Sir Rodney's New Maid

Story from Janus 17.

Sir Rodney's New Maid
by David Redshaw

When our great-great-grandfathers were alive the caning and birching of schoolgirls was common practice throughout the land: no wonder they're referred to as the Good Old Days! Hansard (Commons, June 1863, col. 193) reports the birching of a 16-year-old girl by the lady superintendent of the Royal Patriotic Asylum, a girls' institute in Wandsworth. The birching was recommended by the chaplain, who doubtless was present at its execution.

On February 14th, 1900, as chronicled in The English Vice by Ian Gibson, a report was read before a select committee of the London School Board which stated that the managers of a certain girls' Industrial School had just passed a resolution that in future its girls 'should only be birched across the shoulders', which leads us to the inescapable conclusion that previously girls of that age had been exposed to the painful indignity of being birched on their bottoms.

On examination of the punishment records of 16 such schools for girls, we further find that two gave instances of birchings, ten of canings, two of tawsings and two of unspecified 'whipping'. Assuming there to have been at least 100 girls on the roll of each school, that adds up to a sum total of 1,600 trembling schoolgirl bottoms liable at any hour or minute in their academic careers to be either birched, caned, tawsed or 'whipped'!

Such punishments were invariably public affairs, carried out before either the whole school (pour encourager les autres) or at the very least before the board of governors, composed of clergymen, magistrates and philanthropic industrialists, pillars of society to a man. Like all other decent Victorians they believed firmly in Justice and Discipline and they attended these caning and birching sessions purely and simply to witness the saucy little madams being whipped into a state of true contrition, signified by pleas for mercy, copious weeping and scarlet, wealed backsides.

If any of the said worthy gentlemen evinced more than a passing interest in the little preliminary ritual of denuding 16-year-old Charlotte Hopkins of her tight cotton drawers, or in the sight of 18-year-old Grace Bicton, already a fully developed woman, clad-only in waist-length chemise and black silk stockings, bent bottom-upwards over the birching block, the unmentionable parts of her nether anatomy shamefully displayed... then it is certainly not recorded in Hansard, nor in any school board or governors' report. Such stirrings of gentlemenly loins were discreetly swept under the carpet.

One other historical fact is worth a mention. The senior pupils of girls' Industrial Schools served as a convenient pool for 'servant fodder', and members of the aristocracy, as well as the nouveau riche, were known to visit such establishments in order to select a suitable girl to fill a vacancy below stairs, as the following now historical exchange of correspondence illustrates.

* * *

Oakfield Road,
Tunbridge Wells,
Kent.
October 12th, 1897

Dear Miss Marchmain,

Mossborough Industrial School for Girls, of which you are, I believe, the Principal, has been recommended to me in the warmest possible terms by a contributor to your charity fund, Colonel William Standish.

I am currently afflicted, dear madam, with what I believe is generally known as 'a servant problem'. I urgently require a reliable, trustworthy girl to train as junior parlour-maid in my household. Might a suitable female be found in your establishment? I am prepared to offer appropriate remuneration, full uniform including underwear, laundering expenses, and one half-day holiday per fortnight.

Colonel Standish advises me to inform you that I am inclined to prefer a girl who has been well disciplined. I trust that I make myself understood, and remain, madam, your servant.

Sir Rodney Maltravers

* * *

Mossborough Industrial School
For Girls,
Institute Lane,
Mossborough,
--shire.
October 15th, 1897

Dear Sir Rodney,

I beg to acknowledge the receipt of your letter enquiring as to whether it would be possible for your esteemed self to select from among my senior pupils a girl suitable to fill the vacant position of junior parlour-maid in your household.

I am more than sensible, Sir Rodney, of the honour that your choice of our humble establishment confers upon us.

Might I take the liberty of suggesting that if you would be kind enough to call upon us next Thursday, October 21st, at a time convenient to yourself, I should consider it a further honour to put myself entirely at your disposal with a view to fulfilling your every requirement in this matter.

Please believe me to remain, your obedient and humble servant.

Harriet Marchmain, B.A.
(Principal)

* * *

Sir Rodney Maltravers' arrival the following week was a red letter day in the annals of the school. The girls were informed of his visit, and they were exhorted to look their very best and behave impeccably. Any who so much as put a foot wrong could expect a merciless flogging before the whole school the next day.

As to what did transpire at Mossborough Industrial School on that fateful Thursday, we shall let Sir Rodney take up the narrative himself...

* * *

I regret to say (he later wrote to his cousin Edgar) that my first impressions of Mossborough Industrial School were hardly favourable. I glimpsed from the carriage a gaunt, squat, grey stone building huddling in a fold of windswept hills.

A formidably high wall, crowned with spikes, surrounded it and to the left hand side of its massive iron gates there stood a rather dilapidated lodge. The keeper, a grim silent fellow, grudgingly allowed us admission through the gates, while his snarling cur snapped viciously at the wheels of our carriage.

I was received at the school by an awe-struck, curtseying maid who conducted me down a long stone-flagged corridor towards the library, where I was ushered into the presence of the Principal, Miss Harriet Marchmain.

The instant my eyes rested on her I was struck as much by the august beauty of her form as by the austere dignity of her attitude. Her figure was tall and bespoke power, her eyes piercing and resolute. Yet over all there hung an aura of female sensuality that more than hinted at a passionate nature.

She greeted me warmly and we quickly got down to business. She recounted a brief history of the school. It was founded in 1859 for the purpose of educating daughters of the victims of the Crimean War. Since then it had opened its arms further to receive daughters of the deserving poor, orphans, and other worthy recipients of charitable education.

I broached the subject of discipline, for I was all agog to see whether Miss Marchmain would authenticate the tales of birchings and canings galore with which old Standish had so frequently regaled me. I was not to be disappointed.

'We have a strict code of conduct here at Mossborough, Sir Rodney,' she replied to my probing questioning, looking me straight in the eye without a trace of embarrassment. 'Any instance of moral turpitude, however slight, is punished with the utmost rigour. We never hesitate to use the cane.' Her eyes still fixed mine in a bright intense stare. 'The birch is, of course, reserved for more serious infringements and is administered only by me.'

I noted the grim smile of self-satisfaction lingering on her lips...

She led me over the school. We visited every classroom. The girls, spick and span in their neat pinafore dresses and black stockings, rose as one and honoured me with their prettiest curtsies. Together Miss Marchmain and I picked out the most eligible candidates for my vacancy below stairs.

In the sewing room I was much taken with the appearance of a pretty little blonde girl.

'That's Belinda Edwards,' whispered Miss Marchmain. 'An excellent choice, Sir Rodney! I congratulate you on your perspicacity.'

On Miss Marchmain's recommendation I selected two other likely girls: Polly Turner, a slightly plump good-natured brunette, and Arabella Bennett, a pertly vivacious slender red-head. That done, the Principal – this strangely magnetic woman – led the way back to the library.

Warming myself cheerily before the roaring log fire, I plotted my next move, like a general before battle or a surgeon before a tricky operation. The prognosis seemed good. Pulling out my cheque book I declared that I was prepared to donate generously to the school's charity fund.

Miss Marchmain, acutely sensible to my requirements, understood my meaning perfectly, excellent lady!

'By some amazing coincidence, Sir Rodney, all three girls you picked have recently been guilty of breaches of school regulations... trifling offences, I'll admit... untidy lockers and beds, shoes insufficiently polished, whispering in Chapel and so on. Nevertheless they have not gone unrecorded and what I now propose is that they be punished directly, by me, with you as an impartial observer. I take it, Sir Rodney,' (again that flicker of a cruel smile!) 'that you have no objections?'

'None whatsoever, dear lady,' I assured her blandly. 'If the saucy minxes deserve a good lesson then by all means take down their drawers and cane them soundly, and I shall gladly act as witness to make sure that justice is well and truly done!' I settled back in a comfortable armchair and lit a cigar.

Miss Marchmain disappeared, only to return several minutes later with the three blushing culprits: Polly, Arabella and Belinda. Clearly they already knew why they had been summoned. They stood in the middle of the room fidgeting nervously, eyeing Miss Marchmain dolefully while she lectured them sternly. Every now and then they cast sheepish glances in my direction as the awful realisation dawned on them that I, a male, was to be present at their shameful, degrading punishment.

'I counsel you to bear your canings with fortitude and refrain from blubbering!' the Principal warned them. 'For whichever one of you Sir Rodney chooses for parlour-maid, she will definitely not be a cry-baby!'

Miss Marchmain was deliberately putting the girls on their mettle, sadistically spelling out the fact that the painful fate awaiting them was not just punishment, but also a cruel process of elimination. Trial by ordeal!

But Polly and Belinda seemed very near to tears already, although Arabella, the most rebellious natured of the trio, fixed me coolly with those insolent dark brown eyes of hers. She was too haughty by far for her adolescent years. I knew I was going to particularly relish seeing her being tanned.

Miss Marchmain told all three girls to remove their dresses and petticoats, and lower their drawers to their knees. An outraged silence greeted this humiliating instruction. They exchanged horrified looks then, blushing to the roots, glanced sidelong at me, indicating their deep repugnance at being made to disrobe while I was in the room.

Miss Marchmain went to a cupboard and returned bearing three canes of different lengths and thicknesses. Immobilised by shame and fear, the girls meanwhile had made no effort to commence undressing, so Miss Marchmain repeated her command in more peremptory tones.

'But Miss, I can't! Not with a gentleman present – it's not decent!' Polly wailed, real tears now glistening in her eyes. Arabella sulked mutinously while poor little Belinda tried vainly to stifle her sobs of despair in her lace handkerchief.

'Disobedient wretches!' Miss Marchmain snapped, stamping her elegant foot angrily. 'Do I have to disrobe you myself? False modesty does not become you. Do you fondly imagine Sir Rodney has never seen girls' bare bottoms before?' They cringed miserably at the mere thought of such an idea.

How she berated them! But the threat of being forcibly stripped had its desired effect. Amid groanings and yet more violent blushes the three pretty little minxes began removing their gowns and petticoats. Outer clothing soon gave way to more private, intimate garments until at last they were standing there all forlorn, shivering in their cambric chemises, figure-hugging white cotton drawers and black silk stockings gartered at mid-thigh. They presented an enchanting tableau and I longed to dismiss Miss Marchmain and cane them myself!

The plumply nubile Polly Turner was the first to be caned. Miss Marchmain seized the quaking semi-nude girl by the ear and marched her over to the librarian's ornately carved oak desk. Yanking Polly's drawers down to below her knees the Principal ordered her to bend right over the desk so that her bare behind was fully raised and vulgarly exposed. In spite of her 17 years, Polly whimpered and snivelled childishly, clenching her hind cheeks tightly together in an act of instinctive self-preservation.

'I intend to administer eight strokes of the very best on that incorrigibly wicked bare bottom of yours,' Miss Marchmain announced briskly. 'Pray compose yourself in readiness.'

From my excellent vantage point, ten feet or so away, I was able to scrutinise in great detail the girl's naked charms, right down to the endearing little mole near the base of her right buttock cheek. The bottom she presented was well-fleshed, succulently rounded with a deep narrow crease dividing its two melon-shaped halves. Wisps of dark pubic curls peeped out shyly from below the soft, delicate zone between her legs.

Polly's bitter mortification doubtless stemmed from her awareness of the disgracefully indecent spectacle she was now presenting of herself. The other two girls gazed at the proceedings in horror. I caught Belinda's eye, and the dainty little creature went crimson with shame at the thought that soon she, too, would be made to take Polly's place, lower her drawers and display her bare bottom for my keen appraisal...

Miss Marchmain chose the medium cane, and after one or two exploratory taps on Polly's bare seat, raised it aloft and then sent it swishing through the air towards its all-too-ample target.

It exploded across the crowns of Polly's out-thrust buttocks. The shock of the impact caused Polly to suck in air loudly between clenched teeth. A vivid crimson weal sprang up almost immediately, marring the flawless pallor of her broad cheeks.

Again the cane whistled down and splatted resoundingly against Polly's plump, yielding bottom flesh. She yelped in anguish and commenced to wriggle and cavort her nether regions in a most licentious, abandoned manner, vouchsafing me glimpses of those intimate sexual regions of her person that so far she had managed to conceal from view.

The third and fourth strokes were delivered within seconds of each other, so that Polly hardly had time to draw breath in between them. When she did it was to let out a series of choking sobs. She began to plead pathetically with Miss Marchmain for clemency:

'Oh Miss – I beg you! It stings so! It burns so!'

What was once a smooth, snowy-white bottom was now cruelly striped with four blossoming weals. The next few strokes caught her lower down on the delicate underside of her cheeks and must have hurt excruciatingly, judging by the shrill urgency of her cries:

'Please, Miss, not there, Miss! Anywhere but there, Miss! Oh God, it's so awful!' she shrieked, and there was a sensual hissing sound as her silk stocking-clad legs gyrated and rubbed madly together.

Arabella and Belinda looked as though they might faint any minute, so aghast were they at the sight and sound of the cane whistling mercilessly down upon poor Polly's frantically cavorting behind.

When the springy yellow cane wrapped itself spitefully around Polly's throbbing, enflamed flanks for the eighth and final time she was in fits of tears, blubbering unashamedly.

Miss Marchmain raised the weeping girl up from the desk and led her over to the wall, where she was made to stand with her hands on her head, crimson weal-racked bottom on full display. Her drawers had long since slipped ignominiously down to her ankles.

Now it was the turn of Arabella Bennett, the saucy impudent member of the trio.

'You're never going to take my drawers down, Miss, not in front of him you're not!' she muttered stubbornly, making an insolent gesture in my direction.

Miss Marchmain positively bristled with ire. Bosom heaving, eyes flashing, she drew herself up to her full height. She was powerfully built and well used to physically subduing rebellious schoolgirls like Arabella Bennett.

'We shall see about that!' she hissed menacingly, advancing purposefully towards her disobedient pupil who shrank back in alarm, her hands clutching protectively at the waistband of her white cotton drawers.

Seizing her around the waist, Miss Marchmain dragged her bodily over to the punishment desk.

'Pray be so kind as to secure her hands, Sir Rodney,' she panted.

I sprang to her aid, my heart beating excitedly. Grabbing the struggling, protesting girl by the wrists, I moved around to the far side of the desk, hauling her so far across its surface that her feet left the ground and she lay on her tummy, legs kicking furiously in the air like a stranded mermaid.

Her coppery red hair fell in delicious disarray across her face, and those lovely dark brown eyes of hers blazed defiance at me. With such a quick, wildcat temper she was obviously unsuited for service; she would have been more of a liability than an asset below stairs. All the same, I had to admire her spirit.

But Miss Marchmain was fully roused too, and her patience exhausted. She took hold of the top of the girl's drawers and, with a splitting, rending sound, literally tore them away from Arabella's surging posterior.

'Oh my drawers, Miss! My drawers!' Arabella wailed frantically. 'You've ripped them – they're my best pair!'

How typical of the female sex, I thought, to be more concerned about a pair of drawers than about a caning!

But the furious manner in which Harriet Marchmain set about belabouring Arabella's bare bottom with the stoutest of the three canes very soon caused the unfortunate girl to entirely forget about her damaged drawers.

This was a caning totally lacking in finesse. It was delivered in the white heat of anger, and stroke after stroke rained down in unbroken succession upon the general area that lay between Arabella's hips and the tops of her stockings.

I completely lost count of the number of strokes, they fell so thick and fast. Arabella's tomboyishly compact little bottom cheeks quickly lost their pale coppery sheen as an untidy array of thick ridged weals sprang up to spoil their ivory beauty.

Arabella's shrieks of distress, loud enough to awaken the dead, echoed all around the vaulted, oak-beamed library. She bucked and writhed like a wild pony being broken in. I had one devil of a job holding on to her.

I later learned that Arabella Bennett had fallen foul of Miss Marchmain early on in the year, and this unusually severe punishment was in the way of a settlement of old scores...

Indeed Miss Marchmain's fury knew no bounds. She wielded that cane like one possessed. Because Arabella was pinned horizontally across the desk the strokes fell directly downwards, hence all the more viciously.

But until Arabella was howling and bawling lachrymosely like a well-spanked five-year-old did Miss Marchmain at last relent. She threw down the cane with a clatter and stood there, wild-eyed and panting from exertion and spent passion.

I helped Arabella up to a standing position. She made a truly poignant spectacle. Her poor bottom was by now virtually corrugated with the marks of the cane's numerous visitations. I judged she'd not be sitting down with ease before the month was up.

Touched with pity for her though I was, nevertheless when the trembling near-naked girl instinctively sought the reassuring haven of my shoulder to cry on, I confess I could not resist slipping my hands behind her to explore the ridges of her bruised maltreated bottom. She winced and caught her breath when I touched her there, and drew in closer to me for comfort – encountering, I have no doubt, the rampant bulge in the front of my trousers...

I consoled her as best I could, after which I eased her rent, tattered drawers back up over her hot, palpitating, crimson bottom – judging that she had suffered enough already without subjecting her to the fresh degradation of having to stand and display her cruelly chastised behind to the world. Womaniser I may be: but sadist – never!

Drawing Harriet Marchmain into a private corner, I expressed my displeasure. She had, in my opinion, grossly exceeded her authority and abused her position. No girl, however fractious and unruly, deserved the punishment that poor Arabella had received at Miss Marchmain's hands. And to implicate me in the unsavoury affair showed a marked lack of respect for a peer of the realm.

Miss Marchmain grew flustered and grovellingly subservient, eager to please my every whim lest I report her sadistic treatment of Arabella to the Board of Governors.

I must confess here that, far from behaving altruistically, I was in fact shamelessly exploiting this delicate situation for my own ends.

What I desired above all else was simply to be left to my own wicked devices with the delectably demure Belinda – for she, and she alone, was my choice. I'd picked her out of all the other girls right from the start, exquisite creature that she was, and now I fumed and fretted with impatient longing to take a rod to her naked buttocks and flog her into abject, wailing submission... for if she was to be my maid, she needed to be initiated into her master's pleasure.

Eager to escape further censure from me, Miss Marchmain was more than happy to leave Belinda to my sole care. She departed hastily from the library with Polly and a still weeping Arabella in tow, carrying their dresses and petticoats in their arms.

* * *

The field was mine, the day was won! With mounting excitement I turned to address the little blonde charmer, trembling nervously in her chemise and pretty little lace-trimmed bloomers.

'Rejoice, my dear Belinda!' I began blithely, 'For I am resolved that you shall be my new maid! You will be decked out in silks and satins – the finest black stockings, the frilliest chemises and under-petticoats, the most translucently frivolous drawers that money can purchase...'

She blushed, yet brightened considerably at the thought of leaving Mossborough School behind, and with it all the humiliating, degrading punishments of girlhood.

But I was cruelly baiting her, raising her hopes only to dash them upon the rocks of my implacable flagellant's appetite.

'...and you will be whipped, my dear Belinda,' I continued crisply, my eyes devouring her affrighted innocence, 'well whipped, morning, noon and night, by myself and by your mistress, my Lady Caroline, for she too likes nothing better than to see a brand new parlour-maid well and truly humbled, her drawers down around her ankles, weeping her heart out and clutching a well-whipped bottom... a well-whipped bottom! Do I make myself plain, Belinda?' I repeated slowly and deliberately.

She gazed at me miserably, like a stricken fawn. Her delicate porcelain features were darkly clouded by gloom, despair and naked terror. The painful whippings that Polly and Arabella had suffered were preying on her mind. She could not banish from her memory the awful vision of Arabella's frantically writhing haunches, vainly endeavouring to dodge the lashing rod, her shrieks and howls filling the room.

But Belinda now knew that a far worse fate awaited her. She was under no illusions. She knew she was about to be severely whipped on her exquisite, virginal little bottom – not by one of her own sex – but by a man!

'Belinda,' I murmured cruelly, stroking the cheeks of her bottom through the thin cotton drawers, 'I intend now to give you the most atrociously smarting bottom you have ever endured in your life!'

Then came the command she was dreading all along:

'Loosen you drawers, Belinda. Let them fall to your ankles.'

She began to whimper and cast me many a beseeching look. But Lust had me in its grip and made me immune to all her pleadings. I was fully resolved to whip the shamefully naked bottom of this sweet young innocent, until my right arm hung limp and exhausted at my side.

Her immaculately laundered white drawers hugged her hips like a second skin, clearly delineating the well-defined cleft that separated her beautifully sculpted hind-cheeks. Out of modesty she kept her back turned while she unbuttoned and lowered her drawers, lest I glimpse her sacred, unravished mount of Venus.

Her palely flawless bare bottom slowly came into view. Slight traces of puppy-fat accentuated the soft sensual curves of those rounded little buttocks of hers.

My spirits rose to dizzy new heights, my blood roared in my temples. My manhood engorged and erected, like an accusing finger pointing at my pretty victim.

I chose the slenderest of the three canes, the whippiest and hence the most viciously damaging. I essayed trial slashes with it through the air.

Belinda began to cry softly, her hands shielding the base of her buttocks lest I glimpse between her legs the blonde curls guarding her most intimate shrine.

With the cane I lightly tapped her hands away from her bottom. All modesty was denied her now that she was mine, and I longed to slake my thirst on all her charms.

Accordingly, I instructed her to bend over and touch her toes like a schoolboy. She winced at the gross indignity of having to assume such a posture, but fear made her obey me.

Weeping piteously now, she bent her back taut as a bowstring, and her bottom acquired a cheeky, pouting prominence. Hobbled as she was by her fallen drawers, nevertheless I enjoined her to stretch her feet wider apart, thus affording me a clear view of the precious dewy secrets between her thighs.

Her slender arms hung down obediently before her, her hands an inch or two above her toes. I delivered a warning swish across the tops of her bare thighs. She groaned as she felt the cold kiss of the cane upon her tender, yielding flesh.

'You are a saucy, disobedient little minx, Belinda!' I admonished her severely. 'Touch your toes properly, this instant!'

She gasped with the effort involved in complying with my instructions. Her girlish body tautened and strained as she tried desperately to bend over still further. Her bottom swayed appealingly and her blonde ringlets fell in profusion across her deeply blushing face.

Again I tapped her with the cane, but on the backs of her knees.

'Bend your legs a little, Belinda.' This thrust her bottom outwards, into even greater prominence. Exactly as I desired it.

The moment had arrived. Gripping it tightly just below the handle, I raised the cane. Belinda was breathing heavily in spasmodic, jerking sobs, her eyes closed as though to blot out the impending bottom-searing pain...

I administered four swift whirring cuts, one after the other, across the saucy plumpness of her vulgarly presented derriere. She yelped urgently each time I struck her.

The impact drove her forward and she all but tottered to the ground. Somehow she regained her balance and pluckily resumed the vulnerable, submissive posture required.

I saw the sweet rain of her tears, falling drop by drop upon the toes of her shoes. Four livid weals now cruelly branded her once peerless bottom, mocking its ivory beauty. Goaded beyond endurance by her maidenly meekness I sent four more hearty strokes whistling down onto the base of Belinda's out-thrust posterior.

She jumped in the air, as though stung by an electric eel. Now her bottom resembled the glowing bars of a prison cell at sunset. The air vibrated with her passionate lamentations.

'Oh sir!' she sobbed wretchedly, clutching frantically at her blazing rear, 'I believe you are the very cruellest of masters, I –'

'Remove your hands from your posterior, you immodest, brazen girl!' I stormed at her in anger, vowing to punish her unmercifully for that foolishly injudicious little outburst of hers.

Grimly I waited until her hands were once more touching her toes, then I whipped her again more soundly than ever. Five strokes, diagonally applied, to form a crisscross pattern all over her madly squirming seat. Then, with one final resounding 'WHUP!', I savagely rechristened the crimson pouting summits of her nether cheeks before watching her sink to the floor, overcome by lachrymose convulsions of penitence, her bottom more fiercely colourful than if she'd been made to sit for an entire hour upon a hornets' nest!

Belinda wailed and blubbered like one totally distraught, caring not a jot now what part of her precious person she displayed, for she was sprawled indecorously, her legs wide apart revealing all.

I let her weep on until she had practically exhausted a year's supply of tears, then when she had grown more composed I touched her on the shoulder.

'Be dressed and ready to depart within the half hour, Belinda,' I said, 'The road is treacherous and we must reach Tunbridge Wells before nightfall.'

As we drove out of the gates, past the lodge and its morose old guardian, I took one last look at Mossborough Industrial School for Girls. It appeared as grey and forbidding as when I had arrived – more so now, since I had plucked a veritable pearl from its oyster shell. Belinda, tearful and fidgety, sat gingerly alongside me, every bump in the road causing her fresh posterial agony.

Her long painful apprenticeship was only just beginning.

Henry's New Girl

Story from Blushes 06.

Henry's New Girl

Henry Fultonby, in his fifties and a committed and contented bachelor, did not boast of doing good works, he was not that sort of person, but clearly he filled a social need. He was a good citizen who could be called on, even by strangers. Called on in those long school holidays, especially those interminably long summer ones, when Charlotte, Victoria, Jane or whoever can be just a little tiresome and loving but increasingly exasperated mother would so like to be rid of her offspring for just a little while. In that sort of situation if you happened to hear of Henry Fultonby your problems could well be solved.

Charlotte and Victoria and Jane were of course teenage girls. And they were always girls, for Henry was certainly not interested in having his charming house cluttered with young males. But for Charlotte etc., yes he could usually oblige there – for a week, two weeks or whatever. Henry was indeed found to be a most obliging man in such matters. He was kept pleasurably busy. Naturally he did not advertise his services, nothing so sordid as that, but word of mouth proved quite sufficient.

"Daphne says he's awfully good with girls. And of course there's discipline. Daphne says he's very good at that. Sort of the old school type. She said her Monica came back a changed girl."

"Hmmm."

In what specific ways Monica was a changed girl we need not for the moment inquire. Suffice it to say that Mrs. Elizabeth Hartnall heard this information with most eager ears. Which was why prettily blonde Valerie Hartnall subsequently found herself, a week after the end of summer term, on a train heading out into the remoter regions of Suffolk.

"I presume..?" he queried, on the platform at Little Grindleham. 'Valerie Hartnall' she said flushing slightly. She was wearing her blue school dress and dark blue blazer, her school straw hat set squarely on corn-coloured hair. Valerie would not have chosen to wear this outfit but Mr. Fultonby had said it would aid recognition. But in any case no one else had alighted at this sleepy little station now basking in the early afternoon sunshine.

Henry smiled a nice friendly smile. He was a reassuring figure in tweed jacket and flannels. "Welcome to Little Grindleham," he said. "My but you are a pretty girl." He picked up her case and took her arm in his hand. Outside the station was Henry's oldish Daimler. What happened next is perhaps best explained by the fact that there can always be a little confusion when one person is helping another into a car. It is all a matter of timing really and if the timing is not quite right things can go a bit amiss.

Although by now Henry Fultonby should have been pretty well practised at helping girls into his car. At any event as Valerie bent forward to enter Henry's hand somehow came up under the back of that knee-length school skirt – not that it would be reaching knee length, nowhere near, when Valerie was bending forward in this manner. The hand came up the skirt and up the backs of her black school stockings to somehow finish up with a nice grip on the silky soft flesh at the rear of one bare upper thigh.

Valerie not unnaturally emitted a sharp squeak, Henry gave a reassuring little laugh while his hand fumbled about a bit – presumably trying to disentangle itself, but it took a little time. There were tiny beads of perspiration on Valerie's soft upper lip when finally she was seated in the Daimler. It had all been very embarrassing and she just hoped Mr. Fultonby wasn't embarrassed too, for she did want to get off to a good start.

Mr. Fultonby did not seem embarrassed though as, driving off, his hand came confidently down onto Valerie's right thigh. Apart from when Mr. Fultonby had to change gear and suchlike Mr. Fultonby kept his hand there. And somehow Valerie's skirt got pushed up so that his hand was on stocking top and bare thigh. She hoped this didn't embarrass him either, but there was certainly no sign that her new host was embarrassed in any way.

They drove for a little distance in the sunny afternoon and then Mr. Fultonby said that as it was such a nice sunny day they could stop and have a little picnic which he had thoughtfully brought with him. They found a really nice place, a secluded clearing in some woods that was just right. But then, Valerie thought, as Mr. Fultonby lived hereabouts he probably knew it before – he might even have brought girls here before. She hadn't yet asked him about other girls, still being a bit shy with him even though he was so nice and friendly. Her mother had been a bit vague but did say she thought he regularly had girls staying with him.

They sat down and Valerie took her blazer off and her straw boater. Mr. Fultonby remarked again that Valerie was very pretty. Her hair was like ripening corn, he said. There was not much answer to that except a modest maidenly blush and Valerie duly produced one. Mr. Fultonby then also said she had a very nice figure. "A very nice bust," he said, his eyes having a really good look at it. "I always like to see a nice firm bust on a girl. Tell me, are you wearing a bra under that pretty uniform?"

Valerie not unnaturally blushed a bit more at this. She was wearing a bra of course. Her mother told her always to wear one now that she had quite a full figure. Otherwise the shape of your nipples would show and that was not at all a good idea. Common men and youths in the street would make remarks.

Mr. Fultonby wasn't a common man of course, he was a proper country gentleman, Valerie's mother had said. Nonetheless, to Valerie's further embarrassment, he was now telling her that a pretty girl shouldn't be afraid to show her figure. And if a young girl had a nice firm pair of breasts she was much better off not wearing a bra. More healthy. Suddenly, and shockingly, one of Mr. Fultonby's hands, as he sat beside her on the plaid blanket, was cupping Valerie's right breast.

She gasped. "Yes, very nice and firm," Henry Fultonby said. "So I really should recommend leaving off this bra, young lady. Certainly for the duration of your stay with me."

Poor Valerie didn't know what to do. She had never had a man's hand there before and it sent real shivers down her. She was sure she shouldn't let him put his hand there but on the other hand he was Mr. Fultonby and she didn't want to seem like a silly little schoolgirl. She was after all 16. At last after quite a bit of squeezing and groping, at that breast and also at the other one, presumably to check that they were both equally firm, he did take his hand away.

"Yes, definitely no bra, I think, Valerie," Henry Fultonby said firmly as he reached for the hamper to take out cakes and things. Poor Valerie tried not to think about what he had said, or indeed what he had just done. She said Thankyou for a doughnut and tried instead to concentrate on that, trying to eat it in a lady-like manner and not have jam squirting out all over the place.

She had two doughnuts and a jam tart, plus some lemonade, without having any sandwiches first, which her mother certainly would not have allowed. Mr. Fultonby didn't seem bothered about that sort of thing. He even tried to persuade her to have a third doughnut but Valerie sensibly said no to that. She said, "No thanks, I might get fat" and then was blushing again, remembering what a girl at school said. Cakes and things gave you a nice round bottom and big breasts and that was what men liked. Not that Valerie believed it, she knew that too many cakes would just make you fat all over.

Unfortunately Valerie's innocent remark was a cue for Mr. Fultonby, who had already had a good feel at her breasts. "I'm quite sure you're not fat," he said. Then to prove this to himself he pulled back the skirt of Valerie's school dress as she sat with legs straight out in front of her. There, suddenly, was the full length of black school stockings, the welts held taut at mid thigh by the straps of a white suspender belt. The straps crossed the fronts of creamily smooth upper thighs at the very top of which could be glimpsed tight white knickers.

With a little yelp Valerie's hands shot automatically out to pull down her skirt but Mr. Henry Fultonby firmly pushed her hands away. "Just having a little look" he assured her as his own hand took hold of one rounded upper thigh. He squeezed it in a very practised manner – but then Henry Fultonby was very practised when it came to girls' thighs. Poor Valerie didn't know what to do or where to look. His fingers were right down between her upper thighs, an area where a girl is very very sensitive. It was awful but also very exciting because she had never ever had a man's hand there before.

The hand at last came away and Valerie gave a little sigh of relief. Nervously she edged her skirt back down, hoping he wouldn't notice and tell her to stop. It did look as though staying with Mr. Fultonby was going to be... well, different in some respects.

Indeed it was, for Henry Fultonby, having satisfied himself that his new protegee's thighs were all they should be, was now talking about something else. Discipline. He was a firm believer in it and without it girls could grow up to be a real mess. Valerie nodded agreement, not too sure what he was talking about but certainly she thought that juvenile delinquents and suchlike should be properly dealt with.

It seemed, though, that Mr. Fultonby was not talking about juvenile delinquents exactly. He was talking about her. Did she get properly disciplined at school? She said that they all did. Lines and things. But Mr. Fultonby was not talking about lines, he said. He was talking about getting their bottoms smacked or being caned.

Valerie shook her pretty head in some bewilderment. No, nothing like that. It was a girls school of course. And, well, she was 16. Henry Fultonby smiled and shook his head. Sixteen was just the age to appreciate it and get the full benefit. He looked keenly at Valerie... who simply blushed a very deep red. Well it was such an awful thought, such a truly impossible one, to get your bottom smacked or caned, at 16. Perhaps though, she thought, he was joking?

No, Henry Fultonby was not joking. Pleasantly but firmly he told her that he certainly smacked a girl's bottom, and he also caned that same part of a girl's anatomy. He regarded it as his duty. Furthermore as Valerie had not had any experience of such chastisement before he thought it would be a good idea, a very good idea if he administered a preliminary spanking to his new guest this very afternoon. In this very spot, conveniently secluded as it was from strangers' eyes. Not that Valerie had misbehaved in any way but it would enable her to know what to expect.

"No, please!" yelped Valerie. It was just impossible!

But Henry Fultonby said "Yes please" in a very firm voice. And then added something else which if you were a 16-year-old girl who had never been spanked before was even more horrifying.

"Yes Valerie. And I shall of course want your knickers down. Smacking a girl's bottom is always much more effective if her knickers are down and her bottom bare."

Could he really be saying this? Unfortunately he could, as any of the various girls who had stayed with Henry before could bear witness. An early 'Knickers down' was always on the agenda. Henry stood up and taking Valerie's hand pulled her gently to her feet. Once a girl had been acquainted with the matter of 'Knickers down' there was no point in hanging about. Strike while the iron was hot.

To one side of the clearing was a fallen tree trunk, whose moss-covered surface afforded a convenient and quite comfortable seat. Henry had used it before. He went to sit on it now and told Valerie to stand close in front of him. Then without further ado his two knowing hands slid up under her skirt. Fingers found the waistband of her knickers and before she knew it they were down round Valerie's knees.

"Hold up your skirt, my dear," Henry said in that firm authoritarian voice. "High up round your waist."

Valerie's hands complied, without her mind fully registering it on a conscious level. She stood, trembling slightly while Henry looked, and looked with satisfaction. He had seen plenty of girls before but each one was different, each one delightful. This one seemed especially delightful. The black stockings and lowered white knickers below, and the bunched-up blue skirt above, formed a charming frame, complemented by the vertical lines of the taut suspender straps. The rest was softly swelling nubile girlhood. At the very centre, on the lower surface of the firmly rounded mound, a pouting pink split peeped through a sparse covering of soft blonde curls.

Valerie uttered a sort of gasping groan as her mind finally got a grip on what she was doing, what she was showing. A second groan was stifled as Henry Fultonby pulled her forward and over his lap, taking care to ensure that the raised skirt remained well up round her waist all round. A yelp, and ineffectual struggles, as Henry's right hand came down to clasp one slim and silkily bare buttock.

The hand stroked and squeezed... and then started smacking down. Sharp crisp smacks to the delightfully firm and resilient rump. Valerie gasped and yelped and struggled but Henry's other arm was firmly round her upper person so the struggling could only amount to anything in her nether regions. There, long slim black-stockinged legs wriggled and kicked, and prettily bare buttocks twisted and clenched. Unmoved by all this Henry smacked on, covering and recovering the springy nude flesh until it was a uniform bright pink.

At last he stopped – but only to have a rest and to pull Valerie's knickers on down. Down those long black-stockings and off over the sensible brown shoes. Henry resumed his efforts. No longer encumbered by the lowered knickers the slim legs were now able to flail freely. In the process they were also able to open innocently but immodestly wide. Henry Fultonby, concentrating now on smacking those creamy soft thighs, had a marvellous full view of what he had earlier glimpsed. Of all that a girl has to offer. Of what indeed at this stage Valerie Hartnall would certainly not dream of offering.

But a few days with Henry Fultonby's tender care could take their toll of even the shyest and most reluctant girl.

Valerie continued to wail and flail her pretty legs. Henry continued to spank energetically, and look keenly. The sun continued to shine serenely down on a scene which this pleasant glade, some two miles from Henry's residence, had seen quite a few times before.

* * * * * * * *

Crunching gravel, the Daimler rolled up a longish driveway through what looked like good-sized grounds – lawns and shrubs and some big cedars and things. The driveway terminated in a broad semicircular sweep in front of a pretty house, creepers climbing up its grey stone walls. It seemed like a nice place, not a prison exactly but Valerie, sitting next to Mr. Fultonby, thought once more of that awful spanking she had received 20 minutes earlier. There was also the fact that she did not now have any knickers on, these having been transferred to Mr. Fultonby's right hand jacket pocket.

As the Daimler pulled up there emerged from the house a pretty girl in a short summery frock. She looked about Valerie's age, but was dark rather than blonde, with big brown eyes and shoulder-length chestnut hair. Henry Fultonby, alighting from his car, greeted her in a decidedly friendly manner, putting his arms round her and then, it seemed to Valerie, putting one hand up the front of her short skirt. The girl gave a sort of ecstatic groan... and wriggled her bottom in what looked like a very appreciative manner. When this greeting had broken off she was introduced as Cynthia.

"Cynthia has been with me now for two weeks," said Mr. Fultonby, "so we have become quite good friends." Valerie, blinking, thought that she could certainly believe that.

Cynthia at least seemed nice and friendly. Helping Valerie get her things out of the car and with Mr. Fultonby safely out of earshot she said laughingly, "I don't suppose you've got any knickers on!"

Valerie did not answer but made a wry and rather unhappy face at this unwelcome reminder of recent events. Cynthia gave another bubbly laugh and evidently did not need confirmation from Valerie as to the state of play regarding knickers. "Don't worry. Mr. Fultonby always gets a girl's knickers off pretty quick. He says it's good for discipline. What he really means is its easier to get his hands on everything you've got. It can be a bit of a shock at first, of course."

Valerie's thoughts slid back to that friendly greeting between Cynthia and Mr. Fultonby. It seemed clear that Cynthia did not have knickers on either. And had Mr. Fultonby had his hand on "everything a girl's got"? She gulped. With a little shiver she followed Cynthia into the house.

It was quite a big house but it seemed that Mr. Fultonby was the only permanent resident. "Apart from girls staying" laughed Cynthia. She was the only one at present, another girl, Mary, having left two days ago. And of course there was now Valerie. "I'm glad you've come," Cynthia said. "I mean Mr. Fultonby can get to be a bit much for only one girl to handle." Whatever did that mean? Cynthia rolled her eyes and said expressively, "Oh, you know!"

Valerie didn't. Any guesses did not bear thinking about.

Mr. Fultonby had a housekeeper, Mrs. Douglas, to cook for him and everything. And there was also a gardener, Mr. Miggins. They didn't live in but both came daily from the village, Lower Grindleham, which was just a mile away. "Watch out for old Miggins," said Cynthia. "He'll do things if he gets the chance. And he knows Mr. Fultonby needs him because he couldn't get another gardener so he knows he can take liberties."

What sort of liberties? "Oh you know, fiddling about; and he'll smack your bum too although he's not s'posed to. I mean you don't want that from a common working-class man, do you Valerie?"

Valerie agreed she didn't. She didn't want it from Mr. Fultonby either. She and Cynthia had been putting her things in her room which was nice and bright with a nice big double bed. Cynthia, she had seen, in the room next door, also had a double bed. At home Valerie had a single bed which naturally was quite sufficient for a girl by herself. Mummy and Daddy in the next room at home had a double bed and Valerie knew why that was. Mummy was still a very attractive woman and she knew Daddy still wanted to do it to her. You could sometimes hear Mummy's bed creaking in a very rhythmic way when that was happening.

There had been one horrid occasion, earlier in the year, when there had been some bed creaking from the other side of the wall when Daddy had been away. When also there had been a certain visitor to the house. A man, younger than Mummy, who Mummy said was Mr. Smith. Anyway he had stayed the night, supposedly in the spare room but then later on Valerie heard that very distinct sound which had made her feel really sick. She couldn't really believe Mummy would let that Mr. Smith do it to her in her's and Daddy's bed. But Mummy had said not to bother to tell Daddy that Mr. Smith had stayed – he was a friend of her friend Mrs. Carrington and she was just obliging by putting him up. Mummy had given Valerie an extra £1 with her pocket money that week.

Valerie certainly didn't want to think about any of that but was reminded by the fact that she was now to have a double bed of her own. She sat on it and it seemed nice: not too soft and not too hard. Like the Little Bear's bed. Then she thought again of Mr. Fultonby... and the apparently awful Mr. Miggins. She went to the dressing table and took out her writing paper and fountain pen.

"Dear Mummy," she wrote, "It is very nice here and there is another nice girl but I think I should like to come home early. As soon as possible. I promise I'll be very good and make my bed and not get under your feet etc. I'd really like to come home right away."

She sealed it up and addressed it to Mrs. Hartnall because Daddy was away on business for three weeks, then put it in her blazer pocket. She would phone except obviously you couldn't phone such a sensitive message from Mr. Fultonby's house. Cynthia said it would probably be all right for them to go to the post box but they'd better check with Mr. Fultonby first. He said yes but they must be quick as it would soon be supper time. "Oh we will, Mr. Fultonby," said Cynthia coyly rolling her eyes. Henry Fultonby squeezed her bottom, and then squeezed Valerie's. And then he said they'd better put some knickers on. Cynthia said "Of course."

There were two bikes in the garage which they took. Cynthia said you were always supposed to wear knickers when you went out. Mr. Fultonby wouldn't want people to think he had a disreputable house with girls there not wearing knickers. "Especially if you're going on a bike," she said. "I mean men always look up a girl's skirt when she's on a bike, trying to see her knickers or of course even better if she hasn't got any on."

Valerie didn't think that all men did that but she knew what Cynthia meant. The post box was about half a mile and when they'd posted the letter Cynthia said they could sit down for five minutes and have a chat. She said, "If you like I can tell you what to expect. From Mr. Henry Fultonby I mean."

It did not seem too good. "You'll get a couple of pretty good canings in the first day or so. That's in the interests of discipline, of course. After that if you're a nice cooperative girl things will be a whole lot easier. On the other hand if you're not nice and cooperative you can go on getting quite nasty canings until you are."

Cynthia gave a sweet smile. "Actually I would have been cooperative without the canings. I mean I like older men, especially if it's a proper gentleman like Mr. Fultonby. But I suppose he felt he had to make sure. So I got the canings anyway. Gripes, he can really sting your bum with that cane!"

Valerie heard all this with a sort of numb feeling in her stomach. The cane! Getting your bottom smacked was awful but the cane! It didn't bear thinking about. And being cooperative: what did that mean? She didn't ask but thought again of Mr. Fultonby greeting Cynthia. Cynthia said they'd better gat back.

They had supper, a pie, quite good, prepared by the redoubtable Mrs. Douglas. Mr. Fultonby asked if the girls would like some wine. Cynthia did but Valerie said no thank-you. A smiling Mr. Fultonby said, "It's very relaxing, you know. And a girl's got to learn to relax, hasn't she?" Then after supper he said that as Valerie had had a tiring day he thought a bath and early to bed would be in order. "A nice relaxing bath," he said. Mr. Fultonby seemed very keen on a girl relaxing.

Valerie was in the bath and was feeling quite relaxed in the nice warm soapy water with bath salts and all, when suddenly Mr. Fultonby came in. There was no lock on the bathroom door and he just opened it and came in. Valerie stopped being relaxed immediately and went very pink in the face while two hands shot up to cover those two pretty medium-sized breasts.

Mr. Fultonby with a friendly look on his face sat on the side of the bath. "No need to be shy, now Valerie, is there?" And his hand firmly removed Valerie's hands from her bare front. The pert young breasts were revealed, slippery wet and with deep pink nipples sticking cheekily out as a result of their recent soaping. "Very lovely," observed Henry Fultonby. "You certainly don't want a bra for those, my girl."

His hand reached out and tweaked a nipple between finger and thumb. Valerie emitted a squeak. "No, my dear. Such lovely things need to be free, not imprisoned."

Valerie forced herself to keep still. His hand on her bare breasts and nipples was awful, simply awful. But also it was undoubtedly arousing.

What was also awful but arousing occured shortly after when, at Mr. Fultonby's behest, Valerie stepped dripping out of the bath, to be enveloped by that gentleman in a large fluffy white towel. Mr. Fultonby proceeded to dry her, very thoroughly, the towel busily reaching into every nook and cranny. Sometimes it wasn't actually the towel but Mr. Fultonby's hand instead. Right up between her legs for instance. Very knowing probing fingers... One particular knowing finger went unashamedly in, like a burrowing ferret...

When at last she was permitted to put on her pyjamas poor Valerie was really sweating – and all that relaxing effect of the bath had unfortunately been largely lost.

On shaky legs Valerie went to her bedroom – with Mr. Fultonby's hand at her bottom giving her a friendly start on her way. She closed her bedroom door – and for the first time noticed that like the bathroom there was no lock. She got into bed. Gazing up at the shadowy ceiling Valerie thought of her letter hopefully speeding its way to her nice familiar home. With any luck she might not have to spend more than two days with Mr. Fultonby and his awful hands and fingers.

Her mind drifted. She wasn't sure if she dozed off or not but at some time later she became aware that she was awake and there were noises. From Cynthia's room? The tinkling sound of Cynthia's laughter, then silence. And then a sound which she had heard before at home. The rhythmic creaking of bed springs! It couldn't be! But on the other hand what else would make that very recognisable sound?

Valerie put her head under the clothes. She thought of home. Somehow her thoughts went to that other horrid bed-creaking, when Daddy had been away. Mr. Smith. Then she felt a sudden cold shiver. Daddy was away at the moment for three weeks. What if Mummy hadn't only sent her here because she didn't make her bed, etc. What if that awful Mr. Smith was visiting? At this very moment, perhaps, was doing it to Mummy? If that was the case Valerie would not be leaving in two days; she would be here for two weeks... or three...

Valerie couldn't really believe any of this, it was too awful. She didn't believe it. But she nonetheless found she was crying; big salty tears which were making the pillow all wet.

* * *

In the morning Valerie decided it had all been a bad dream. Mr. Smith was not at her home doing it to Mummy and she also hadn't heard sound of anyone doing it next door in Cynthia's room. Cynthia in fact looked very bright and perky at breakfast; she must have had a good night's sleep, Valerie decided. After breakfast Cynthia confided that she had to help Mr. Miggins in the garden. She made a face, then added, "Still I s'pose I'd rather not be you. I 'spect you'll be getting a rather sore bum."

It was indeed Henry Fultonby's plan to give Valerie a rather sore bum first thing that morning. She was a truly delightful creature but very jumpy at the moment. She needed settling down, breaking in, in fact, so that she came to realise that the attentions of an older sophisticated male were one of life's pleasures for a young girl. The best thing to get her in the right frame of mind for this was a nice sharp shock. A good sharp caning, in fact, one that really stung that young and tender flesh. Once she'd had that – and maybe a couple more like it – the breaking-in process would be well underway.

Henry took his young protegee into his study, telling Mrs. Douglas, who had just arrived, that he didn't want to be disturbed. "I quite understand, Sir," replied that lady, licking her lips at the prospect of what she knew this pretty young person was about to receive. "You just be a good girl now, young Valerie."

Valerie was looking truly delightful this morning in a pink-flowered summery frock. Following what had been said she had with great trepidation left off her bra. Henry's hands had quickly ascertained this fact. It was a good sign, a sign of cooperation. She was, however, he also quickly discovered, wearing knickers when he had made it reasonably clear that in the confines of his house they were not necessary. He took them off; they were pink ones. Her long legs were delightfully bare today – although of course those black stockings and the suspender belt were very stimulating.

Henry settled himself in his favourite armchair and sat Valerie firmly on his lap. With one arm round her and the other hand caressing a silky bare thigh he proceeded to deliver his little lecture. On discipline. More or less what she'd got yesterday afternoon only a bit more elaborated in parts. With the intoxicating scent of her corn-coloured hair in his nostrils and the softly yielding weight of her thinly-clad body pressed against him, Henry could have gone on and on. But action was called for – and besides his very erect organ was getting a little crushed beneath her soft but by no means weightless bottom.

He pushed Valerie to her feet and got up himself. His desk was already cleared for action. When starting with a new girl Henry frequently liked to use his special position. It had an extra shock value for the recipient. "Up on the desk, my dear," he instructed. "Lie on your back and lift your legs up."

Valerie couldn't believe this, it must be another of those bad dreams. But in the bad dream she allowed herself to be helped up onto Mr. Fultonby's nice polished desk, then lay down on her back with a little cushion under her shoulders. Her legs were being lifted up and she was being told to grip underneath her knees. And then to keep nice and still. She was vaguely aware that in this dream, in this position, she was blatantly revealing all she'd got!

Then the cane came down, with a sickening CRA...ACK! And quite clearly it was not just a bad dream after all.

When he had finished caning her – eight good crisp thwacks to her bottom and upper thighs – Henry helped the sobbing girl off the desk and took her over his lap again. This time in the reversed position, i.e. face-down with brightly striped bottom nicely raised. Gently he applied some soothing cold cream. This of course was a key part of the breaking-in process. The soothing sympathetic hand softly caressing... gradually relaxing... And when she was somewhat relaxed becoming gently but firmly intrusive.

Meanwhile outside Cynthia was quite enjoying herself teasing Mr. Miggins. They were in the potting shed supposedly cleaning out pots. In fact Cynthia was sitting on the potting bench, one leg dangling free and the other with her foot up on the bench. Her raised knee disclosed an absence of knickers and also disclosed what lay at the very apex of her parted thighs. Namely a fuzzy-haired split peach, a part of Cynthia's anatomy which had seen quite extensive and very pleasant action during the past night. Opposite Cynthia, sitting on his chair, was Mr. Miggins, two flower pots in his hands but ignored as he gazed open-mouthed at this stirring sight.

Cynthia gave a tinkly laugh. "You know you really are a dirty old man, Mr. Miggins." She opened her legs a little wider to improve the view. "If I didn't have Mr. Fultonby to protect me I don't know what you'd do to me!"

Meanwhile, also, such was the excellence of the British postal service that Valerie's letter, posted yesterday afternoon, had already been delivered to her home. It was, however, lying in the hallway, unopened, and the chances were that it would remain in this position and in this state for a little while yet. For Mummy, Mrs. Elizabeth Hartnall, was not at home. A letter was at this moment on its way to Valerie explaining that Mummy had gone to stay with her friend Mrs. Carrington for a few days. The Carringtons were not on the phone but Valerie could write. She hoped Valerie was having a lovely time.

In fact at this moment Mrs. Elizabeth Hartnell was not at her friend Julia Carrington's but was in an hotel in Eastbourne. Still in bed, and protesting, but only mildly, at what her companion, male, was doing and was clearly about to do.

"Charles! Again? You'll wear me out!"

Charles, on top of Mummy at this moment, would have been recognisable to Valerie, if she could see his face, as 'Mr. Smith'.

As Charles commenced, with long smooth strokes, to do what he had already done several times to Mummy during the previous night he inquired about Valerie. How long was she staying at that place?

Elizabeth Hartnall gave a sensuous groan. "Oh... I don't know, Charles... Ooohh! She... she can stay all summer..."

NEXT MONTH!

Is he really going to do it?

Will it hurt?

Is it true, what she's heard; that it stops it 'taking' if you cross your fingers and blink very, very hard?

These and other pressing questions will be answered, when Valerie is really given something to Blush for in the January issue of Blushes

DON'T MISS IT!

Continuation of this story

A Madcap At Benningdean

Story from Privilege Plus 01.

A Madcap At Benningdean
by Glen Fairlight

'ARE you nervous?'

'Nervous?' The second girl in line, Rosamund Clarkson, giggled – but the laughter failed to reach her sparkling green eyes. 'Did you say ner-ner-ner...?'

A brief shriek, then a gulp, from Lisa Fenchurch, last of the three still waiting in the corridor outside the closed door. She too had large lustrous eyes, more blue than green, though like the two girls to her left she had long thick hair the colour of dark honey, held back from her forehead by a plain white braid.

'Shut up, you two,' she pleaded, 'or I'll wet my knickers.'

'What, your regulation navy-blues?' said the first girl, Gilly Sands, whose eyes were brown. 'Shame on you!'

'I'd commit murder for a fag,' moaned Rosamund. 'How many's been in so far?'

'Six. We're the last.'

Rosamund frowned a little worriedly. 'D'you think it'll hurt?'

'Of course it'll bloody hurt,' Gilly snorted. 'That's the whole bloody point of all this, isn't it? Believe me, if I didn't need the money...'

Rosamund put a hand behind herself, leaned forward and slapped her own bottom over the old-fashioned tartan school skirt. 'Hmm, hardly felt that.' She fumbled under the folds and slapped again. The muffled clap was surprisingly loud.

'Owp!' she owped. 'That hurt.' She grinned uneasily. 'At least I now know how a Scotsman feels inside his kilt.'

'Let me assure you,' said Gilly, 'that no way does a Scotsman feel anything like that inside his kilt.'

'Speaking from hard experience, are we?' Lisa smiled. 'If you think a little tap like that hurt, Rosie, they'll be scraping you off the ceiling before they've even got the punishment book out.'

In the preparation mirror on the wall opposite they saw again how similar each looked to the other. The school uniforms helped, of course – tartan pleated skirts of the 1920s hung to below their knees, a fawn sash tied around each slender waist, shapely calves respectably clad in grey hose. Gleaming black shoes completed the picture.

'Just look at us – we could be triplets,' said Gilly. 'Hate the tie, don't you?'

'I feel like a flippin' flapper!' This from Rosamund, trying to hide her nervousness and failing.

Only Lisa seemed relatively serene at the prospect ahead. 'You will be flapping in a minute,' she grinned. 'When I knew we were up for this I read the book.'

'A Madcap At Benningdean?' said Rosamund. 'Stupid title.'

'It's a right bodice-ripper. You should read it. Had me reaching into my knickers more than once. What we're up for today is what happens to the heroine after she's caught breaking into the headmistress's study to nick the exam results. Cor!'

'Sounds like a real yawn,' said Gilly.

'You won't be yawning soon. In the book they used a birch. Fifteen across the crown of her jacksie, knickers down.'

'What?' Rosamund stared, eyes saucering. 'I thought it was going to be a couple of quick ones with a cane over our skirts.'

'We'll find out for sure soon enough.'

They fell silent, lost in renewed contemplation. The mirror reflected three radiantly lovely young women, supposedly eighteen but each in their early twenties, bodies limber and gym-toned, each around the requisite five-foot-five and eight-stone-three, haltered breasts gently outswelling the starched cotton blouses under the grey school blazer, with the Benningdean School badge emblazoned on each top pocket, striped school ties neatly knotted at their throats.

The door beside them clicked open and a young woman in identical uniform to theirs tottered out, frantically clutching the seat of her skirt.

'Fuck me!' she gasped, turning a scarlet, tear-soaked face towards them. 'It's sodding murder! Audition? – this is for real!' She gave a choking wail and lurched off, fingers kneading her burning behind.

Rosamund gaped in horror after the sobbing figure as it disappeared towards the toilets. A thickset woman in her thirties peered round the door, greying hair trained down over her forehead to hide the lines.

'Gilly Sands?'

Gilly gulped. 'Er, suppose so.' The woman held the door wider and the girl walked past her into the room. A murmur of voices, an inner door opened and closed, then silence.

'And then there were two,' Lisa murmured.

'I'm surprised you can be so casual about it,' Rosamund said. 'I'm not worried about showing the goods – that's par for the course these days. But as for being actually whacked...' With a troubled frown she lifted her skirt again at the back and explored the springy flesh as if to test its resilience.

'Stop touching yourself up or you'll get me at it,' grinned Lisa.

'Just feeling out the territory, that's all! Virgin territory, as a matter of fact – so far as this sort of thing goes. How about yours?'

'My what?'

'What d'you think? Your arse! That thing you sit on!' Rosamund removed the hand from beneath her own skirt and slipped it boldly under Lisa's, feeling the other's knickered bottom with interested fingers. It seemed smaller and firmer than hers. 'Has this thing here ever known the kiss of anything other than a randy stud's tongue?'

Lisa slapped the hand away. 'Pack it in, you raving dyke!'

'Tell me, then!'

'If you must know, my boyfriend used to pull me over his knees a couple of times a week and spank me. Sometimes he'd use the back of a hairbrush. Other times he'd shove me over a chair and whack me with a cane. That really hurt. But we'd been doing it for ages before we packed it in.'

'Let's see!' Rosamund whipped up Lisa's school skirt, pulled back her knicker-elastic and stared at two silky-skinned buttocks of alabastrine paleness. 'Bollocks!' she said. 'There's not a mark on it.' She ran her fingers lightly over the soft mounds. They wobbled gently.

'That's 'cos we broke up a couple of weeks ago. I don't miss him much, but I do miss it. Now hands off the goods or I'll scream for a policeman.'

'But that's not fair!' blurted Rosamund, readjusting Lisa's knickers and skirt. 'Here's you with an arse that looks and feels like a nectarine peach, but has the resistance of rhinoceros hide...'

'You say such sweet things!'

Rosamund turned her back on Lisa, raised the skirt and pushed out her own bottom, tugging the knickers down. 'See that?' Lisa noted that it was larger than her own, voluptuous-looking and deeply cleft. 'Christ – don't fancy a swap, do you?' she said.

'Exactly! This is glam bum number one, right? Top of the botts. A real class ass. Men have been known to come in their pants simply looking at it. But it's never had so much as a slapping in all its life. Like I say, it just isn't fair!'

At that moment they heard something like a distant whisper and a ghostly splash – a sound already heard several times that afternoon – followed half a second later by a noise like the first wail of a bagpiper's lament. Moments later Gilly Sands exploded out into the corridor, glaring as if insane, the hem of her skirt pinned halfway up her back to expose two generous bottom-cheeks lividly marked with a network of red spindly lines.

'You poor bitches!' she managed to gasp, and then was off towards the changing rooms, hands wrenching at each wobbly mound as she dementedly danced from foot to foot.

The woman with the clipboard reappeared, shaking her head as she crossed another name off her list. 'Rosamund Clarkson,' she said, even more worriedly.

'Sorry,' Rosamund yelped. 'I just bottled out. Hang on, Gilly!' Then she was gone, sprinting off in the direction of the other's receding cries.

'Ok dear,' said the woman. 'I take it you're Lisa Fenchurch?'

Lisa nodded. 'And then there were none.' The girl braced herself and walked into an ante-office with a desk and piles of scripts on shelves. The woman offered her a hand, which Lisa shook. 'I'm Marina Pagett, the producer. I'm afraid quite a few of the others didn't seem entirely clear what would he required of them today.'

'We're auditioning as body doubles for Annabel Spearman, aren't we?'

Annabel Spearman was an international success following her performance in a low budget home-grown movie partly funded by Channel Four. The film had been a sensation, sweeping the board at Cannes and taking America by storm. Still only 22, Spearman's slender sexy body, clear green eyes, dark-honey hair and sensuous pout had earned her the apt if unoriginal tag of the 'British Bardot'. In appearance she was strikingly similar to the nine aspiring actresses who had turned up today.

And of whom the last now stood before the troubled producer.

'It's only the one scene we need a double for,' Marina explained. 'But it's of vital importance to the development of the central character.'

'Is it the one where Fiona McAllister gets birched for nicking the exam results at Benningdean Private School for Young Ladies, summer 1925?'

'My word, you have done your homework.' The producer felt a flicker of hope. 'Annabel refuses to perform the scene herself – and who can blame her?' Marina allowed herself a wan smile. 'And our director, Bryan Boone, insists on total authenticity.'

'Bryan Boone! I didn't realise...'

'It's Bryan's directorial debut. You'll know if you've read the book that the heroine is birched on the, um, bare behind in the presence of the headmistress, by one of the younger male school governors – played by Bryan, of course...'

'Who later becomes her lover.' Or, more explicitly, takes the young girl into a wonderland of sexual ecstasy previously unimagined by her!

'Why, yes.' Marina Pagett looked even more impressed. 'A full fifteen strokes, but so far no one's been able to take more than three. Bryan refuses to take it – and he's no weakling.'

Bryan Boone! Mister rugged Aussie heart-throb, strong and sensitive, pale and interesting! Lisa experienced a cascade of thrillings in the pit of her stomach. The guy was no Adonis, yet the mere thought of him made her wet. And he was the one doing the whacking!

'I will of course understand if you'd rather not go through with it...' Marina went on unhappily.

'Lead on,' Lisa said.

She was ushered through an inner door into a soundproofed room got up like an old-style headmistress's study and lit by bright lamps. The handsome male movie star-cum-director Bryan Boone, in period duds with fake moustache, watched his eighth and final victim enter. She looked, of course, remarkably similar to the other seven beauties who had already bent and bared their butts for him today. Frankly, he very much doubted whether this one would be any more stoic than the rest – and that in the end he was going to have to fake the scene and screw up the movie, all because British girls had no guts. An Aussie chick would've done it on her head, but it was too late for that now.

'This is Lisa,' Marina announced.

Boone nodded brusquely where he stood beside the waist-high stool, around which was scattered a litter of broken birch-twigs from their brief but explosive succession of whacks across seven pairs of naked buttocks. Nearby stood a bucket in which more bundles of twigs were soaking. Camera and sound stood by, alert to start filming on a nod from him. So far today they'd done bugger all except admire the scenery. Unconventional, that was Bryan Boone.

With a frown he didn't have to fake, Boone rolled up his right sleeve for the eighth time. He didn't have to work hard at being in character – a grim-visaged, black-moustached disciplinarian of the 1920s intent on flogging the buttocks of a wickedly pretty thief with far too much courage than was good for her. His suit-jacket was already off, braces hidden beneath a dark waistcoat, the stiff collar and striped necktie feeling tighter than ever. He ran a finger around the starched rim to ease his neck.

'Stand over here, girl!' he growled. Deep-voiced, menacing.

Lisa Fenchurch, becoming a tremulous 18-year-old called Fiona McAllister, trod towards the stool, head meekly bowed. Boone blinked at her – this one had something. He blinked again, and knew. Hardly able to believe it had happened, he nodded sharply. Suddenly, magically, it was the month of June some seventy summers ago, in the book-lined study of the vinegary-faced headmistress who, with long black gown and short bobbed hair, was gliding forward to stand by the stool, unyieldingly stern, ready to position her trembling charge across it.

Fiona stopped in front of the punishment stool and Miss Staplehurst glared haughtily into her face through the pince-nez. 'You know why you are here, McAllister,' came the cultured cadences of yesteryear, 'so I will waste no time in reiterating your crime and further compounding your shame. You are to be soundly birched upon your unclothed rear. Our school governor and benefactor, Mister Frencham, has kindly consented to carry out the beating!'

'Yes, Ma'am,' said Fiona, tiny-voiced. She gazed down at the stool much as Lady Jane Grey might have stared at the executioner's block, weirdly noting the seasoned wood from which it was fashioned, the swirly pattern of the grain and how smooth was its top from the countless young bodies that had bent across it. In the charged silence there came through the open window the shouts of girls at play, borne on a breeze drenched with scents of flowers and new-mown grass.

Eleanor Staplehurst, MA (Oxon.), square of shoulder, gimlet-eyed, stepped up behind the errant girl. 'Unbutton your blazer, Fiona.' Her voice was not unkind.

Tremble-fingered, Fiona did so. Womanly hands, wide and warm, eased the garment from her. The whop of a racquet against a tennis ball sucked into the room like a gulp. 'Well played!' came a distant shout. The words, sheathed in sun-heat and the tang of open spaces, chased it.

The woman stooped to grip the hem of the miscreant's school skirt and slowly raised it. Fiona McAllister was far too beautiful for her own good: lithe and limber, perfectly proportioned, bright of eye and gay of smile. Miss Staplehurst could smell the heady aroma of girlness, of boundless energy and health. She wished – oh! how she wished – that she could dip her head and kiss the nape of that pretty neck, and enfold the child, in brief embrace to give her courage.

Instead, she raised the skirt up Fiona's back and pinned the hem to the fabric of the blouse between the girl's shoulder blades. Her fingers trembled a little more as they then gripped the waistband of the dark blue school knickers and peeled them down to the middle of the girl's thighs. For several treasured moments the woman's eyes dwelt on the bared, ripely rounded buttocks, compact as an athlete's, pale as cream-hued roses, the crevice between them deeping into secret places.

'You will bend forward over the stool, girl, and grip the lowest rung.'

Fiona McAllister did not understand the shiver in the stern voice as the injunction was intoned. With unconscious gracefulness the girl bent forward until the stool-top was thrusting up beneath her belly as her weight bore down upon it. She straightened her legs, and her toe-tips touched the floor while her dangling hands sought the rung referred to.

The whop-whop-whop of a fast rally from the tennis courts thumped into Fiona's mind. Girlish laughter shrilled like seagulls. The man who was to apply the birch had not been what she had expected: no grey-bearded corpulent with snuff-stained whiskers and blood-rimmed eyes this school governor! Rather he was tall and manly and hardly more than five-and-thirty. And handsome – Lord! This could surely be neither right nor decent, Fiona thought, squirming in acute embarrassment on the stool-top and not feeling the slightest bit of a madcap now!

'Be still!' His voice was deep. It thrilled into Fiona's skin-pores like an itch and set off a storm in her brain. His footfalls sounded quick and soft as he stepped up behind her. She had not heard him reach into the bucket and withdraw a bundle of birch-twigs; yet now there came a faint plipping as the drops ran off them, and a rattling swish as he shook the weapon in his fist.

Oh woe, sweet maiden, so unconsciously beloved! As your heart fluttered in your breast like a trapped sparrow, in terror of the torrents of pain soon to explode across your petal-soft haunches, you could not in your innocence guess how your back-stretched legs, parted a little for balance, afforded your mentor breathcatching glimpses of your maidenhair and the pinky succulence nestling within. You could not hear how his heart hammered, nor how his breath ached to gasp aloud at so forbidden a sight you presented to him on that torrid afternoon, with the full-moon mounds of your bottom presented as a feast to his senses.

The exquisite offering to the gods of justice tensed, gripping the lowest stool-rung, and Eleanor Staplehurst gazed upon her own vision of perfection. Angus Frencham sighted on his enchanting target, drew back his arm and, with a groan more akin to ecstasy than effort, swept the birch-rod down. The twigs splatted against the rumpy curves of pallid flesh, sending up a spray of droplets as they struck and inspiring a loud gasp from the prostrated maiden.

Far from the wet wands cooling Fiona's nether-cheeks, they had felt like the abrupt arrival of a firestorm there! Standing at the girl's head, Miss Staplehurst felt the shock of the stroke vibrate through her body, and neither she nor Fiona had time to draw full breath before another stroke blasted down.

Swossshhh!

A tremor ran up Angus Frencham's arm as the birch struck those divine rumps again. A screech tore from the girl's throat, her body juddered and her right foot kicked involuntarily upwards, yet she stayed in place. For a moment he paused, gazing in awe at pearly peaches pinkening as a tracery of spidery lines claimed those sweet summits. In some errant part of his mind he wanted to sink to his knees and bury his face against the ferociously smarting globes, quenching the fires with kisses.

Instead, he concentrated on the task at hand. Six more times he swung the birch with studied firmness, noting how greedily the twigs lapped and spread across the tautly stretched skin of that beauteous bottom as though to possess every inch of their silken surfaces! Almost he forgot that these perfectly proportioned female buttocks were not some separate entity ordered up in a dream for his delights, but an integral part of the anatomy of an eighteen-year-old woman who had committed a grievous wrong and must perforce be punished. Her cries and tormented gasps came grudgingly as she struggled to contain them. It was this, he later realised, that so warmed his blood and drew his soul towards her; for valour under fire during those dreadsome weeks in the trenches on the Somme was something Lieutenant Angus Frencham had signally lacked.

Hwosn - hwosh - hwosh. Fiona McAllister wrenched so hard at the strut she was gripping, the surprise was that it did not snap. The harsh hisses of hurtling birch-twigs, the succession of blazing pains as they struck her naked buttocks again and again, the animal gruntings of the man, the strange little signs emanating from Miss Staplehurst, all coalesced in the girl's whirling mind into a single mad sound. The entire surface of Fiona's bottom had become a sea of ice and fire through which pain seethed and lapped, while the punishing arm continued to rise and fall with unremitting regularity and appalling severity.

Hwosh - hwosh - hwosh. The conflagration in Fiona's bottom has reached its white-hot zenith. Strange scents gradually overwhelmed those of ink and wood and carpet and dusty books and new-mown grass: the tang of Miss Staplehurst's second-rate perfume mixed with traces of something the girl could by no means as yet define; something base and animal which made her want to heave her hinder parts brazenly upwards to greet the cruel chastiser! As the fists of the punished pupil wrenched and her body juddered and writhed and she cried out again and again, she saw the carpet and the feet and sensible stockings of her headmistress through a blur of salty wetness as her bottom, prickling and burning, jerked lewdly about...

Hwoooshhh!

A scream – her scream – echoed and re-echoed in her ears. The birching had ceased and a man's voice was roaring in magnificent baritone:

'Oh, my beauty! Oh God, you're terrific! I'll love you forever!'

'Fifteen!' screeched Eleanor Staplehurst, MA (Oxon.). 'My word, that was absolutely fantastic, Lisa! Well done, well done!'

Who on earth was Lisa, and why was the headmistress hugging her? The noises of girls at play outside had been replaced by the click of a clapper-board ending the shot, and excited masculine voices close at hand.

'We've got it, got the lot in one!' The camera operator looked up, grinning hugely.

Strong hands were helping her up from the stool, and Bryan Boone was smiling into her sweat-damp, flushed and tear-streaked face.

'Christ, you were marvellous! We were soaring, really soaring – didn't you feel it?' There was no feigning his admiration. 'What was your name again?'

'Fiona McAllister.'

A roar of mirth. 'I love it, I love it! You be Fiona and I'll be Angus, eh? That lovely brave backside of yours'll get an Oscar as "Best Supporting Artist" for sure!'

'I'll have to walk up backwards to get the award, then,' she winced. Her bottom seethed and burned. Make-up were applying cooling douches and smearing cream over its crimsoned cheeks, while Wardrobe stood by with a robe to cover her modesty.

'Fancy a drink and a bite to eat when we've cleared up here?' the famous voice was murmuring in her ear. 'Just the two of us – Fiona and Angus, eh? There's something he's busting his old-fashioned balls to discuss with this sweet little flower of blossoming womanhood.'

'If you don't mind a "sweet little flower" who has to eat standing up,' Lisa said. She tried to get her mind around all the amazing things that were due to happen between the two of them in the chapters which followed the birching. Shaky with excitement, she reached for a towel and surreptitiously wiped.

'I must warn you,' she added when her voice had calmed a little, 'that I take very big bites...'

On The Couch

Story from Swish Vol.4 No.9

On The Couch

Going to see a lay psychiatrist was only really to find out whether she liked being spanked or not. Suzi felt sure she hadn't made up her mind about it. Well.... not quite.....

* * *

"So tell me your problem," Mervyn said and sat back in his big leather chair while his new patient laid herself on the couch in his consulting room.

Mervyn was a lay psychiatrist – highly-intuitive and well-trained, but without medical qualifications. His clientele included a number of attractive females, but none prettier and more shapely than Suzi whose miniskirt had already drawn up halfway along her thighs. A girl who would remain young-looking until she was thirty at least, Suzi gave the outward impression of being no more than seventeen whereas in fact her nineteenth birthday would fall in two weeks time. Beneath a tightly-fitting fawn jumper her breasts mounded like small melons, the nipples seeking like small bell-pushes to peak into the fine wool. Tightly-girded by her self-supporting nylons, her thighs were richly-fleshed without being fat. Her nose was small, her mouth petal-like.

Mervyn wondered vaguely and unprofessionally if she had been screwed yet. He waited patiently for her reply to his first opening words. Patients were often stubborn or afraid to come out with things. It was one of the reasons for having them in the most relaxed position, lying down.

"It's about..." Suzi began and stopped. A pointed pink tongue sneaked out for a moment between her lips and then retreated. Still Mervyn waited. One must never prompt a patient on, or certainly not in the beginning. You had to make them let their own minds flow. Once the seal of silence was broken it became easier. As for Suzi, the white ceiling seemed to hypnotise her. It reminded her of her own ceiling in her bedroom, the way it seemed to whirl above her sometimes after she had been.....

"Spanked...." she heard herself say suddenly and stopped. A mad desire to giggle almost overcame her. "I mean I've been spanked, or I think I have." Still Mervyn did not speak. He'd heard everything, anyway. A spanking was as nothing to things he'd heard from the couch. The Sunday newspapers weren't in it as far as private confessions went. Was she complaining?

Suzi cleared her throat and wondered crazily why she had come. Maybe she wanted to confess, and to someone safe. He seemed a nice man – about forty-five-ish. She liked older men. They were more masterful than boys of her own age who were mainly just stupid. "I'm not sure whether it's just a fantasy, you see," she heard herself saying now. It was best if she half closed her eyes and didn't stare up into the ceiling. The giggle she had tried to suppress escaped her suddenly. "Sometimes I have a bottle of wine, or more than that, in the evenings after work, you see, and it makes me feel swimmy. I don't mean drunk, or anything, not on white wine. Just nice."

"You get spanked for drinking a whole bottle?" Mervyn asked. It was too soon to ask, but something in her voice told him she was about to break. "Uh-huh," Suzi said cloudily. Perhaps that wasn't fair, though – perhaps that wasn't the real reason. "I'm untidy, too – I leave my room untidy, and sometimes, especially on Saturday nights I don't get in until half-past one or two and if I've forgotten my key, well, that adds to it."

"Yes," Mervyn said. It could take weeks sometimes to separate facts from fantasy in some patients' minds. Patience was all. Sometimes people paid him fees, he thought, just to express their fantasies to someone. The thoughts of her undoubtedly beautiful, tight round bottom which her skirt outlined but otherwise concealed crossed his mind.

"I s'pose I always think I won't get it, but I do. I believe I do, I mean sometimes I think I dream it as well. It's been months now since it started. I don't make a row about it, though, honestly I don't, but he does smack me hard, really hard." A small sigh escaped her. With her lips parted she looked as pretty as an angel. Whether she was as innocent as one Mervyn was beginning to doubt, but even virgins could have the most erotic dreams.

"Sometimes, if I'm let in by the kitchen, it's over the table," Suzi went on. "Other times I manage to get upstairs, but then I'm spanked on the bed..." Her eyes closed tightly. She could hear herself sobbing "WHOO-OOO!" as the palm came down again and again on her defenceless and un-knickered bottom, her panties looped around both ankles like they were tied. "YAH!" she would screech into her pillow, stuffing one corner into her mouth to muffle her cries. It was true she never really made a loud noise. In the beginning when she had done, it made her get even harder smacks until her tight bottom cheeks were fully invaded by a blazing fire that made her stockinged legs stiffen out as if she were trying to stretch the searing sensation away.

"It hurts very much?" Mervyn asked softly. He had a feeling this was going to get nowhere. Could be she would be one of those who came only once, paid their fee on receipt of his bill, and then never reappeared.

"Yes," Suzi breathed. There was a funny tightness in her chest when she thought about it. "It used to be through my skirt at first, but then after a few times he pulled it up and...." And took it off, she thought. Perhaps she didn't ought to say that. Being clasped around her slender waist, she had kicked lightly, feet lifted off the floor as her zip was unfastened. Once her skirt had fluttered to the floor there was nothing she could do about it. Nor about having her knicks peeled down, right down her legs, hands floating over her silky thighs, her stocking tops, and tickling the backs of her knees.

"What I mean to say is, it doesn't hurt for a long time," she heard herself telling the psychiatrist now. "In your fantasies or otherwise?" he asked, doodling on his pad. "B...both, I s'pose. Of course in my fantasies I can't really feel it. I can imagine the scorching sensation but it's not the same...."

Not when he had firm hold on her it wasn't the same. His arm was like a steel clamp around her twenty-one inch waist. She could kick as much as she liked, but it didn't help her get out of it. With her panties down it made her show herself more. Nowadays when he got her panties down on a Saturday night it was like he was staring at her bare bottom for a long time before he gave her the first jelly-bouncing SMACK! which always made her suck in her breath.

Sometimes he would even say to her, in the midst of it – perhaps after the fourth or fifth big burner – "Keep your legs still." And miraculously she would. The funny thing was that it never made her really cry – she didn't know why, because it did sting so deeply. Every smack, layered on top of the next, made it worse. The stinging heat deepened and built up until she knew there was nothing she could do to shake it off. Every time she squeezed her hot bum-cheeks defensively and yelped, he would stop until he could see her relax them and it seemed awful that he could actually see that.

"Are you saying you are trying to escape from your – er – fantasies?" Mervyn asked. In twenty minutes time he had another client. She was far more interesting than this pretty but silly slip of a girl. Her fantasies involved three men at once and were extremely erotic. The only similarity between her and Suzi was that she sometimes liked to be whipped first. Maybe, he pondered, all such women were little girls at heart, knowing they had to be punished for their sins, or wanting to be.

"I s'pose – I don't know. Oh look, I shouldn't have bothered you really," Suzi burst and suddenly sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the couch in a manner that gave him a heart-stopping view of the view of her tiny panties – well-wadded by curls, he saw.

"You're not bothering me – you're paying me for it," Mervyn said dryly. Panic like this was often a symptom that the patient desired to escape from their own would-be confessions. "Let's take it step by step. When did you last fantasise? Yesterday? Today? This morning?"

"L...l...last night," Suzi began and blushed. She wanted to slide off the couch but she seemed stuck. It had begun on the couch. She had finished a bottle of Blue Nun and felt nice. When he came and sat beside her and put an arm round her shoulders just as the Play Of The Week finished on TV she had felt quivery and expectant. With a start she had felt his free hand settle slyly on her thigh. "What are you doing?" she had asked. The last moment of the play faded out but she had gone on staring at the screen. "Feeling if you're warm," he had replied.

"I am."

"Botty nice and warm?"

"Yes. Stop it! Oh, you're not going to spank me tonight – I haven't done anything."

"A whole bottle of wine you've polished off again."

"That's not a reason." The news was coming on. She didn't want to watch the news. His hand was still on her thigh. "Look – I'm going to have a bath," she had quavered suddenly, wondering why her voice sounded funny. "Hey, look! What are you DOING?" Her voice had become a panicky shriek. Sliding one arm under both thighs he had lifted her clear off the settee. "Stop it – NO!" she had squealed. Her arms, legs, had swung as she had felt herself being carried into the hall. Trying in vain to grab at the bannister rail, her alarmed cries had rung through the house.

All this spilled out from her now – but then she stopped. Her silence this time was final, Mervyn felt. He closed his notebook. "Next time perhaps we can take it further," he said. There seemed more to it than she was telling him. It would all come out in the end – if she came back. "Yes," Suzi lisped doubtfully. It was just a silly, panicky thing that had made her come really. She wasn't ever going to talk about it any more. Not ever again, she told herself firmly as she left the building and went to the tube. Or made to go to it.

A wine bar attracted her as she passed along and she went in. It wasn't very nice to go in on one's own, but there were others of her own age group there and nobody noticed. The first bottle of white wine slid down beautifully. Then she had a half bottle for a chaser. WHOOO... she felt good now – much better. What a stupid thing to go and see that daft psychiatrist. Well – not daft really. He might have spanked her himself if she had gone on any further. The very thought made her bottom cheeks tighten under her panties as she went down an escalator.

Maybe if she'd told him all about that spanking last night, he would have spanked her, too, Suzi pondered. She had wriggled like a fish – like never before. "I've not DONE anything!" she had squealed twice more even as her knickers were being peeled down. It was really awful that he hadn't even answered her. Spun over on to her tummy with her legs slipping to the floor, her bottom had gleamed, exposed. "NO!" she had begun to blubber even as his free hand came down – his other being laid flat in the small of her back. "YES!" the reply had come back to her and, scrabbling with her fingers on the raised pattern of the bedcover, she had felt the first sting her hard.

"No please, no please, no please!" she had sobbed – quite over-dramatically as it turned out because he didn't smack her pert bottom as hard as he sometimes did. Her hips jerked to every downward SPLAT! of his palm and she could feel her cheeks reddening. "NOOOO!" she whined again and again, her legs twisting about. "All right, all right," he had soothed and suddenly the smacks were even gentler, though she jumped still to each one. The burning, the stinging, had come much more slowly, too. Little bubbling cries of "OH!" escaped her with each one, but she kicked less. A swirly, sickly, sweet feeling was building up under the emerging heat in her polished bottom. Surreptitiously as he smacked – sometimes each cheek separately, sometimes across both together – Suzi began to rub her pussy against the ribbed covering. Her small muffled cries grew softer now though a little "OW!" escaped her occasionally. Beneath his other hand her jumper was wrinkling up more and more until her bra showed.

Bubbling softly, her mind in a haze, Suzi had lifted her bottom a little – to escape the smacks higher up, she told herself dizzily as her hips churned, but to her own surprise it was really to feel a couple under the swell of her cheeks. "PMFFFF!" she had gasped as she got it there. I felt different there, as if his palm were coming in deeper. The rich, sweet feeling between her thighs was growing – she was melting. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! "WHOOOO!" – the shuddering whimper burst from her. Her legs straightened. Careless of their spreading she had rubbed herself wildly on the bedcover and then gasped out a real, warning "NO!" as she collapsed and lay quivering.

His hand no longer fell. Squeezing each bottom cheek on the other tightly, Suzi had felt a second exquisite orgasm shimmer through her and then she had gone limp. It was then that he had unclipped her bra and rolled her over....

The wine was sweet on her breath. Maybe she'd have another when she got in. Before supper. Yes. What the hell. He could spank her as often as he liked. If she wanted to do her own thing, she would. And after last night.... No, I must have fantasised that bit, she told herself. Geting home at last, she tossed her handbag on to a chair and went straight to the fridge. There was always a bottle waiting. Leaning against a kitchen unit, she sipped the cool liquid as if it were her first of the day. She could hear his typewriter rattling away upstairs in the study. Another novel that he was working on. She enjoyed reading them. It was flattering when he asked her opinion about them while he was still working on them.

Pouring a second glass, she started as he entered the kitchen unheard. "Working late today?" he asked and picking up the bottle took a quick swig from the neck. Suzi hated him doing that. Trying to look all macho, she thought. She nodded. There was something coming, she knew it. And it came immediately.

"So, how did your visit go, Suzi?"

The question took her aback and she blushed – infuriated with herself that she did so. "What d'you mean?" she flared. "I was passing by near Harley Street – saw you come out. Couldn't stop – I was in the thick of traffic," he told her. Suzi sneered, "Oh yeah?" and made to go past him, but his hand took her arm. "So what did you say?" he asked quietly. Her lips trembled. "I told him everything – every bloody thing, the way you spank me and....."

Nothing seemed to faze him, she thought and leaned back against his grasp on her elbow. "Feel better now that you've said that? And what did it cost?" he asked. Suzi shook her head with quick, embarrassed impatience. "Oh – I dunno – the bill's in my bag." He cocked his head, smiled and said, "Go fetch it."

"Go fetch it yourself!" she almost blared, but as so often to her own surprise she obeyed. She hadn't bothered to unfold it before. "Thirty POUNDS? And who's going to pay it – you?" he asked, eyebrows raising. Suzi stared at the floor. "I can draw it out of my savings," she mumbled. It was stupid. He was making her feel like a schoolgirl or something. His hand lifted her chin, her eyes defiant in his. "You mean I'LL pay – right? You'll borrow from me and I'll never see it again, as usual."

And as usual in what was outwardly a serious situation, Suzi wanted to giggle. It was a nervous habit, she told herself, but inside she felt a funny sense of relief that he knew about it. "Are you going to get supper ready, or are you going to drink wine all night?" he asked. The relief was so great that she laughed. "Yes, sorry, all right." She brushed past him towards the cupboard, trembling inwardly as he went to go. At the door he turned and asked, "I suppose you told him you hated being spanked?"

Suzi hunched her shoulders, her back to him. She wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. "No – I didn't – oh, I dunno." She couldn't remember if she had said that or not. "Then why did you go?" He had come up behind her again, his hands lightly on her shoulders. His voice was gentle. She could feel her bottom bulbing into his flies. "Don't!" she gritted and tried to resist as he turned her about, making her sag against him. "I don't want you to become a semi-alcoholic, you know," he told her and stroked her hair. Suzi's legs trembled. "I only really have about three bottles a week," she mumbled.

"Or four," he said and lifted her face. A smile came to her lips that she couldn't suppress. "You DO spank me hard, sometimes," she said, but it was only half an accusation, and she knew it. "Yes," he answered quietly and kissed her cheeks. Suzi wriggled away. "Oh go on with you – I want to get the supper ready," she said. He nodded and went out, but despite their making-up, as it seemed to her, there was still a tension that she knew she had created.

After supper, when they had had coffee in the lounge, he took her wrist as she made to pass by him and drew her down into his lap. Suzi gave a little start of resistance and then relaxed. "Thirty quids worth of spanks," he murmured and she giggled. His hand stroked her thighs and her hip where it curved out. Suzi hid her face. "Not if you do it hard," she whispered and couldn't believe she had said it. "You have to pay for your sins, don't you, Suzi?" Her eyes were shut tight. He was lifting her up again, the way he had the night before. Her arms clung to his neck as he carried her upstairs. "I don't want to," she mumbled.

When he laid her down on the bed and raised her skirt she clutched protectively at the pillow and gasped a little "OOOH!" of surprise as he bent and coursed his lips lightly over the half-bared cheeks which bulged out on either side of the backstrap of her panties. Her eyelids closed and tightened as he took the waistband and peeled them down, drawing them off her ankles. "Lift your bottom," he said quietly, and when she did he unzipped her skirt and drew it off in turn.

A little whimper escaped her, but he drew her hips higher, making her knees draw in towards her waist. "Oh, PLEASE!" she hissed as his hand came between her stockinged knees and levered them apart. Then a sharp, short squeal escaped her as a single hard smack landed on her bared cheeks. "OW!" she jerked and he laughed. "Well – you deserve it – don't you, Suzi?" She couldn't answer – she couldn't. Her silence with her face buried in the pillow said it for her. "Suzi – I want you to ask me to," she heard. I can't, I can't, she told herself and buried herself deeper in her self-imposed darkness, hips jolting as another hard, unexpected SMACK! caught her on her exposed cheeks.

"Yes! Yes – SPANK ME!" she screeched. Her shoulders hunched more, her bottom a naked bulb of desire that she could no longer hide. Knees wider apart, the pursed lips of her quim visible in their nest of curls beneath the split cheeks, Suzi jolted and surged her hips to every incoming SPLAT! of his palm. "YEEE-AAAARGH! YEEE-OOOH!" she screeched and gritted on and on, knowing now that her cries were an outward part of her desire to yield to it – to yield as never before to the burning and the stinging.

"Go on – oh, go on!" she heard herself crying out madly. She hated it, wanted it – oh God, it stung! The heat was burning his palm almost as much as it blazed within her. The redness of her cheeks shone above the pallor of her thighs where the tops of her self-supporting nylons bit tight. Sixteen... seventeen.... she had lost count. And he wasn't stopping. Starshells burst in her tummy, her bottom rotating as if on ballbearings. "No, no, NO!" she heard herself screeching, but unheld as she was Suzi made no attempt to escape the relentless SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! that came in again and again until – arching her back and with a long whimper moan – she fell flat on her tummy, wriggling her belly madly on the coverlet until her jerking sobs and moans died away and her bottom cheeks tightened against the awful exquisite, dual sensations she was enduring.

Stroking her hair, he waited long and patiently until only her soft whimpers were heard, her lipstick and mascara smeared on the pillow with her tears.

"That's better – that's better now," he said softly and rolled her gently over. The contact of her hot bottom on the coverlet made her jerk. "I c...can't... I can't lie st...still," she sobbed and rolled over on her hip away from him, facing the wall. "You're not going to spank me again – not ever – you're not!"

"I know," he soothed. They both knew it wasn't true. Biting her lip and closing her eyes again, Suzi squeezed her raging bottom cheeks tight together. Riding through these first minutes afterwards was almost the worst part – waiting for the stinging to die away within her pert cheeks and the greater, flooding warmth to invade her. Then she could relax into the throbbing. Relax.

His lips kissed her ear and it tickled. "You've been on the couch and now you're on the bed – which d'you like best?" he whispered. Holding herself tight, Suzi felt his hands slip up under her top and unclip her bra, freeing the firm, jellied mounds. The stiff thorns of her nipples quivered.

She wasn't going to tell him. Not ever. She wasn't going to tell anyone....