From Janus 36
Saturday, 15 June 2019
Friday, 14 June 2019
From Blushes 55
He recognised her easily enough: a tallish good-looking young woman (he knew she was 23) with bobbing brown hair and in the navy-blue suit he had been told she was wearing today. A nice-looking shape he observes as he turned to follow her into the car park. Nice legs and bottom in the tight skirt and good legs in white high heels. Yes this was Mrs Sandra Morfield, a secretary with Acme Insurance, now at 5.30 leaving their office to head home and get her husband Martin’s tea — if she felt in the mood or not. As yet of course she didn’t know this.
She was shortly looking round in bewilderment, because her Escort which she had left here this morning was gone. He watched her for a few minutes, enjoying her growing distress: she knew she had left it here… Then he stepped forward, smiling.
‘Mrs Morfield? Sandra Morfield?’ She turned anxious blue-grey eyes on the stranger.
‘It’s not here. Your car. Your husband had to take it. But don’t worry, I’m going to give you a lift. We haven’t met but I’m a friend of your husband. James Ritman.’
Sandra accepted it because why shouldn’t she? He was a plausible-enough seeming person, in his forties probably in a neat suit and tie, tall, reasonable-looking. She had never got into the car of a complete stranger before but now she had no reason not to. Afterwards of course she told herself she should never have gone with him but how could she have known?
It took about five minutes in the black Rover before she could see they weren’t going towards Sunningdale Drive. ‘You should have turned left there,’ she said. He didn’t answer. Then, ‘You can turn left here.’ He glanced at her and grinned. And kept straight on.
‘Where are you’ going?’ she demanded. Her heart was suddenly thumping.
‘It’s all right. Nothing to be alarmed about.’
They were heading out in the opposite direction from her house. She could feel panic rising. ‘Look… If I’m not home Martin… my husband… he’ll call the police.’
He grinned again. ‘No he won’t. He knows. He arranged this. Or agreed to it at least. It seems you haven’t been behaving too well Mrs Morfield. So… you’ve got to have a little lesson. Then you’ll behave yourself. Because you won’t want to have another lesson.’
His words hit her like a shock of cold water. It was as if she was suddenly in a bad dream. For the moment she wondered if she might be dreaming it. But no, it wasn’t a dream, the car, this man, James Ritman if that was his name, were real enough.
‘Look… you can’t do this. I… I’ll certainly report it.’ He didn’t bother to answer.
Sandra thought of Martin. It wasn’t possible. But it was true that they hadn’t been getting on lately. Petty disagreements, and some bigger ones. And partly as a result Sandra had started seeing someone else. But Martin didn’t know that, couldn’t know it. Could he? That she had been seeing Steven Canby. Had let him… do it a couple of times. Fuck her. The thought that Martin could somehow have found this out and was taking some sort of action was like a sudden icy hand griping her stomach. No, she couldn’t believe it.
They were out of the town and on the motorway. It was October and already dark but were heading south, towards London. A couple of times she tried to speak, to threaten this James Ritman in confident tones. But it didn’t come out that way, she sounded scared even to herself. He didn’t answer. Sandra wondered about Martin, if he really knew about this. They reached the edge of London, into suburban streets, the car twisting and turning. It was not an area she knew. Finally they stopped.
He turned to her and gave her the grin. ‘OK Sandra. Here we are.’
She tried to refuse to get out. The grin quickly disappeared and his face became hard, his voice a menacing growl. ‘If you don’t cooperate Mrs Morfield…’ The unfinished threat was quite enough.
James Ritman hurried her across the dimly-lit street into a building, a newish block of flats. Up a flight of stairs. She couldn’t believe this, it had to be a bad dream. She thought again.
In their house on Sunningdale Drive Martin Morfield glanced at his watch. It was 6.30. He was sitting at the kitchen table but hadn’t eaten, didn’t feel like eating. He was wondering about Sandra. Thinking that perhaps he shouldn’t have agreed to it. She would normally have been back long before now of course — except that lately she hadn’t always got back at the regular time. And now since a couple of weeks ago he knew why. That was why she wasn’t here tonight: someone was going to sort it out for him. Sort Sandra out. But it was an unknown someone, Martin didn’t know him, it was someone Derek Purland knew. Or maybe someone whom an acquaintance of Derek Purland knew. At any rate Martin certainly didn’t know him, nor did he really know what he was going to do.
‘He can sort her out,’ Derek Purland had said. ‘You won’t have any more problems afterwards.’ And Martin had agreed because he had been feeling really sick. Derek had just told him about Steven Canby. That Sandra had been seeing him. ‘He’s banging her,’ Derek said. ‘If you don’t mind me speaking bluntly.’ Derek Purland knew because Steven Canby had told him, in confidence and unaware that Derek knew Martin. Canby was a colleague of Sandra at Acme Insurance. Apparently he had been a sympathetic listener to her marital problems and had traded on the sympathy to get what he wanted. ‘He’s banging her,’ as Derek said. ‘Two or three times a week. Lunch time or right after work.’
Martin looked at his watch again. 6.35. He knew there was no point looking at his watch every couple of minutes but he couldn’t help it. He shouldn’t have agreed to it but when Derek had told him he had felt so sick he would have agreed to anything. ‘You can’t do it yourself,’ Derek had said, ‘you need someone else, a third party. Someone who can be objective, and hard. This bloke can be very hard with women. I think he’s been in that sort of thing, reformatory or something. He won’t mark her up or anything but… he’ll certainly sort her out.’
Martin chewed his lip, remembering what Derek had said. He shouldn’t have agreed to it. Where was she now; where had he taken her? ‘You don’t want to know any details, you’ll just be worrying,’ Derek had said. That was a laugh, how could you help it? But there was no point looking at his watch every two minutes, she wouldn’t be back before the morning. ‘He’ll want to keep her overnight,’ Derek had said. Jesus Christ!
In the brightly-lit hallway of the flat James Ritman said, ‘Right Mrs Morfield. We can start right away. In that bedroom and take all your clothes off. I’ll find you one or two little things to put on, but a young woman who’s being disciplined doesn’t want to be wearing a lot does she?’
No she couldn’t believe it. Sandra wondered for the moment if she could be with some kind of madman. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she spluttered. ‘If this is your idea of a joke… Look if you let me go, right now, I won’t make a complaint or report it. Just let me go.’
He didn’t answer but turned abruptly to go into one of the rooms. She could feel herself trembling. Perhaps it was a joke and he would now let her go. She looked anxiously round the, hall, as if there might be some clue to what she had got into. But it was just an ordinary-looking place, nothing remarkable. She turned… and the dreadful man reappeared. Now… He had a cane in his hand. A long thin murderous looking cane.
‘If you don’t get in there this instant Mrs Morfield and get all your things off I shall tear them off, and then bend you over a chair and give your bare backside such a thrashing that you won’t want to sit on it for a week.’
You couldn’t argue with that. Not with that cane in his hand and the look in his eyes that clearly said he was quite capable of doing it. Sandra stumbled into the bedroom. All her clothes off he had said. It was impossible but… that cane. She felt close to tears. She had no choice. Her hands fumbled at the buttons of her suit jacket.
Sandra had the jacket off and her skirt and slip too when James Ritman entered the bedroom five minutes later carrying a little handful of clothes. Five minutes was plenty of time for anyone to get out of their clothes, if they made any attempt at it. She should have been nude.
‘I thought I told you to make it snappy,’ he gritted placing the things on the bed. ‘I can see you do need a taste of the cane Mrs Morfield.’ But Sandra Morfield was enticing enough, attired in white bra and matching brief knickers plus sheer beige nylons fastened with a white suspender belt. Yes very enticing. She had her hands protectively in front of her boobs and pussy. And now made desperate pleading noises.
‘Yes you do need it. Stand up straight, get your hands away. Let’s have a look at you.’
Sandra forced herself to drop her hands to her sides.
‘Not bad. Very nice in fact. But you’ve not been playing the game have you? Not keeping it for your husband.’
Sandra felt another of those icy grabs at her insides. He knew. So Martin must know. ‘I… don’t know what you mean.’
‘No? What I mean is opening those good-looking legs and letting this other bloke stick his thing up. Is that clear enough?’
She could feel herself flushing. ‘D… Don’t be cr… crude. And anyway it’s ridiculous. A mistake. My husband… he can’t possibly know anything about this.’
‘Oh no. No mistakes Mrs Morfield. Now… take that bra off. Let me see your tits. I mean you’re not shy of showing them to this other bloke, are you?’
Sandra started to protest. He asked her again if she wanted the cane. So she did it. He made her put her hands down at her sides again. He came close, a little grin on his face. His eyes on her face and on her tits. Sandra’s nipples were half-erect. James Ritman’s hands came out. ‘Keep still,’ he hissed. He took hold of her nipples. Pulling them. Squeezing them.
‘Yes Mrs Morfield. We’ve got to teach you a lesson, haven’t we?’
She yelped as his fingers squeezed harder, hurting. ‘Don’t! Don’t!’
He let go. ‘Take the rest of your things off and put on what’s on the bed. You can put your shoes back on. I’m giving you two minutes to do it and get out in the hall. After two minutes I’ll be in here with the cane.’
He went out. Whimpering, Sandra grabbed the things on the bed. A tiny micro-skirt, white-and-pink striped. A tiny pair of white bikini knickers. A slim-strapped white suspender belt. Sheer white nylons. And something else: a little white apron it looked like. Making half-sobbing noises she frantically stripped off her own remaining garments. Two minutes…
Two minutes was perhaps an impossible target. Sandra was quick but not quite that quick. James Ritman reached for her as she reappeared on tottery legs, turning her and grabbing her nude tits again. Pinching her nipples again.
‘You missed the deadline Sandra. I don’t think you’re trying. You probably think this is a little game. Either that or you’re thinking about your fancy man’s cock. Just thinking about having his cock up you and so you can’t concentrate. Is that it?’
‘No!’ she yelped. ‘And don’t. Oooh! That hurts!’
He pinched the sensitive nipples harder. ‘You need to be hurt Sandra. When you’re just used to pleasure. Illicit pleasure. And you’re lucky your husband has taken this way out. He could divorce you. But instead he’s decided to have you sorted out. You’re a lucky girl. But of course you’ve got to be hurt. To make sure you learn your lesson.’
James Ritman was really pinching her nipples, it was excruciating. She yelled out. ‘No… ooo! Stoppit! I… I’m not going to see him… any more. No I won’t. But… sto… ooopp!’
He let go of her and stepped back. Sandra stood on shaking legs, whimpering, her hands going to her aching nipples which were now sticking firmly out, bright red. She was an appetising sight all right in the little micro-skirt with the tiny apron tied in front and her long legs in the sheer white nylons. Long shapely legs tottery in the white high heels as if they might collapse at any moment.
‘Take your hands away from them,’ he told her. ‘That was nothing. We need to start something a bit more serious now. Come on.’
Her nipples still throbbing, Sandra followed him to the kitchen-dining area. Her dazed mind turned again to Martin. Surely he couldn’t have arranged this, he was basically a pleasant and easy-going person. They had been having their arguments but Sandra knew it was really mostly her fault. Because she wanted a little more excitement, wanted to go out when Martin preferred to stay in. That was why she had let Steven Canby persuade her, because it was exciting. Really incredibly exciting at times, when she let him do it to her and knowing that she shouldn’t, that she was cheating on Martin. But now if Martin had found out. And clearly he had found out.
‘Stand here and lift your arms up,’ James Ritman said in the doorway of the kitchen. ‘Stand with your legs apart and holding onto the top of the door frame. Wrists crossed.’
Sandra complied, silent but whimpering she saw he had changed his jacket for a dark sweater. But more to the point he held in his hand a leather slipper. Through her head ran the frantic thought: he was going to beat her with it… but at least it wasn’t that cane.
‘We’ll start you off with this.’ He held the black leather slipper in front of her face. ‘This first and then maybe the other, eh?’ Sandra jerked her head back as the slipper was pushed in her face. He laughed. ‘Not that it’s necessarily an easy start. A man would take the skin off a girl’s bum with this. If he put his mind to it.’
James Ritman knelt in front of her and ran his hands up under the tiny skirt. Hooking his fingers in the sides of the bikini pants he slid them down, to her parted knees. His free hand came up again, this time between Sandra’s parted thighs. Sliding up the soft inside of a thigh… She gasped as the hand took hold of her bare pussy.
James Ritman laughed softly. ‘Hot are you Mrs Morfield? I bet you were planning to have a piece of it this evening. A nice hot reaming with that other bloke’s cock. A nice hot fuck before you went home to your poor husband.’
The hand was doing dreadful things to her pussy. Sandra was moist, perhaps from being so scared and shocked, and his fingers had slid easily into her wet slit. Her hands clung desperately to the door frame because her knees were turning to jelly. The fingers were rubbing and tweaking her clit. Which was responding, enlarging. She gasped, ‘No… No I wasn’t… Please…’
The hand kept at her. Sandra couldn’t help it, it was getting her going. Automatically her hips, her desperate parted thighs, thrust back at the fiendish hand. If he kept on any longer…
James Ritman’s hand abruptly stopped what it was doing. And grabbed a handful of pussy hair, jerking it excruciatingly. She screamed out.
‘You hot bitch,’ he gritted. ‘You were just going to come weren’t you? But instead of that my lady, instead of a lovely exquisite come, it’s going to be…’ He was tucking the little skirt up at the back. To bare Sandra’s trembling buttocks…
The sole of the leather slipper had cracked stunningly across Sandra’s hot bare bottom. In her aroused, almost-coming state it was devastating. Her hands jerked away from the door frame and she stumbled forward, falling in a heap on the floor.
The leather swooped hard down again on her bared buttocks.
‘Get up! Get back in position Mrs Morfield. And stay there until I tell you. We’ve barely started.’
Somehow Sandra managed to get back on her feet. Stretching up again on the white high heels and taking hold of the door frame once more. The slipper cracked shockingly in again across her squirming buttocks. And again… James Ritman whipping the leather in across one buttock and then the other A rhythmic cadence punctuated by Sandra’s shrill yells.
‘Get down now,’ he said at last. ‘Now on your knees on the floor. Hold the skirt up round your waist.’
Sandra almost collapsed down. Her poor bottom felt like raw meat after maybe a dozen vicious whacks. Her head was going round and round. Somehow she was doing what he said. ‘No more…’ she heard herself gasping. ‘No more. I wo… wo… won’t.’
‘You won’t do it anymore Sandra? No more of those lovely hot fucks with that bloke? Is that what you’re saying?’ James Ritman was running his hand over her burning bottom. ‘Get your knees apart… That’s it.’ His hand slid down, between her legs. At Sandra’s wet cunt again.
‘No I don’t think you’ve learnt the lesson quite yet my lady. No, if we stop now you’d probably be doing it again tomorrow. If I let you go tomorrow that is — which I pretty certainly won’t of course. No I may have to keep you here for a while. Now get down.’
His awful probing fingers at last came away. ‘Get your hands down on the floor. Stick that bottom out. We’ll have another good go at it. This is really making my arm ache, but it’s in a good cause eh?’
Sandra was down on hands and knees. The little skirt flipped up round her waist. She yelled out as the stinging leather cracked in once more. What had he said, about when he would let her go? Oh please Jesus. She thought once more of Martin.
Martin Morfield took another swallow of his scotch-and-water. It was his second glass and on an empty stomach — because he had still not been able to face any food — the alcohol was going straight to his head. He was in the lounge now, he had moved in there after phoning Derek Purland.
Derek had told him not to worry, to just forget about it. Sandra was in safe hands, was being brought to her senses, Martin had nothing to worry about. But where was she, he had demanded. And who was this bloke, what was his name?
Then Derek Purland had admitted —or claimed — he didn’t know. It was someone this friend of his knew but there was no doubt he was the genuine article, knew his stuff as far as women were concerned. That didn’t help, this new fact that Sandra was in the hands of a stranger, essentially an unknown quantity. ‘What does he do then?’ Martin’s voice by now was tight with desperation. ‘What… will he do to her?’
Derek didn’t know. Or at any rate wasn’t saying. ‘Don’t worry,’ he repeated. But Martin of course was just about climbing up the wall. If he knew where Sandra was he would definitely go and fetch her back. Without a moment’s delay. But… he didn’t…
Sandra is also in the lounge. Not the lounge at Sunningdale Drive of course, this is the flat, that same flat somewhere in North London. It is now 9.30 pm. What has happened to Sandra since we last saw her in the doorway of the kitchen on hands and knees with her bare bottom taking the mother and father of a leathering? Perhaps we will leave it discreetly veiled? Perhaps we will simply say it is just as well that husband Martin does not know, just as well he has not been a fly on the wall and able to watch.
Sandra is in a dressing gown now. A white towelling dressing gown. That is all, nothing else. Those other items of clothing have been removed, she is nude under the white gown which is calf-length as she now stands in front of James Ritman who is seated on the settee.
Has Sandra been caned, on that bare bottom? Or… is it possible that James Ritman may have done something else. Could he have… taken his pleasure with her? A fuck in fact in more basic terms. You say that is not possible, not when James Ritman is supposed to be breaking Sandra of that very thing, breaking her of her indulgence in extramarital fucking. Ah but James Ritman might argue that she is here to be broken of doing it with Steven Canby and that is something else. He could argue… that a fuck (or two, or three) was part of her disciplining. Well, you can argue anything if you wish. A fuck instead of a caning perhaps? Is it possible? We don’t know. Or you don’t know. Certainly Martin Morfield doesn’t know, which is just as well. Sandra knows of course and so does James Ritman. If that has happened since we last saw her.
‘Lift the dressing gown up,’ James Ritman tells her now. ‘Up round your waist. And then get up here over my lap.’
Sandra does it. Well of course she does, she is not going to refuse anything now, not at this stage. The big blue-grey eyes wide, apprehensive, with what has happened, with what no doubt is still to happen, she lifts the skirt of the dressing gown. Steps forward. Awkwardly, because the long legs are still shaky, trembly, up on the settee and then lays herself over his lap. Her bottom is bare. Does it show cane marks? No it does not. Does that mean then…? If Sandra hasn’t been caned she has… the other…?
James Ritman is stroking the hot cheeks. There are no cane marks but the flesh is hot. Hot, nervous, like the smooth flanks of a young mare that has just been exercised, been put through her paces. The hand slides in between the trembling thighs.
‘You need another warming up,’ he says softly. ‘Something more.’
Sandra makes whimpering sounds. Squirming her hips against the hand. It withdraws from the wetness between the soft thighs. And begins spanking. Crisply jolting cracks of the hard palm of his hand splatting the two tremulous cheeks. Sandra, her face down in the seat of the settee, emits gasps, yells. It is hurting, stinging her poor bottom once again. But perhaps in the blue-grey eyes, in her spinning head, is also the thought of something else. That something else that has happened, that she has had to endure.
In the bedroom? In the bathroom? Scenes in her head, spinning, rolling. Unbelievable perhaps. She couldn’t have imagined the scenes could she? This whole business ever since he picked her up in the car park, it has been so awful that maybe she could have imagined it?
The bathroom. Standing there nude, a flannel and a toothbrush in her hands. Mr Ritman pointing at his watch again. Something that she hasn’t done quickly enough. What? She can’t remember, everything is in such a spin in her head. But… he tells her what she has to do. Bend over the side of the bath. Right over. Is she going to get the slipper again? Or the cane? No. She realises… it is something else. Something she can’t believe. Mr Ritman is… going to do something else. Fuck her She yelps out in alarm. It is the last thing she could have imagined. But… she can’t stop him. She can’t stop anything here. She grunts, gasps. He is doing it. She is being fucked. It can’t be true… She must have imagined it?
In the bedroom. Afterwards or before? Shiveringly putting on the shorty nightie. Mr Ritman will come in soon and she must be how he wants her. On the bed. Spread on the bed. Arms and legs wide. Her bottom raised on a pillow. The shorty nightie pulled up high, to her boobs. She is on her back of course. Her pussy raised. Open. Offered. Her pussy that has already, in the bathroom…?
Through her head tumble thoughts of Martin. Of Steven Canby. Fucking her. Martin. Steven. All men are like that her friend Joanne says. They all want to fuck you, that’s the only thing they really want. Sandra doesn’t necessarily believe it, well not all of them. Though naturally Steven does and she knows it’s the only thing he really wants. And certainly one or two others at work, she is in not much doubt that they would like to too. Fuck her. But all? Because if it is all then of course it would include this James Ritman. Even though presumably he’s not meant to, Martin can’t mean him to do that. Even if Martin did want her hit with a slipper, with a cane, he can’t have wanted…. the other. Fucking. Oh no. But…
She groans on the bed. Mr Ritman is there. Looking down. His hand at her. Smiling. ‘Are you hot Mrs Morfield?’ She doesn’t answer. Of course she doesn’t answer. Only groaning. His hands now at the belt of his trousers. Her breath hissing out.
On the bed. Over his lap in the lounge. Over the side of the bath. And kneeling on hands and knees in the doorway, Her head spinning. Where is she?Where is she? She is on the bed. Yes. Spread out; arms and legs spread wide. On her back. And… she is being fucked. Who… She knows who of course. Or does she? Her head keeps dipping, spinning. Martin? Martin likes to fuck her, of course he does. He is her husband, he loves her in spite of the arguments at times and he likes to fuck her. All men want to fuck you Joanne says. Yes but only your husbands are supposed to. Steven. Steven loves to. He always wants to, all the time. But… she knows it is not Martin and not Steven. No it is this James Ritman. He is doing it to her. Here on the bed in this flat. And… it is a real turn-on. It shouldn’t be, it is awful really but…. she can’t help feeling the hot excitement of it. He’s going to keep her here… how long did he say? To hit her some more with that slipper? And the cane? And… do this. Fuck her. He’s going to keep fucking her. Martin. Does he know? He can’t know. Not this. But it is his fault. He got her sent here. To teach her a lesson. So she won’t fuck Steven Canby any more. Perhaps she will learn that lesson and not do it with Steven any more. But at the same time… Someone should have told Martin. That all men want to fuck you. Even if you are someone else’s wife. Maybe especially if you are someone else’s wife. Yes someone should have told Martin. She moans. She is coming. A big orgasm coming.
Thursday, 13 June 2019
From Uniform Girls 15
‘Something has to be done. The reputation of the School…’
‘There’s no need to go on, Mr Farley. As Head of Graingers, I hold our reputation most sacrosanct.’ Indeed I do, he said to himself. Lose your reputation and you lose a lot of fat fees.
‘Sorry, Head… I was only trying to point out…’
But the Head had lost interest in Farley and turned towards the third member of the Committee which sat around that table. ‘What do you think, Johnson?’
The man addressed was more mature than the others. Grey-haired, watery-eyed, with a weak chin. ‘We must be firm,’ he said, without any great show of resolution.
‘What do you mean by that?’ The Head leaned forward, arms on the table, hands clasping together.
Johnson cleared his throat. ‘It is my view, we should deal with this matter ourselves. In private. Strictly secret.’ He paused. ‘I, and my colleagues, dealt with a similar incident — many years ago now.’
‘Ah… did you. And it worked?’ Farley appeared most interested.
‘I think one can say it worked,’ nodded Johnson in pontifical fashion.
‘Can you expand on that, Johnson?’ enquired the Head. He was a square-faced man, balding too early in his forties.
Again Johnson cleared his throat. ‘This is a delicate matter. Strict confidence.’
‘Of course…’ The other two around the table spoke together, then looked at each other a shade guiltily. Farley lowered his eyes first. He knew which side his bread was buttered. As Deputy Head he was ten years younger than Hoskins. Prospects there.
‘Well then,’ said Johnson, ‘we had the girl in, presented with the facts. Gave her an option: He paused again, even longer. The other two leant forward. ‘Then she was caned.’
‘Ahh…’ Farley leant back, looking sagely satisfied.
‘Indeed!’ said the Head. He looked a little worried. ‘You had no authority, of course?’
‘None…’ Johnson looked complacent.
‘But the girl accepted. Made no complaint?’
A flicker of a smile crossed Johnson’s pale lips. ‘I think one can say she complained at the time.’ Farley grinned. ‘But not afterwards. Everything was settled in camera as they say in court.’
‘It makes sense,’ said Farley.
‘I shall make the final decision,’ said the Head, giving his Deputy a sharp glance.
‘Of course, Head.’ Farley sat back and laid his hands over his belly. That was fine. If there were any trouble, he wouldn’t be in it.
‘It would be best,’ said Johnson, ‘if the girl consented — in writing.’
‘I shall make all the arrangements,’ said the Head. His pallid features had taken on a somewhat rosy hue, his hands moved about in an agitated fashion. Farley noted it but Johnson seemed to have gone into a state of meditation.
‘Er… when, Head?’ enquired Farley.
‘Within the hour,’ came the sharp reply. ‘Once a decision has been made, it should be acted upon.’
‘Ah yes, of course…’
‘I concur,’ said Johnson, watery eyes suddenly glinting.
‘So we will meet here at precisely…’ he looked at his watch. ‘…three o’clock. Matron will have the girl standing by.’
‘Excellent,’ said Farley, softly. The Head gave him a warning look. It seemed to say, whether it be true or not, that this was purely a matter concerning the School’s reputation. Nothing personal. However, there was a definite air of conspiracy as the three men, all soberly dressed, one gowned, rose from the table and left the room. Obsequiously, Farley motioned the Head to lead the way.
Remarkably, one might have thought, it was the Head Girl who was in trouble. She was a tall, straight-backed girl with attractive features and shortish blonde hair. Eighteen years old. Almost nineteen. In every sense a woman, even though she might still be classified as a schoolgirl. That was what Farley found so exciting about the whole situation. This wasn’t a kid they were dealing with, this was an adult. A very controlled young person, he had always considered. You could sense the ice in her. Such qualities had made her Head of the School. It made this present lapse all the more surprising. Exciting, in fact, thought Farley, and then subdued the thought. It was the school which counted, not individuals, he told himself primly. If they had to suffer for the school, so be it.
Yet Farley knew he was bubbling inside.
Johnson was more phlegmatic. It did not mean quite as much to him as once it might have done. On the other hand, he had to admit an interest. An 18-year-old being soundly caned was something out of the ordinary. A simple matter of discipline, of course. In his earlier days it would have been less remarkable. He, personally, had caned quite a few female bottoms in his time. Johnson was sure they were all the better for it.
The Head was fluttering inwardly and outwardly. He knew it had to be done.
A surging excitement within him told him he wanted it to be done. For the school… for the school… he kept telling himself, knowing all the time the falsity of that. He wanted it done, because he wanted to do it. His pulses pounded at the very thought of it.
That ivory-tower of a girl. So immaculate. Yet now guilty.
He picked up the house-phone and asked for Matron.
The girl’s features looked surprisingly unemotional but there was a tension in her bearing.
‘Thank you, Matron, you may go,’ said the Head.
‘You don’t want me to stay, sir?’
‘Quite unnecessary, Matron.’ The Head was aware of a flicker of frustration over the woman’s heavy, middle-aged face.
‘If you say so, sir.’ Prim. ‘Maybe I shall have to attend to her later.’
‘Maybe you will, Matron,’ nodded the Head, fingers drumming on the table. He watched the woman turn and go. Interfering old bag. Then he turned his attention to the young woman who had just entered the room, finding his heart begin to beat a shade faster. She really was quite something. Her calmness and self-assurance impressed him. He looked at Johnson on his left and Farley on his right before speaking.
‘You know why you’re here, of course, Hilary,’ he said. He was annoyed that his voice was not as controlled as he would have liked.
‘I know only what I have been told, Headmaster…’ She tossed her head, her hair was fair and shining. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’
The Head sat, looking serious, fingers still drumming. ‘What we are mainly concerned with,’ he stated, ‘is the reputation of this school. Not yours.’
The girl’s cheeks pinkened; a soft, pouting lower lip was bitten. The effort required to keep control of emotions was evident. ‘My reputation is important to me,’ said the girl, still seeming remarkably composed.
The Head leant back in his chair. ‘The facts are simple, Hilary. You, upon returning from a visit to Holland, were found with a remarkably large supply of a ‘certain substance’ in your luggage. Matron found it there. You were doubtless not aware that Matron has orders to search the luggage of pupils who have been abroad.’
The tall girl lowered her eyes momentarily. ‘The package was planted there,’ she said simply.
The Head snorted and looked from one colleague to another. ‘Not altogether believable,’ said Farley.
‘It happens to be true…’
‘We have made some investigations,’ said the Head, trying not to look too intently at the girl’s long legs beneath a short skirt; ‘In order to preserve the school’s reputation. Elaine, the friend you went with, has been interrogated. She had revealed that you were in conversation with a young man in some night spot or other — one of dubious reputation, I understand — and that ultimately you accepted a parcel from him.’
‘He told me it was a birthday present for his mother,’ said the girl. She was beginning to look a little despairing. How often plain truth could be distorted!
Johnson snorted; Farley smiled faintly. Did she imagine they would believe such a story?
‘If we take the facts to the police, Hilary,’ said the Head, ‘as indeed we ought, your life may be ruined.’ He saw the girl’s cheeks getting pinker. Was it an admission of guilt? ‘That does not concern me so much,’ he continued. ‘It is the reputation of the school I am concerned with. Parents would imagine this place to be a den of drug-taking! I wouldn’t blame them. Pupils would be taken away. That is why I — and my colleagues — thought this a most serious matter — which is not to come to public notice.
The girl gulped, ‘I’ve done nothing…’ she said, her voice breaking.
Johnson snorted again. ‘We’ve gone on long enough with this,’ he said sourly. ‘Tell her what we propose, Head.’
The Head looked faintly put out by this peremptory suggestion, but nonetheless, fixed his Head Girl with as stern a look as he could contrive. ‘We have decided to keep matters under wraps, provided you are prepared to accept our punishment.’ The Head paused. ‘No one else will ever know. The evidence will be destroyed.’
‘I am not guilty,’ said the girl, chin held bravely high. ‘Yet you, as judge and jury, have pronounced me guilty. Probably, despite everything, it would be the same in a court of law.’ She paused and, for a few moments, seemed to lose her composure. ‘I shall therefore accept your punishment,’ she said softly.
The three male figures around the table — though they did not sigh — visibly relaxed. Justice — of a rough kind — was about to be done.
‘We have decided,’ stated the Head, ‘such is the seriousness of this offence, that there is no alternative but for you to be caned. And caned severely, Hilary.’
An intake of breath; a little shudder; yet still a look of proud defiance in her face. The look of a virgin martyr, thought Farley. Well, there had been plenty before now.
‘C-cane… me? But… but I’m eighteen!’
‘That seems irrelevant,’ said Johnson unsympathetically. His watery eyes were glistening.
‘Quite so,’ nodded the Head. ‘The point is, Hilary, do you accept our proposal or not?’
Hilary’s shoulders sagged in defeat. There was a tiny sob. It was so unfair! ‘It… it’s so… so… unjust… oh, how could this happen to me?’
‘Just answer my question, Hilary,’ said the Head abruptly. ‘Neither the Law, nor I, look kindly on this kind of thing?’ He actually flinched at the sudden fire which flamed in the girl’s eyes and, for the first time, he began to wonder whether they had really got to the truth of the matter. Still, too late to turn back now. And which of the three of them wanted to anyway?
The girl’s small chin tilted defiantly. ‘It’s barbaric,’ she said, flushing deeply.
‘It’s no more than justice,’ said Johnson. ‘Pity the cane isn’t used more often in schools. As it once was.’
‘Answer!’ demanded the Head. His cheeks were becoming florid now that the moment critique was arriving.
Two pale, slim hands covered Hilary’s face. ‘There doesn’t seem anything… e-else… I can do…’ came her resigned yet resentful response.
So, it was settled. The Head seemed nervous. Johnson rose and so did Farley. ‘You will place yourself over that,’ said the Head, indicating a small table in front of the window.
‘This is against human rights,’ said Hilary in a voice suddenly clear.
‘What you have done is a serious matter,’ responded Farley, not hiding the relish in his voice. Things were going splendidly. The Head seemed at last to have summoned up sufficient nerve. He saw tears trickling down the girl’s cheeks… and knew she had accepted the inevitable. Stonily she moved across the room and stood with the front of her thighs against the table’s edge. Her thighs were bare. Even senior girls were permitted to wear no more than white, calf-length socks.
‘W-what… are you g-going to do?’ Oh how plaintive!
‘I… or, rather, we… are going to give you eighteen strokes of the cane. You will lift your skirt, Hilary and you will take down your knickers.’
‘Ohh…… ohhhh… this is awful…’
‘So is the alternative,’ said Johnson. he watched expectantly, as the skirt was pulled up; firm thighs, swelling into pert buttocks. Buttocks snugly clad in a pair of navy blue knickers which hid much yet excited the imagination. Farley suppressed a whistle of appreciation; he did not think the Head would have approved.
‘It… it’s m-monstrous…’
It’s beautiful, thought the Head, his eyes on Hilary’s knickers as they were tugged reluctantly down. He took out the hook-handled cane he had placed in his drawer. Though he had secretly hoped it might be put to use, he had never quite believed it.
‘As Senior Master, will you lead off, Johnson?’
‘Very well, Head.’ The aging teacher took the cane offered him and flexed it appreciatively. Certainly it was like old times. Quite some girl this. ‘Grip the edge of the table hard, girl,’ he advised. ‘This is going to hurt.’
‘I… hate you… I hate all of you!’ It was the cry of a genuine martyr. ‘You’re not fit…’
The statement was cut short as Johnson lashed the cane down across Hilary’s naked bottom. It was replaced by a gasping whinny of pain; and blonde hair tossing back. Bravely, the girl held on to the table’s edge.
Without haste, Johnson continued to lay on the strokes, spacing them about an inch apart. They were not excessively hard but they raised quite bright pink weals. Desperately the girl clung to the table, gasping and crying out. It’s her pride which gives her the strength, thought Farley. Super. What a lovely bottom it was… and how deliciously it squirmed!
‘Mr Farley…’ He took the cane. Felt it whippy in his hand. His turn. ‘Give her a little while to recover, Mr Farley.’
‘Very well, Head.’ Farley, trembling with anticipation, gazed upon the soft-quivering bottom before him. The Head Girl…
A nod from the Head… Farley lashed down the first stroke. Instantly the girl lost her grip and clasped at her flinching bottom. Was it because he was younger and stronger? No matter; he could not have asked for a better result. He waited patiently while the girl calmed herself and lifted up her skirt again. In due time, he raised the cane and brought it down good and hard; and why not? Didn’t the girl deserve it?
From then on, the caning became a more complicated affair. Hilary, most understandably, became more and more reluctant to present her bottom for attention. Especially when the Head started on her. He seemed even more vindictive than those who had gone before. Indeed, he had to call in the assistance of his colleagues to ensure Hilary was positioned correctly — and unable to interfere with her punishment. Her thoroughly deserved punishment, as the Head thought of it.
Ultimately, amidst a deal of squealing and a welter of tears, the eighteenth stroke was administered. Icy, calm Hilary had certainly lost every last vestige of her composure. No more pride. Pain had robbed her of that. She had become a tearful quiver; pleading for them to stop.
It had certainly been a very sound caning. One which the Head considered to be thoroughly deserved. ‘Send for Matron,’ he ordered in a steely voice. Wielding a cane seemed to have given him a new dimension of authority.
They sat with a decanter of port around the table, each with features flushed, not saying much. Before them was a small, square package.
‘What shall we do with this?’ asked the Head.
‘Best to burn it,’ said Farley.
Johnson said nothing, but opened the package carefully. Inside was a plastic sack of white powder. He opened that, too, then put in a finger and licked. For a little while he was silent.
‘No need to do anything with it,’ he said. ‘It’s flour…’
‘Are you sure?’ The Head looked incredulous. Still, as Chemistry master, Johnson ought to know. The whole thing was crazy. That evening they’d thrashed his Head Girl for nothing!
‘Of course, I’m sure,’ replied Johnson, seeming quite unperturbed. ‘Bad luck on her, eh? Still, there you are.’ He poured himself some more port.After a moment or two so did Farley and the Headmaster. There, indeed, you were.