Moments in C.P. History. Numbers VII-IX

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

"You're gonna hate me, readers, but as there aren't that many left I'm going to do just do one per post from here on in, but I'll add a bit more detail to each" (Alex put the phrase in his blog, before he began to post the numbers from 7 to 14 of this series. He meant that some texts, which he will post in his blog, will differ from those texts, which were published in Februs. I'm in the future will always warn readers, if some text is taken from Alex's blog and differs from the original text from the magazine)

Number 7. The Boston Quakers (This is the text from Alex's blog, edited by Alex in 2008)

From the very beginning of the migration of religious dissidents from England to the New World, Puritans, mainly Calvinists, had built and developed the city of Boston as a tribute to God's Kingdom on earth, a shining example of strict theology, subservience to church elders and to elected magistrates. They perceived true faith to be represented through strong personal discipline and obedience. Then, in 1656, the first Quakers began to arrive in Massachusetts, many missionaries finding their way to Boston.

Initially there were no laws within Boston preventing Quakers from worshiping as they saw fit or spreading their version of the faith. However, it soon became clear to the Calvinists just what a frightening threat to the established order the Quakers presented with their ideology of 'inner light', independent convictions and individual conscience. All this 'anarchy' was complete anathema to the strict Puritan ethic and very soon the leaders of the community resolved to rid the state of Quakers by any means possible. The first 'shot across the bows' was fired when a ship called The Swallow arrived in Boston harbour in July 1656, carrying two devout Quaker missionaries named Mary Fisher and Anne Austin. They were immediately arrested when they set foot on shore and all their belongings confiscated. Both women were stripped naked in the presence of six male magistrates and humiliatingly searched for evidence of witchcraft. None was found and the two women were sent back to England, but only after all their Quaker tracts had been burned in the market place.

Laws were hastily brought in tightening the screw on Quakers and making it illegal to ship them into Boston. The laws included a whipping sentence for all Quakers who entered the city and heavy fines on any ships captain who transported them. All this did was encouraged more brave Quakers to flood into the city to advance their faith and to express their outrage. In 1659, three Quakers travelled from Rhode Island to Massachusetts to protest against the persecution of their faith. The two men were arrested and hanged and the woman, Mary Dyer, escaped death and was returned to Rhode Island. This brave, or foolhardy (take your pick), woman returned a year later saying it was God's will that she be sent to Boston and this time she too was hanged.

One incident above all others changed the climate for the Quakers because it shamed and embarrassed the local populace and forced are think of some attitudes. This was the arrival in 1662 of three young English Quaker women to the township of Dover, near Boston. They were Ann Coleman, Mary Tompkins and Alice Ambrose. They made a general nuisance of themselves preaching against the established faith and restrictions on individual conscience. Eventually an influential church elder named (yes honestly!) Hatevil Nutter organised a petition to have the women arrested. On receipt of the petition, Richard Waldron, the Crown magistrate issued an order to the constables of each of eleven towns within the Boston area that the three young women should be tied to a cart tail, stripped to the waist, and given ten stripes apiece with a horse whip on their naked backs in each of the eleven towns.

This was a hideous ruling, a total of 110 stripes each, in addition to the forced march tied half naked to the cart tail to each of the towns, a journey of more than 80 miles in bitterly cold winter weather.

On a freezing cold day, in Dover, the three young women were stripped to the waist, tied to the cart tail and severely whipped while the local populace stood and laughed. They were then towed to Hampton, the second of the towns, and delivered to the constable. Early the next day, the cart was set up in the market place and the three women were again ordered to strip to the waist. Two of them obeyed, but Anne Coleman bravely refused. As a result she was stripped completely naked by the constable, displayed to the crowd and then forced to suffer her whipping naked before being allowed to dress her lower half again. Then the three women were towed to Salisbury where the appalling punishment was delivered for a third time.

In Salisbury however, providence came to their aid. A local doctor who was also a magistrate, one William Barefoot, rather bravely overturned the Crown order and declared the punishment to be complete. He personally dressed the wounds of the three women and returned them personally to the state of Maine and safety just across the river. Had the full sentence been administered there is every possibility that the women might have died. As it was, the public humiliation vented on these poor women gave some Boston worthies some uncomfortable food for thought, and pressure to ease up on Quaker persecution began to grow.

Eventually in 1663, these three brave young women returned to Dover and established a Quaker church. By the year 1670, a third of the citizens of Dover, Massachusetts were Quakers, so the sacrifice made by these young women and their predecessors did at last bear fruit.

Number 8. Catherine de Medici (Original text from Februs 39)

Catherine de Medici was born in 1519 in Auvergne and was related via her maternal grandmother to the royal house of France. She was orphaned when only a baby but her fortunes appeared to have changed when, still only thirteen years old, she was given in marriage to Henry, the second son of King Francis I of France. Much political intrigue had surrounded this match because Pope Clement VII was Catherine's uncle and the King had hoped, by this marriage, to gain much influence in papal circles. However, when the Pope died the year following the wedding, all Francis' scheming with regard to marrying off his son came to naught, thus Catherine became 'disposable' and was consigned to obscurity for ten years even after Henry became King. The humiliation she suffered was intense, having to pander to the whims of her husband's beautiful mistress, Diane of Poitiers, merely to retain some degree of respect and authority. It is said that this experience coloured much of her attitude in later life.

She became very powerful once Henry died in 1559 and her son Francis II took the throne. He was the husband of Mary Stuart and worshipped his mother, allowing her great political influence in the affairs of state which she grasped eagerly, being a shrewd political operator. Her second 'reign' began in 1560 when her son Francis died. As her second son, Charles IX, was only ten years old, Catherine became regent and virtually sovereign. She displayed great political skill and diplomacy in her dealings with Protestant England, under Elizabeth I, Catholic Spain under Phillip II (who was her son in law), and the Huguenots within her own borders who were demanding a state within a state. Catherine persisted in her policy of moving back and forth between the Huguenot, English Protestant and Catholic positions refusing to ally herself with one or the other. When Charles IX attained his majority, he told his mother she should have even more power, but the fragile alliances were falling apart. Catherine was frightened that the young king, inclined to the Huguenot cause, would create problems with Spain and she gave the order for the murder of one of the leading Huguenot statesmen in order to deflect her son from such a course.

Tragically, Charles IX died aged only 25 in 1574 and her third son, Henry Duke of Anjou became King of France. He was a much more independent man than his two brothers and the influence of Catherine fell very rapidly It was at this time that Catherine's flirtation with the sect of the flagellants became a matter of public record and one can surmise that a powerful woman suddenly deprived of influence might need some alternative source of spiritual guidance and direction. To the consternation of many, including her son, she found it with the Black Brotherhood, a flagellant sect which, in late 1574, marched through Avignon with Catherine at its head.

Her power slipping away, Catherine's private behaviour began to reflect her newly found public obsession. Dark stories began to circulate around the Palace that Catherine had begun to physically chastise her errant female staff and that one lady's maid, who had apparently been caught trying on a dress belonging to the now Queen Mother was whipped with birch rods until her bottom bled copiously. This became a regular pattern of behaviour during the latter part of her life and there were few maidservants who survived a week without severe stripes across their buttocks. The least blemish in behaviour by any of her maidservants, a soiled bedsheet, dust in the corners, breakfast brought late, all punished by the poor girl stripping naked for a sound dose of the rod before being allowed tearfully and painfully to resume her duties.

Catherine began to preach the gospel of flagellation and corporal punishment both as an instrument of restored religious values and as a necessary domestic correction. She attempted to persuade her son to restore the flagellant sect to a position of influence within the country but Henry was outraged and would have none of it. So she compensated by practising on her staff at every given opportunity.

Perhaps the most notorious of Catherine's excesses followed a violent outburst of anger when she overheard four of her ladies in waiting making fun of her irritability and increasingly eccentric behaviour. These were not common serving maids but themselves ladies of the nobility for whom serving the Queen Mother was a stepping stone to finding a husband of some wealth and influence. What followed therefore must have been as humiliating an experience as it was possible to bear. Catherine hosted a dinner party for a number of influential members of the nobility during which the four young ladies in waiting were summoned into the room. To the surprise, and in most cases, severe embarrassment of the mainly male guests the unfortunate ladies in waiting were naked from the waist down and made to stand in front of the guests while Catherine delivered a public condemnation of their behaviour. Then, in front of the assembled gathering, the four young women were bent over a table and birched personally by Catherine until their screams rang round the Hall. Such was the disgust felt by many of the onlookers that Henry III felt obliged to warn his mother that no such behavior on her part would he ever tolerated again, and it seems she heeded his warning.

Meanwhile, Henry III had fallen into bad company and allowed his reign to fall into disrepute. He had no children and Catherine, now growing old and bitter, saw her fourth child Francis of Valois die in 1584 leaving the future of France to Henry of Bourbon, a Protestant. All that Catherine had worked for was falling apart before her eyes, yet she was still politically astute enough to try to save Henry III from his own bad judgements. Still desperate to keep traditional alliances intact, Catherine was in despair when she found out that Henry had murdered his arch rival the Duke of Guise. Old, bitter and totally disillusioned, Catherine died on 5th January 1589, only 13 days after hearing this news.

Catherine de Medici was a fascinating mixture of wife, mother, peacemaker, diplomat, tyrant and sadist. Ostensibly clever, historians have judged that far from securing the future of France, her devious and unscrupulous alliances which may have looked shrewd at the time actually sowed the seeds of long term instability and distrust in France which took many years to overcome.

Number 9. Father Cornelius Adriason (This is the text from Alex's blog, edited by Alex in 2008)

Cornelius Adriason was born in Brussels in 1518, effectively an only child, though his mother had given birth to a still-born infant earlier. He was brought up in a well-to-do, caring and religiously devout family whose most earnest wish was to see their son pass his theological examinations and enter the priesthood, which he succeeded in doing after hard work and application, not being the most naturally gifted of students.

He spent some time teaching in a church school and was, by all accounts, industrious rather than inspirational and it was not long before he realised his calling lay in more internal Church work. He applied through his diocese for an assignment to a monastic order and was duly appointed to a monastery in Brussels teaching theology where his plodding manner was not so much of a handicap.

Cornelius appears to have been a success in this role which he undertook for five years when, at the age of 30 he was appointed as spiritual mentor to the Convent of the Little Sisters in Bruges in 1548. This was a marked step up the ladder for Cornelius for, in such a convent where he was the only male authority figure, his word was law, his standing in the convent hierarchy above even that of the Mother Superior. By understood convention, however, the spiritual mentor did not interfere with the running of the convent in any way but had overall responsibility for the spiritual well-being of the nuns within its walls.

For the first six months of his tenure, he appears to have applied himself to the role with legitimate and wholesome vigour, earning much respect from the nuns and strengthening his individual position. Sometime within that first year, Cornelius, who had always been a solitary man with no experience of women, underwent an experience which was to change his life. On two separate occasions and concerning two different girls, Cornelius was approached by the Mother Superior with very serious concerns about the behaviour of a young nun. Cornelius, along with the Mother Superior, counselled the errant girl on each occasion and, prompted by the Mother Superior's insistence that suitable punishment should follow, it was agreed that Cornelius would flagellate the offender in public view of the entire convent. As was the custom, the girl was stripped to the waist and a scourge applied to her naked back.

Although by Cornelius' own account the punishments were not overly severe, the humiliation of a half-naked girl displayed to all and the administration of the whip appears to have fired desires in the priest which were to lead to outrageous excesses.

Adjacent to the convent was a girls' school which served the daughters of the wealthy merchants of Bruges and which functioned as a finishing school for older female pupils, virtually young women, who would become distinguished ladies in the society of the time. The school was proud of both its academic record and its commitment to teaching the Catholic faith, visits both to church on Sundays and to regular confessional at the adjacent convent being mandatory for all the girls. The pupils were indoctrinated with the power of the church and an awed respect for their spiritual confessor who they would visit, in the convent, to receive a blessing any any appropriate penance. Cornelius soon realised, by the very nature of his position, how much power he had over these girls and he soon determined to take advantage of it.

He was very careful in the way he devised his scheme, not rushing his fences or allowing himself to fall prey to carnal temptation which would have ruined the plan. Instead he counseled all the girls over a period of time, chose the ones he considered to be the most desirable and vulnerable, then proceeded to work on their innate sense of guilt. In modern legal parlance, Cornelius was undoubtedly guilty of 'grooming'. Soon he managed to persuade most of the girls he had targeted that mere penances of prayer and drudgery were not achieving the desired results and that more painful remedies were necessary. These poor impressionable girls, many very upset by what they now perceived to be their dreadful failings, were induced to virtually beg for corporal punishment to expiate their sins.

Cornelius was so cunning that he even demanded that they be certain that a whipping was what they needed then, on receiving affirmation, would accompany the girl to her home. There he would confront the distressed parents, the poor girl would break down and admit all her sins, and Cornelius would obtain written consent from the parents to administer discipline in any way he chose.

The trap having been laid and the bait taken, Cornelius was free to do as he wished. The errant girls were taken to his home which adjoined the convent, each girl having to report to him on a weekly basis. He arranged his schedule in such a way that he had 'wicked girls' to punish every day of the week. When the girl, nervous and ashamed, was ushered into Cornelius' home she was ordered to strip completely. Too frightened and respectful of the priest to refuse, she would do his bidding immediately. The girl would then be ordered to bend over a stool whereupon Cornelius would administer a variable number of strokes, either with a birch or a whip, to the girl's naked bottom. After the punishment, the girl would have to display her stripes for some time before being allowed to dress and return home.

Unbelievably, this practice continued, unabated for ten years during which time Cornelius later admitted, at his ecclesiastical enquiry, to having whipped or birched over 500 young women, some on multiple occasions. How long he would have continued to enjoy his abuse of power is anybody's guess but eventually, in 1558, the sexual desire which inevitably accompanied the whippings finally proved his undoing, but even then his unmasking was through accidental discovery, and not as the result of a victim's complaint.

It transpired that one student, who I believe to have been named Marie-Ann Leveque (although accounts differ), a niece of the Mayor of Bruges, was one of the penitents whose parents had agreed to regular disciplinary visits and who were quite happy in the knowledge that their daughter was receiving corporal correction at the hands of the priest. After all it WAS for her own good... Marie-Ann had admitted so herself. However one morning, the girl's mother woke her sleeping daughter, who had returned from a disciplinary visit to the priest the previous evening unusually tearful and distressed, and pulled back the sheet.

She was somewhat shocked by the number and intensity of red weals on her daughter's bottom but even more concerned by what were obviously spots of blood on the sheet. There being no obvious signs of broken skin as a result of the punishment, the girl was questioned by her angry mother and, under intense interrogation, Marie-Ann broke down. She said that when the punishment was over, the priest had held her tightly while she remained bending over then she felt something enter her 'shameful place'. A doctor was called who confirmed anal penetration and a shocked Leveque family began proceedings against the priest.

At first a wall of silence was thrown around the complaints by the Church but eventually, after great persistence by the girl's family and their influential civic contacts, an ecclesiastical enquiry was opened into the conduct of Father Cornelius Hadrian.

Amazingly, the priest did little to defend himself, virtually admitting every charge that was thrown at him, possibly because of guarantees obtained in advance to avoid embarrassing the Catholic Church with a protracted ecclesiastical 'trial'. He was dismissed from his post as mentor to the convent but on full pension and no criminal charges were ever brought against him.

It is assumed that the embarrassed parents, shocked at their own gullibility, had no wish to see their naivety exposed in open court thus Cornelius virtually escaped scot-free, happy in the knowledge, one assumes, that it was great while it lasted!

A School-Leaving Present

Story from Janus 37.

A School-Leaving Present
by Simon Banks

The beautiful grounds of St Millicent's School for Girls were basking in the lovely cloudless June morning, but for James Mackie, Deputy Head, the splendid grounds, the beautiful morning, meant nothing. The dour Scot, fiftyish, tall and thin, bore a typically grim expression on his angular rimless-spectacled face. It was now halfway through the last week of Summer Term. So in just a couple of days another batch of what Mr Mackie regarded as his natural prey – the Sixth Form girls – would be leaving and would be forever beyond his gasp. Or more specifically beyond the reach of his cane. The thought made Mr Mackie grind his teeth.

Mr James Mackie could rightly be regarded as a man with a chip on his shoulder. He had never been able to forget his own background – a poor Tayside family and meagre State education – and bitterly contrasted this with that of the St Millicent's girls, almost all of them coming from well-off middle-class homes. He blamed his own hard upbringing on what he saw as the rich and grasping English. And in consequence derived his greatest satisfaction from caning their daughters' bare bottoms, at times with a cold fury.

Today he had made a tour of the grounds but typically not to admire them. Rather he had been on the lookout for any girls who might be caught breaking some School rule (trespassing into areas forbidden to them, absent without excuse from class, leaving litter, etc, etc) and whom in consequence he could take to the Correction Room for a salutary caning.

But James Mackie had unfortunately found no girls in any of these categories and he was therefore in a worse mood than usual as he re-entered the main School building. The warm day might reasonably have been expected to yield transgressors of some sort but it had not, or if there were any he had failed to detect them. Tight-lipped, angry in particular at the latter possibility, he made for his room.

And as he turned the corner from the Entrance Hall he walked straight into three Sixth Formers, chattering away and quite oblivious of where they were going. All three were in non-uniform summer dresses which the Head permitted School-leavers to wear in their last week of Term. Three School-leavers! Well, after drawing a complete blank in a wearying trek around the grounds this was a sudden and startling change of fortune. He was quite taken aback for a moment – but quickly recovered his poise.

'You girls... what is the meaning of this? Slouching along in that slovenly manner and knocking into members of staff – like common shop girls or worse. You will all, of course, be punished.'

Oh yes: all three would definitely feel the touch of his cane on bare succulent hindquarters. But one of the three, by an amazing stroke of luck, just happened to be the girl Mr Mackie most fancied in the whole School. Most fancied caning, that is. Julie Gilbert: she would definitely be his first treat. The opportunity couldn't wait; he felt so urgent about it.

'You two girls, I shall deal with you later. You may go now and I shall send for you when ready.' The two girls he indicated went off, silent, cowed. At least their punishment was not immediate.

'Miss Gilbert, you will come with me. Now!'

Julie Gilbert, eighteen-and-a-half, was indeed a choice victim for Mr Mackie: pretty, of course, with long blonde hair, and tall and slender but at the same time shapely with firm high breasts and rounded hips. The pretty face now with a look of utter dismay. With only days to go to the end of her school career, out of the blue this had to happen! The worst fate possible at St Millicent's – falling foul of Mr Mackie, the dreaded Deputy Head.

Like the other two girls Julie had the next period free and they had been going to sit outside in the sun until lunch-time. Now instead of that pleasant prospect she was being hurried along the corridor by the most feared man in the School to a destination she knew only too well – the Correction Room.

The Correction Room, as its name implied, was where girls were routinely taken for correction, ie where they were caned or strapped. There were exceptions: the Head mostly caned in his study and other masters did occasionally simply keep a girl behind after class to take her knickers down and administer a spanking or caning on the spot. But generally speaking the Correction Room was where such treatments took place.

It was a plain functional room; windowless and lit by a single overhead light and containing only a chair, a desk, and a cupboard. Quite small, but big enough for its purpose: that is, allowing sufficient room for a cane or strap to be swung over a girl's bottom as she either bent over the back of the chair, hands on the seat, or lay over the seat with hands on the floor on the other side.

On the desk was a register of punishments meted out, and in the cupboard together with miscellaneous bits and pieces were two leather straps and a number of rattan canes of various lengths and thicknesses. It was a room with tearful memories for many St Millicent's girls past and present, especially the prettiest ones. And not least among those with unhappy memories was the slim Sixth Former now being ushered in by the Deputy Head. At one time or another she had been brought here by almost all the masters during her school career.

The most recent occasion had been Mr Martin (History) three weeks before. Then, naturally, Julie had been wearing normal St Millicent's uniform: white blouse and red-and-blue striped tie and short pleated grey skirt. It had been unpleasant of course: over the chair and skirt up and knickers down and four with the strap on her bare bottom. It had stung all right but had not really been absolutely unbearable. Because a beating from Mr Martin – or any other master except Mr Mackie – was never quite unbearable. But Mr Mackie: well, he could make any girl in the school beg for mercy. He was notorious.

Inevitably Julie had been here before with the Deputy Head. She shuddered at the recollections, but the last time had been a good two months ago and she had had every hope of leaving School without a further taste of it. Julie didn't have any classes from him and was normally careful to keep out of his way. Now, she felt close to tears already, her bottom flinching in anticipation. She thought of the sunny lawn outside. Other girls happily laughing...

Julie was wearing her new dress – she'd put it on when she saw it was going to be such a nice day – mauve-flowered cotton lawn, calf-length and full-skirted, with dark nylons and a pair of matching-coloured patent shoes with medium heels. A super outfit – at sad odds with the stark Correction Room and its hated function. It was all like a bad dream.

Mr Mackie locked the door and, pulling the chair to the desk, sat down. 'Right, Miss! Come here please.'

With wide and frightened eyes, Julie complied, to stand nervously at his side. He opened the register, placing it – part of his ritual – fussily in the centre of the desk top. He would follow his usual routine, not caning immediately but taking his time, allowing a build-up of the pretty girl's nervous tension, while he savoured her fear.

'Well, Miss, what have you to say for yourself?'

'P...Please, Sir... I... I didn't know. I mean... I... we... were just talking and...' 18 or not, she was close to tears. And her voice was abnormally squeaky.

'Well, young lady, I am sure you will know shortly when you feel the cane on your bare bottom. I find that has a most salutary effect even on girls of your age. Really I should have thought at this stage of your school career – when you are shortly due to leave – that you would know better. It's quite appalling, in a girl of 18.'

Julie, flushing and with her head hung, was silent.

'And as for that dress you're wearing: well, it certainly would not be allowed if I were Headmaster. You would all be in uniform. I suppose underneath you have some equally unsuitable garments?'

As Mr Mackie spoke his hand went behind Julie and up under the hem of her skirt, inside her slip. Up the backs of her long legs... nylons... bare upper thighs... to her bottom. She certainly was not wearing regulation School attire, for what James Mackie's hand encountered were loose-legged French knickers, of lace-edged silk.

'Good Gracious! What is this?' he slid his hand up inside one leg of the knickers onto Julie's bare bottom. 'This is quite disgraceful! I should not imagine that even the Head would countenance such garments: you are virtually bare!'

And to illustrate this statement, and without fully realising what he was doing, Mr Mackie's hand came round into the loose crotch of Julie's knickers. Suddenly the hand was between her legs... touching bare flesh.

Julie squirmed violently and gasped, 'Sir! Please..!' Automatically she closed her legs... but only succeeded for the moment in trapping the hand where she least wanted it.

'Oooh!' Her own hand shot down protectively. 'Oooohh!'

Mr Mackie, red-faced, extricated his hand from that warm and intimate region. It had been a quite involuntary action on his part, after discovering the French knickers. Bottoms were one thing but the puritanical Mackie basically disapproved of what girls had between their legs and it had been a shock to find he suddenly had his hand on it. It was all the wretched girl's fault of course.

He started blustering, 'Don't you realise, Miss, that this sort of garment is an open invitation to any Tom, Dick or Harry to put his hand there? Or do worse? An open invitation to any common rowdy?'

Julie, embarrassed and shaken, nervously straightened her dress. It was really awful! What he said was typically mean and vindictive. They were simply pretty knickers, that was all, but you might expect Mr Mackie to think up some awful interpretation. She bit her lip. She was anyway rather sensitive at present down there where his hand had gone. Not that she engaged in full sex as yet, although her boyfriend, David, was always trying to persuade her to start. But they did indulge in frequent heavy petting sessions, with considerable manual stimulation.

And in addition to this she had in the last two weeks been getting something rather similar from the School Doctor, in the Sex Course which the Head encouraged School-leavers to take. They were private sessions, one girl at a time, in which Dr Robson made you strip down to bra and knickers and lie on his couch, where certain things would be pointed out to you. Julie did not enjoy these sessions.

Anyway what with the Sex Course plus David, Julie was sensitive to the slightest touch, and the Deputy Head's rough blundering hand had just sent shivers through her, and a feeling of shame. And still to come was the frightening caning. She felt tears welling in her eyes again.

Meanwhile Mr Mackie was concentrating on the register: leafing back counting the number of entries with Julie's name. He looked up, his eyes beady behind the spectacles.

'Really, Miss, the number of times different masters have found it necessary to bring you here... Well, I find it quite unacceptable. You seem to have spent the whole of your school career contravening some rule or other.'

The tears appeared now. It was just not fair what he said. The only reason she was in the book so often was that masters liked to take her knickers down. Almost always they were trumped-up reasons of some sort or another.

Mr Mackie closed the book. 'And on top of that you have the audacity to go about the School wearing items of clothing more suitable to a woman of the streets!'

He looked hard into Julie's tear-filled blue eyes. 'Well, Miss, all this is not nearly good enough. It is quite obvious that the canings you have had in the past have done nothing whatsoever for you. But I can tell you, young lady, I intend – today – to try to remedy that. I intend to give you a caning which you will remember for a long, long time to come. And really I think it's the best possible School-leaving present you could have.'

Julie, fighting the tears, could say nothing. Mr Mackie went on, 'And please, I quite fail to see why you are crying yet. I should at least wait until you feel the cane on your bottom. You may well feel like crying then, of course. Indeed you may!' His Scottish accent gave his final exclamation a special intonation.

He went to the cupboard and after perusing its contents drew out a medium weight whippy jointed cane. 'Ah, now then!'

In front of Julie he flexed it, almost into a complete circle. 'Yes, Miss. I think this will be suitable for that bottom of yours. Now: we will delay no further.'

Mr Mackie moved the chair away from the desk into the centre of the room. 'If you will just prepare yourself. The usual position, and please do stop that crying until you have something to cry about. You are supposed to be 18, I believe?'

Haltingly Julie went to the chair... and got herself down over it so that her bottom was over the seat, head down the other side and hands on the floor. It was a position she was only too familiar with. Mr Mackie showed no delay now. Hands went eagerly to the hem of her full skirt, lifting it and a pink slip underneath, both up to her waist. Revealed were the lovely long nylon-clad legs, leading to bare white thighs above. Straps of a pink satin suspender belt held the nylons taut and disappeared into open-legged pink knickers. Pink silk French knickers edged with cream lace – the garment which had caused such offence to the Deputy Head.

With his face bearing a prim look James Mackie's greedy fingers slipped into the waistband of the knickers and drew them down... to the tops of the nylons. Mmm... Oh Yes! His eyes glistened. The surprisingly full bottom for a slim girl, its pale cheeks an invitation. And below, where the cleft of the bottom met the thighs, inevitably revealed by the unfortunate girl's posture, a bush of brown hair – with, if you wished to look, no doubt further details to be seen.

James Mackie did not wish to look. He did not wish to think about that portion of her. In her last term now, he guessed she would be taking that Sex Course which the Head was so keen on. It was, thank Heavens, not James Mackie's province and he had no wish to have anything to do with it. He did not know details and had no wish to, but he did know that the purpose was in effect to teach girls to enjoy sex – and that unquestionably met with his strongest disapproval.

What a girl wanted was not someone teaching her to enjoy sex but the cane. A good hard caning of her bare buttocks. And that was something which Miss Julie Gilbert was about to experience. Yes indeed! Her full white bottom was just waiting for it. His hand reached out. Ah yes...

Julie, hair falling about her lowered face, waited. For, inevitably, the next stage: the hand on her bared bottom, fondling, feeling. And his voice, prim and controlled now:

'First I will give you my usual instructions, Miss, although by now you really should know without being told.' The hand got on with its busy task. 'Keep the legs straight so that the bottom is kept elevated. Keep your head well down. And do try to keep the bottom quite still so that the cane can be properly applied.'

The hand squeezed and stroked the silken-smooth globes. 'Departures from these simple rules may well result in extra strokes. And I will just repeat that I do intend – today – to give you something special. To remember when you have left St Millicent's. A special leaving present, as I have said.'

A final squeeze of the bottom and the hand left. Not long now to wait. A few seconds of awful anticipation. No more than the time it took to reach for the cane. And then raise it...

CRACK! A breathtaking jolting cut right across the full meat of the under-curve of Julie's bum.

'Ooohh! Ah! Ooooohh!' She squirmed and shuddered with the fearsome stinging pain. Mr Mackie was as good as his word. She had never had it like that before. Never... anything... like that!.. Julie was already crying unashamedly.

'Keep the bottom still, girl!'

She couldn't, of course, and he would have been disappointed if she could. As long as it was back in position for the next...

CRACK! A second, fully as hard, parallel and an inch below the first. Another anguished cry as the bottom's desperate writhings redoubled.

But the girl's cries and writhings served only to spur Mr Mackie on. With icy concentration he continued – taking his time and applying deliberately measured slashes to the jerking, twisting bottom. CRACK!.. CRACK!.. The cane rose and fell...

After five all semblance of Julie's control had gone and she couldn't help snatching her hands from the floor to desperately protect her bottom. She caught the sixth stroke partially across her open palms before Mr Mackie angrily jerked the hands away.

'Miss Gilbert, whatever do you think you are doing! Get those hands back on the floor immediately!' He sounded outraged.

Julie, almost incoherent: 'I... I'm s...sorry, Sir. Qooh! I c...can't... Ooh... no m...more, Sir. P...Please no m...m...more.' The tears were flowing. She sounded utterly piteous.

'What are you talking about, Miss! I have certainly no intention of terminating a caning halfway through. Did I not promise you something special? Now get back into position immediately. And if you can't control yourself I shall keep you here through the whole of lunch-time.'

He paused only to mop a perspiring brow: the result of his exertions or perhaps some other cause.

'Yes, Miss, I shall be quite happy to do so. Really it is unheard-of that a member of the Upper Sixth cannot take a caning properly. Now get back and control yourself!'

Sobbing, Julie resumed her proper position.

'Get the bottom up, now!' The tone very tart.

Trembling and crying she complied. Her bottom was decorated with five fiery stripes – three precisely placed, parallel and within an inch of each other, as Mr Mackie liked, but the other two, due to an excessively squirming backside, were further apart and at slight angles. Not perfect, her tormentor told himself, stung by this aesthetic imbalance, but on the other hand good evidence that she was undoubtedly feeling it.

'Keep still, Miss, and I shall give you three more. Plus of course the one which you so disgracefully cheated on.'

It was Mr Mackie's intention to give Julie these – as hard as the preceding ones – and then to tell her she was to have six more, for improper behaviour. But when he had delivered four more stingers on the twisting squirming rump it was obvious, even to James Mackie, that she'd had enough. Well, one didn't want repercussions.

So he contented himself with two extra biting slashes across the backs of her thighs above the nylon tops, as hard as he could make them. A little something for that infantile squirming around which really a Sixth Former should be able to control.

Like a nightmare it was finally over. Mr Mackie surveyed his work: the sobbing trembling girl, the scarlet-striped bottom... Yes, she would remember it all right.

Julie stumbled to her feet when told to, and still shaking and crying, fumbled the pink knickers back up under her skirt. The stinging pain was made worse by the seat of the knickers tight across her bottom. Mr Mackie's hated unctuous voice:

'Now, Miss: I do hope that is something you will remember.'

'Y...Yes... S...Sir.'

She could hardly gasp!

'Because I am very saddened to find these shortcomings in your behaviour just on the point of your leaving St Millicent's. I had sincerely hoped that you would have been proof against them by now. You will be expected to carry the School's standards with you, you know, after you have left here, as a living example to the word at large.'

Julie's mouth opened but nothing came out save for a panting gasp. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

'Very good. Well, I hope it has been a good lesson for you. You may go now.'

Mr Mackie unlocked the door. As she went out past him, none too steadily, he repeated, 'Remember now!'

And lifting her full skirt he gave her throbbing bottom a final sharp slap.

* * *

It was almost lunch-time when Julie got out of the Correction Room. Mr Mackie went off to enjoy his lunch – and savour the prospect of those two other charming bottoms to be enjoyed in the afternoon. Julie, on the other hand, didn't go to lunch. She couldn't face her friends and couldn't face the thought of eating either. She wandered aimlessly, conscious only of pain and the shock of what had happened.

Her day wasn't over though. There was another event to come which would significantly relate to Mr Mackie's 'School-leaving present'.

The first was an appointment she had with the School Doctor an hour later. He would make it clear how easy it was for you to become aroused, with great emphasis on the risks of an unprincipled man or youth doing this to you and then getting you pregnant. So of course his efforts had a highly moral purpose.

Dr Robson made Julie take off her dress and petticoat and lie on his couch in just her underwear. He spoke to her for a few minutes and then he was ready to start on the next stage. She slipped down her knickers – and not surprisingly there, still very obvious, were the marks of Mr Mackie's caning.

'I think I can guess who's done this,' said Dr Robson with a shake of his head as he ran his hand over the red-striped bottom. Mr Mackie's little pleasures were well-known to his colleagues.

He remarked that it must have stung. That was the understatement of the year, thought Julie, struggling not to start crying again. And then Dr Robson said something which, at the time, seemed to the pretty 18-year-old quite ridiculous.

'Of course, on the other hand caning can heighten sexual pleasure, you know, Julie. Because at the subconscious level pleasure and pain are closely related. In fact it is not unknown for a couple to use caning as an added stimulus in their sexual enjoyment.'

Well, she did find it quite ridiculous. She didn't tell Dr Robson that she thought he must be off his head, but that was just about what she thought. She was of course a quite inexperienced 18-year-old and it was not surprising that the School Doctor's remarks were difficult to believe.

Dr Robson asked, 'Don't you feel more sensitive, Julie? More easily arousable?'

Julie bit her lip. She felt more sensitive all right: she felt like crying. Dr Robson's hand was now actually caressing her. She felt she could hardly think straight. Then he told her to turn over and lie on her back... and relax...

But naturally nothing improper took place. He only spoke to her, soothingly and caressingly. Helping her to come to terms with the cruel experience she had undergone that morning in the Correction Room. She needed Dr Robson's reassuring words. Words which went round and round her head as she lay there with her clothes off, feeling the heat throbbing out from her bottom beneath her where it pressed into the slightly prickly surface of the School Doctor's couch. Sending tingling sparks shooting through her body, all of them bearing the same glowing message.

Julie Gilbert relaxed totally, finding peace and a sensuous feeling of well-being in the Doctor's hypnotic speech. He was talking about caning, among other things. All sense of the physical shock she had earlier experienced had left her body, her eyes were closed and her mind was in a dream, with her boyfriend David and Dr Robson and Mr Mackie and his cane all tumbling across the screen of her consciousness. She did not even remotely suspect that there would be a lifelong effect: of bringing her into the fold.

Recruit For The Club

Story from New Blushes Vol.2 No.3

Recruit For The Club

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next day in fact provided an excellent opportunity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Come into my Parlour

Story from Fessee 01.

Come into my Parlour
A short story by Paula Meadows

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

Lady Millicent's hands fluttered in agitation.

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

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

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

Did she mean the maid? Or me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she did. She did. She DID.

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

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

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

So I did. For a while.

Strict Schooling

Story from Swish Vol.7 No.4

Strict Schooling

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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