrilled Lydia to the roots of her being.

She was barely aware of his presence now, yet the fact that he was there charged the air with erotic tension. She brought the cane whopping down one more time, drank in the whack, the yelp, the reactive kick of the leg, the groan of near-despair. 'Please, Lydia,' came the pitiful voice. 'N-no more. It hurts so much...'

Lydia realised that she was panting, fell a flush in her cheeks and his eyes watching absorbedly the transformations taking place in her. She was aware, too, that her feelings matched his own: she was becoming phenomenally aroused, though in a higher form than the merely physical. It was as much a transcendence of the spirit as a stirring in the loins. After this extraordinary experience she would do more than grant him her favours: she would demand her own tumultuous satisfactions.

Jean had sunk forward on the bed and was whimpering piteously. 'I'll give you something to sniffle about!' her tormentor snapped. 'Take off your knickers and bare your bottom!'


Moaning, the girl obeyed, squirming across the bed as she wriggled the pants down her legs. With Jean's buttocks now fully exposed, Lydia saw them as an erotic focus that almost made her gasp: two smooth, pale, moony orbs just made to be caned. For a moment she could scarcely breathe, and the hand which held the cane shook. She thought she heard him chuckle, damn him, as she leaned down to tap the cute buttocks and watch them wobble and shudder.


Had Jean been aware of the feelings her supposedly plain, dumpy bum was awakening in Lydia as well as in the watcher, she would have been astounded. Yet she trembled with trepidation that even keener pain would soon be visiting her burningly sore rumps. The cane tapped them tauntingly, then rose high behind her. There was a hiss, a grunt, and a sizzling brand ignited her naked bottom as the cane found its mark!


'Oooooaw-aghhh!' This time the pain was far more intense than at any time during the caning over the knickers that had been provided for her to wear. For Jean, the humiliation of baring her bottom in front of Lydia and receiving corporal punishment from her was quite bad enough, but the dim knowledge that there was a man in the room watching her ordeal was mortifying. Lydia began to cane steadily, making weird little cries in her throat as, again and again, the speeding cane collided with Jean's seething buttocks and leaped away, printing burning tracks across the soft mounds.


Whimpers and shrieks came from the girl as she squirmed beneath the flexible stick. In her eagerness Lydia half-knelt on the bed to better direct the strokes, while Jean watched helplessly over her shoulder as the cane descended. She writhed her hips and clenched every muscle, striving to absorb the blazing hurt; though, had she but known it, Lydia's application was only moderate compared with what it might have been. As the cane continued to rise and fall the air was filled with yelps, grunts and gasps from both females: one in pain and appalled embarrassment, the other in elation; while the rhythmic swish and thwick, hiss and thwack of the rod as Lydia swept it down again and again was a torment for one and a delight for the other.


Lydia had become well aware by now that caning was a skill indeed, and that she was a natural – laying the strokes as though she had been born to it, exulting not so much in the stings she was inflicting as the supreme sense of power which sent her senses soaring to higher levels of awareness and making her, in a way impossible to define, more complete.

For a moment she paused to catch her breath, watching with a dispassion that surprised her as Jean wept into her hands. With taunting gentleness she tapped the cane on the tormented buttocks, enjoying how the pneumatic surfaces flinched, quivered and settled as the girl groaned louder.


For Jean, with her bottom apparently on fire, those two little cane-taps on its burning surface seemed to say that her punishment was over at last. She sniffled into wet hands, thankfully becoming limp as Lydia told her the good news in words as well. And then she heard her mistress being congratulated by that deep male voice.


As Lydia ceased to concentrate on Jean's bare bottom she discovered that her own was tingling as if in sympathetic rapport with the other – and realised that his gaze had now switched to her buttocks and was hungrily caressing them. She felt a physical thrill to think that where his eyes were roaming, his lips and tongue would very soon be doing the same.


Lydia turned away from the softly sobbing girl with a mysterious smile. He had been right. All three in that room had been transformed by what had just taken place, and her relationship with Jean had at last become meaningful for her. She wondered whether the girl would be coming around quite so often in the future, and what would happen when she did.

Lydia turned to him. And smiled again.

Breaking point

Story from Uniform Girls 38.

Breaking point

Of all the penal establishments she could have been sent to, Tracy felt that the bleak brick building was without question the worst. She accepted that she deserved the angry reprisal of the juditiory but she could not reconcile within her own mind that she warranted the awful place to which she was now being delivered. Tracy was gifted by a very curvy anatomy with a facial attractiveness that induced the male members of her immediate circle itch to be with her and she was like a magnet wherever she went. These attributes did nothing for her when she came before the harsh dispensers of justice although the one serious faced judge did think that it was a pity that such an attractive young person should have got herself into such a mess. But it was not the first time, simply because she was a natural rebel and her conduct of behaviour was of such a nature that it would not be tolerated. She mistakenly thought that she would go to one of the open penal establishments and on occasions the laxity of discipline in those places had sometimes made the stay quite enjoyable!!

A lot of freedom was allowed in the open houses despite the detailed "lights out" regime, and this she had found quite easy to take. But she had listened with shock when the older of the judges had somberly told her that lenient measures had failed so the other alternative would be the very extreme alternative and when she had been led from the court room, she had been like a numbed helpless individual. The place to which she had been sent was hardly known except to those who had been detained in the other establishments and when she had been in the open prisons other girls had spoken of "Bleak House" in awed whispers and with an emphasis of dread. Tracy used to think that it was all rumours and that the girls had made the place worse than it was; sometimes the stories that were related were too extraordinary to even be believed; and all the narratives that had been related by the girls whom she had met were stories that had been handed down from person to person until the very mention of "Bleak House" was considered to be a fairy tale and certainly to be taken with a pinch of salt. It seemed nobody was ever sent there, but it was used as a threat to warn off erring young ladies from committing the cardinal sin of earning themselves a place in such a terrible building.

Tracy sat in the small cell room beneath the court house, her face ash white as she recalled the numerous stories that she had heard of the establishment which she was now to be sent. Nobody seemed to know where it was and it did not matter if they did because there were no relations or friends who would be interested. It would be as though she would be swallowed up with no outside communication at all; and her friends being the type that they were would soon forget that she existed so that whatever happened to her would be like an unwritten book... nobody would know, nobody would care and she would be a pawn in the hands of the dreaded principles of the harsh prison.

A stone faced police woman gave her a hot cup of gruesome cocoa which she sipped gratefully.

"Your life is about to undergo a traumatic transission," the uniformed woman told her.

Tracy could not bring herself to respond but just simply sat there staring at the white painted brickwork opposite.

Would they really cane her? Would she really be made to expose herself without being able to defend herself? Would she really have to suffer the dreadful privations and humiliations? Would they really be able to make her scream and still continue to heap numerous stripes of leather beating down onto her soft buttocks? All this was purely hearsay from the mouths of the girls whom she had met at the pleasanter surroundings of the open houses, but although she had been vociferous in her arguments and had sneered in misbelief, she was now very uncertain of herself. She was still in a land far from this place when she heard the bolts of the detention cell being withdrawn. She looked up and saw the guard enter.

"Alright. On your feet. Let's go," the woman snapped.

Now that she had been subjected to the harshness of this place, Tracy was in no mind to start an argument by being sullen. That sort of attitude went out a long time ago. Even in the open houses, cooperation was recognised and therefore severe penal retributions were avoided. She stood up and walked behind the uniformed woman. The vehicle was waiting with a side door open and she stepped into the interior but the fact that she felt the attendant's hand on her bottom as though to help her into the vehicle went without complaining... Tracy was no fool and she decided that there was no premium in making it difficult for herself on the long journey. So when the young blonde attendant deliberately stroked her hand over Tracy's bottom as she stepped up into the van, Tracy remained for the fleeting second letting the woman "enjoy" the feet of her rounded nate through her jeans.

"This can be pleasant or hard," the blonde told her. "You can travel in a secured cubicle or out here in the back with me."

"I'd prefer the back please, Miss," Tracy told her falteringly.

"Right. Be sure to behave yourself. You must not speak unless you are spoken to and you will make no movement until you have permission," the terse instruction was intentionally clear and precise.

The van started to move off and she was pleased that there were no windows which could be used by prying outsiders. Although she could see out, nobody could see into the van because of the manner of the very glazed windows with slitted lines of clear glass.

"You've made a right mess of your life you have," the police woman told her. "Fancy letting yourself get sent to Bleak House," the woman did not mind speaking like this. She had a very attractive young woman with her and she had not been unaware that Tracy had stayed still as she carressed the tight material of her jeans.

"Take a tip from me. When you are in Bleak House, do as you are told. Do not start having thoughts of your own regarding modesty or demure attitudes. Whatever they tell you to do you do it... if you don't they will make you very sorry for any rebellious reaction... and anyway, whatever you might refuse to do in the first place, they will soon have you changing your mind and you will scream to be allowed to do that very act which you might have thought humiliating. Am I getting through to you."

"Yes, Miss," she replied softly.

"They have a fond habit of using a leather strap on a girl and they strap you across your naked rear, and you are not just bending over either... when they decide a girl is to be punished they see that she remains perfectly still over the bench whilst the full measure of the punishment is applied. And they don't go in for small numbers there. There is no such figure below eighteen and you will learn that eighteen strokes of the crop is a small number indeed. I have seen girls come out from that place as broken women... you behave yourself, do as you are told... exactly as you are told and you will avoid the crop... the Warder there is a young man but he will not have you punished physically if you prove your willingness to repay the debt to society... understand?"

"Yes, miss. I think so," Tracy felt the shiver of horror simmer through her.

"Now, we have a long trip ahead so you may as well make yourself as comfortable as possible," the guard told her.

It was the first act or word of kindness that Tracy had received since she had been in custody and she felt that there was a rapport with this blonde young police woman.

"Loosen your clothing," the guard told her, "no point in being closely buttoned."

The interior of the van was certainly warm and Tracy blinked back her initial shock reaction. She was not fooled one little bit by the pleasant nature of her guard and hoping that whatever she did now would hold her in good stead at Bleak House, she slowly undid the buttons of her blouse under the intently interesting gaze of the watching blond.

"That's the way my beauty, take it off," she said with a quiet firmness.

Sitting in just a half cup bra, Tracy blushed furiously as she got the picture of the intentions of her keeper. The smooth white shoulders and her arms were exposed just as the top halves of her bosom. The creamy skin balls of her breasts were attractively and provocatively revealed.

"Why not take your brassier off as well," the guard suggested firmly.

Trying hard not to make any protesting response, Tracy gave the woman a cursury glance and then removed the brassiere. The full uptilted aureoles showed perfectly formed and smooth with the pink nipples protruding full and cherry tipped.

"Now your jeans and panties; let me have a good look at you," the guard was delighted that she was going to enjoy the naked portrayal of this delicious lovely.

Helplessly, Tracy smoothered the sob of humiliation as she slowly discarded the remainder of her clothing and felt foolish as she sat there completely undressed under the bright stare of the police guard. She was soon laying the length of the long bench seat, but beneath her tummy the police woman's knees and this caused her smoothly rounded and shapely bottom to thrust upwards. She bit into her fist as she felt the hands stroking over the round orbs and even up the insides of her thighs as she was forcefully keeping them apart to allow the guard to have the freedom of her body.

"Yes, a very delightful bottom... and legs... and I like this part too," the blond told her as she played gently with the soft crevice of Tracy's quim.

The luckless girl, bit harder onto her balled fist and felt the tremors of shame give way to tingling sensations of pleasure as her pussy flesh was carressed and played with... This was not very fair, she argued with herself; how could she expect to stay over the other woman's lap and have her naked body played with like this. The whole of her bottom had been teased mercilessly and those fingers had stroked and prodded her shamefully, and now she was laying with her legs slack so that her very sexual core could be fondled by the Sapphic woman guard. It did not help when she was told to turn over and now her torso was bowed backwards and the soft furry thatch of her pubes were being digitally titivated into an even higher state of excitement by the blond who held sway over Tracy's comfort for the next three hours.

When they pulled up to the castle type establishment, Tracy was dressed again, but her face still bore the blushes of her experience in the back of the van. For the first time she had been made to kneel before the parted thighs of another woman and her mouth had been directed how to bring full pleasure to a woman who she did not exactly hate, but she most certainly despised her. It had been a nasty thing to make her do and she had not been allowed to reach anything like a pinnacle of sex herself.

She waited whilst the guard disappeared into the inner area of the grim looking building and the blond had told her that she would try to put in a good word on her behalf. She desperately hoped so. When the guard appeared again at long last, she spoke in a low voice to the reception clerk who was the most granite faced thing Tracy had ever seen. They were selected by their austere looks rather than their ability to do the job, and of that Tracy was very sure. She saw the receptionist nod, and hoped that the guard was not telling her what had taken place in the van, and then the white coated woman stood up and came to the counter at which Tracy waited.

"Alright. Bath first. Administration afterwards," she said in a flat toned voice.

"Remember what I said," the blonde gave her a half smile of encouragement and then walked out to the mess where she was to eat before making the rotten journey back. Tracy had been a lovely companion and she was going to miss her dreadfully. They did not come like that every day and usually the type of girl she had to transport was hard faced and a dyed-in-the-wool tearaway.

When she finished bathing, Tracy discovered that she was to wear a regulation uniform. A crisp white blouse that was one size too small so that her full breasted bosom was thrust fully and exagerately against the cloth, a pair of very tight fitting briefs that exposed more of her than they covered by the cut of the panty legs, but they clung tightly to her body and the legs themselves swept up from the gusset so that a good three quarters of her bottom thrust out below the garment itself, and then the black skirt which came well up her legs so that the crutch of her body was almost uncovered. Her feet were placed in impossibly high heeled sandals with a strap across the foot to keep them on and then she was brushing out her shoulder length fair hair to study herself in the polished mirror to see the reaction of this new mode of life on her person. Her face was slightly pale, but when she heard the receptionist returning she did not understand why but she blushed and this gave her face a better hue.

"Come along, Newman; you have to see the warder and he does not like being kept waiting."

There still had been no administration work, but they had all the time in the world to register. The whole place reaked of cleanliness and everything was either white or polished. The smell of the antiseptic soap invaded the nostrils but it was the deathly hush that she found most depressing. Her heels clicked as she tried to keep up with the receptionist and then they were through two doors and into a carpeted passage. The atmosphere changed immediately. It was as she had stepped into another world. The walls were panelled and had paintings and there was a highly polished door immediately in front of them.

"Wait here," she was told tersely, and then the woman knocked on the door, waited for a few moments before going into the room the other side.

Tracy could feel her heart beating hard and furiously and she was still feeling the shame at being attired like this. She looked down at the full length of her legs as they thrust down from beneath her skirt... skirt? It was more like a wide belt. She could feel the air round her legs and then she saw how her soft breasts thrust forward as though fighting to be free of the confining blouse. Three buttons prevented the material from gaping open but those three buttons held her breasts as prisoners inside the white blouse. The door opened again and she was taken by the arm into the carpeted area of the Warder.

She had been warned that he was a young man but his very young appearance certainly surprised her. He certainly was nowhere near twenty five yet but he was a tall, well built man who carried an austere yet good looking face. "Newman," he said as he looked down at the papers that had accompanied her. She inwardly squirmed when she heard his voice. He gently smoked a cigarette and read her Crime Dossier and all the biographic details. No relations. Nobody who would be interested in her. Interesting, he thought because like any other body who had been in contact with Tracy, he decided there and then that she was a natural beauty and he liked the shape of her legs and the full thrusting bosom on her chest.

"In this establishment, we have only one code of practise and that is obedience," he started to tell her as though warning her from the outset that she was in no position to argue, protest or appeal. "You will question nothing that you are told to do. Nothing. Obedience is the only reaction I and the others require of you; the reason that you are told to do something does not and probably will not be explained to you; only the fact that it pleases whoever is in charge of you wishes you to do something is sufficient excuse for you to be responsive in such a manner that you will obediently react. We have a system of corporal punishment here and that punishment is always, always without exception applied to your bottom," he emphasised. "When punishment is meted out here, you will be completely undressed and you be laid on a bench and secured so that the area to be caned is uppermost and properly situated for the reception of that cane. Once the number of strokes has been decided then the full number will be given... there will be no deviation whatsoever, and the reason I am telling you this from the outset is because I want you to know that you will have no excuse in the future to say that you were not warned."

He watched the discomfort of her mind registering on her body and liked the way her face blushed furiously at the helplessness of her present surroundings.

"You are here for three years and doubtless you will earn yourself many thrashings... but I promise you faithfully that when you leave my establishment you will be the best trained young lady the society wish to have among it," he stubbed the cigarette out.

Tracy felt the shock waves of hopelessness throb through her and an inward shudder filled her with dread. The very idea of being stripped and stretched on a board was the least appealing thing she could envisage, and she was terrified of the power of this young man.

"Now let me have a look at you," he said and looked at her expectantly.

"Sir?" she said non-plussed and saw the irritation cross his face. Oh Lord, let me understand his ambiguous instructions she prayed.

"Let me have a look at you," he repeated testily.

She choked back her natural reluctance when the penny dropped and then with trembling fingers she undid her blouse. She hoped that she was doing the right thing and because he did not stop her, she continued. She still felt the defencelessness as she peeled the blouse from her shoulders and stood there with her naked breasts attractively thrusting forward... the nipples immediately became full when they felt the warm air of his office fanning round them. He nodded appreciatively and then watched as she undid her skirt with a coquettish glance towards him. She was pleased that she had listened to the guard now when she was being transported here. She was soon in her panties such as they were and then stifling her natural reluctance to do this, she pushed them down her lovely legs. Tracy stood naked and fully shamed before the interested Warder. He told her to stand with her hands behind her back and to pull back stiffly on her shoulders. When she had enhanced the forward thrust of her titties by the attentive posture, she was still busy trying to prevent the tears of angry frustration that threatened to spill down her face. This was truly terrible having to stand like this with the whole of her body nakedly portrayed before this young man. Her nerves stiffened slightly when he stood up after keeping her like that for several minutes and then he was standing immediately before her inwardly quaking body.

"I rather think that you might lighten your sentence time here," he told her quietly and there was a wealth of meaning in his statement. "My next instruction to you is to stand still... absolutely still," he told her.

She blinked back her reluctance when she felt his smooth palms stroking up her waist... her teeth nibbled the inside of her lower lip because even before his hands got to her breasts the nipples had responded in an anticipation of being played with. He cupped her soft bosom in his hands and squeezed them to enhance their firmness... his thumbs stroked over her sex gorged nipples and she had to prevent herself from mewing in shocked response.

"Stand still," he warned her and then she felt his finger tips stroking her fair pubic hair...

"Very good... very good," he quietly complimented her when he thrust his hand between her legs to feel her soft labia mouth. "Are you prepared to be obedient woman... very, very obedient?" he asked her firmly but gently.

"Aaaah... yesss... yes, sir," she moaned helplessly as she felt his fingers firmly stroking easily over her sex.

It was impossible for her to remain so passively acceptable; he was expert at feeling pussies and soon he had her in a highly sexual state... she could not prevent herself from pushing pelvis forward and he smiled when he felt her body responding to his carressing hand... she was disappointed when he stopped!!

"Now turn round," he instructed and on weak legs, Tracy presented her firm round buttocks to him. She felt him fondling the cheeks of her bottom and tried to remain slack so that she caused him no offence.

"Bend over and reach for your toes," he said smoothly.

Tracy felt another worrying niggle ripple along her nerves as she obeyed the very demanding command and then only her shame was uppermost as she remained bending over letting him fondle the bareness of her backside... even when he stopped his very searching carresses, she had to remain bending over. She heard him changing the furniture and this puzzled her. "Now I want you on your knees on that chair," he directed her.

She saw how he had placed a wide armed chair in front of his desk... her legs could hardly carry her as she stepped towards it. When he gave her the explicit order to kneel on the arms themselves, she had to stretch her legs wide apart so that they could rest on the arms of the chair itself. Then another crushing blow came when he directed her to bend over and get her breasts down onto the desk with her arms stretching towards the opposite edge... the effect on her shapely bottom was one of pure thrilling reaction. Her bottom became most pronouncedly thrusting and the contours perfectly rounded... her shame was at its lowest point and she knew that only the fear of the threatened whipping on the punishment bench which he had described to her made her so perfectly submissive... but pure humiliation was now filling her body and mind as she visualised the picture of subjection she was being forced to present to him... the slight upthrust of her nates with her thighs so widely parted could only reveal to him the full exposure of her soft lipped sex... and he was most certainly studying this now as he stood behind her enjoying the view that her open body was showing off to him... he decided there and then that this girl would have to stay in close proximity to his office... he did not want to butchy warderesses getting their hands on her... nor the inmates... they eat her up in a very short space of time... she was by far the best thing he had ever encountered since coming to this rotten hell-hole.

"Newman," he broke the silence, "I am going to cane you simply because it will give me pleasure to do so... I intend twelve strokes for now... you can either take it from me or have twenty four strokes of the leather strap from the guards... they will of course assemble the block which you will be housed and then give you the twenty four whilst you are strapped down... I am prepared to give you the choice... twelve of the cane from me and whilst you are here, or twenty four of the strap whilst you are secured to the bench in front of the inmates of that block."

Choice? She nearly burst out crying. She had been obedient. She had suffered every form of indignity to please him and now, just because it gave him pleasure she was to be caned across her bare bottom for no reason whatsoever... it was the cruel injustice of it all that she could not take...

"Well?" he demanded her answer...

"I... oh please, sir... please..." she cried out... then she realised that she was falling into a trap... she wanted to plead with him not to make her do this terrible thing, but realised that there would be no choice if she faltered in her reply...

"I... I would rather you caned me now," she said brokenly in full surrender.

"Excellent... then let us begin," he told her happily.

Tracy felt the thin wood scraping across her backside and she pulled the two cheeks together in a natural response... then the cane lifted away so that the next time she felt it was after it had swished through the air and landed with a fierce stroking line of pain on both cheeks of her bottom... she bucked but did not cry out... the sense of angry pain throbbed mercilessly across her buttocks and then the second stroke came down with equal vigour and intent... it hurt, Lord but it hurt and she was forced to clench and unclench her nates as they responded to the intruding pain waves that fiercely burned them... she was stoically receptive and did not actually cry out until the seventh hard stroke but that stroke striped her very low along the crease of her thighs where they joined the two wriggling moons of her bottom... it was a very tender spot and her voice shrieked out as the cane whipped down harshly across the lower cheeks...

"AAAGH... OW... OW... OW... PLEASE... AAAGHEEE" her shrill toned voice screamed. But the eight and ninth stroke came down and by now her bottom was thrusting about in a furious tempo of the macabre dance of the pain now building up on the cheeks of her arse. He kept her bending though and watched with a certain pleasure how the stripes across her bottom moved like waves as she swayed her hips through the air... her centre crease responded in movement too as she humped first one nate and then the other... all modesty was by now gone and only the awful searing lines of heated pain occupied her thoughts... her hands were white from where they gripped the far edge as though they had become glued to the desk itself... her breasts were flattened hard on the smooth desk top and she was whimpering as she felt the hot anger of the excruciating agony building up in both orbs... and then she was wincing yet again as she felt his fingers tracing over the very lines that had been made by the cruel cane... he even insisted that she thrust her bum all the way back so that there was nothing but the nadia of her shame to cope with... and all that he saw he made her aware that she was showing with his impersonal carresses... it was when he dipped his fingers to her exposed dampness that Tracy received a very distinct shock because she was so heated there and the thrill that shot through her body was like nothing she had ever experienced before... it was a strangely delicious quality thrill and despite her reluctance, she found herself fully thrusting her bottom right back to receive his finger tips stroking the full thrusting lips of her sex... she knew then that the sex act was the only thing that she would encounter and when he pushed into her body she only gasped and then choked out her strangely elated ecstasy... confusion and bewilderment gave way to the full thrills of sex and she did not care what he did after that... it was sweet and fully erotic... her mind capitulated fully and she accepted the fullest sensation of sex that she had ever known....

"Newman will be employed in my office for her term of imprisonment," he told the receptionist and she will be quartered in this block away from the guttersnipe rubbish of the other prisoners," and Tracy, now seated awkwardly in the armchair which she had been kneeling smiled at the look of surprise that crossed the receptionist's face... "Up your's" she thought and sighed contentedly.