Monday, 21 January 2019

My Diary — the misadventures of Christina Winchester 7

From Privilege Club 14
Extract from the Editor’s Letter:
It’s good, too, to see our naughty nymphet Christina Winchester attracting her own share of attention. Christina is a dear girl, and is genuinely moved and delighted to hear from well-wishers. One gentleman from beyond these shores sent her a gift of two beautifully crafted paddles, which caught her vivid imagination and inspired her latest Diary entry which appears in this issue. As well as being a passionate spankophile, Christina is also an excellent actress and dancer. She has a singing voice too, and there must be many a reader who would love to hear that sweet soprano hitting top C in the course of dealing with her for provocative behaviour!
Christina Winchester wishes to thank the kind reader who sent her the beautiful hand-made paddles, and to assure him that they will indeed be put to use for the purpose that they were intended, whether she likes it or no!
My Ballet School holds a concert every December. The teacher selects a ballet and we get to perform in a top London theatre for the entire week. I was looking forward to this year more than ever because I had finally come of age and had been selected to play the principal role of the Princess Aurora in The Sleeping Beauty.
During the opening night performance, I surveyed the audience and my eyes were drawn to a strange figure sitting in the box on the right-hand side of the stage. He was attired in a black cloak with a hood and, at first glance, I was horrified by the paleness of his face. As I peered harder through the glare of the footlights, I realised that it was not his face at all but an alabaster mask with two recesses for the eyes that gave the impression of callousness. Despite the concealment of the mask, I could feel his gaze watching me intently as I pirouetted and arabesqued across the stage. His whole presence unnerved me and I felt quite relieved when the curtain fell at the end of the night.
To my dismay, my cloaked friend was back again the next night. I found it hard to focus on the routines and, at one point, almost stumbled. Every night he returned to the same seat in the right-hand box to watch me perform, and each night I grew more confident. His stare was steadfast. It felt as if it were his will alone that lifted me high above the stage and not the muscular arms of the male dancers. It was as though I was dancing just for him. My body swept through the movements gracefully and with passion. My bewitching bottom writhed beneath my tutu’s lace veil, peeking out with charming insolence as I twirled. I danced better than I ever thought I could. I wanted his approval. I needed it.
On the final night he was more engrossed by my every twist than ever before. As I took my curtsey, I dared not look in his direction. I left the stage and ran through the bowels of the ancient theatre towards the sanctuary of my dressing room.
Suddenly the cloaked stranger appeared before me, blocking my path. I gasped and my heart jolted with fright. I could see the glow of his eyes from beneath the hollow gaps of the mask. He towered over me, still and silent, seeming to drink in my fear. Then slowly he reached into his cloak and, from within its secret depths, produced a package tied with a blood-red ribbon.
‘A gift,’ he said, his voice like a distant roll of thunder.
I glanced down and accepted his offering, and when I again raised my eyes he had vanished. A weakness flooded over me and I hurried to my dressing room. I collapsed on the floor, my head whirling. Eventually I grew calmer and my curiosity flared. I untied the ribbon and unwrapped the chiffon beneath. Laid amongst the gauzy silk were two superbly crafted paddles. Never before had an inanimate object held such majesty. My fingers caressed the smoothness of the varnished wood. I noticed a slip of paper amongst the chiffon. It read:
She frolics upon the altar of the stage
Tempting me with fruit forbidden,
Fertile in the blossoming of youth,
Nubile limbs set inner thoughts afire;
And when she turns
O the delight the eye devours!
Gorging on the unequalled orbs,
All the beauty of Venus therein
Draw the pretty morsel nigh.
Again the exquisite faery’s face
Does flash its innocent wickedness;
My golden child must pay the price,
I grant to her sensations sweet,
None more deserving of my gift.
No rose could radiate more beauty
Than she, within its power.
The confusing words swirled inside my mind. I raised the smaller of the two paddles above my taut panties. It landed against my pert and perfect curves with a sting such as I had never felt before. A bolt of lightning struck mercilessly against my captivating but thinly-shielded buttocks and I dropped the implement with the shock.
Cautiously, I picked up the other paddle. The minute my fingers grasped it, it flew around behind me like a missile to its target. It spanked me with fastidious intensity and I let out such a cry of pleasure/pain that I was afraid the whole theatre would come running. I wanted to stop, but could not. The paddle seemed to be enchanted, as though the hard wood had a will of its own. There was no doubt that it had been created for the sole purpose of punishing my supreme peach. And that it would not relent until its job was done. The world’s most beautiful bottom had met its nemesis.
Finally, I managed to pry the offending paddle from my fingers. I flung it upon the floor, fighting back the sobs. In such a short time my poor bottom was more crimson than any rose, but also made even lovelier being hued in this vibrant colour.
My gaze fell again to the chiffon that had wrapped my gift so tenderly. In the midst of it was a silver mask that I had not noticed before. Slowly I raised it to my face. It slipped into place perfectly and I felt its smooth texture wash over my velvet skin like cool water. As it enclosed me I seemed to hear a voice — a deep, whispered voice: ‘My dear child. You have been chosen for your youth and beauty. You now belong to me and shall fulfil my every wish. Your will is strong for one so young. I shall enjoy breaking it. For the present you may do as you desire. At a time of my choosing you shall be called and you will come.’
I ripped the mask from my face and the voice disappeared. I felt trapped in a dream, like Alice desperate to get back from beyond the looking-glass. That night, as I lay in my bed, my thoughts were consumed with the evening’s events and my buttocks with the blush of the paddles’ kisses.
I dared not mention the stranger to mummy and daddy, but he would not leave my mind. He had filled me with terror, but there was a bitter-sweet thrill mixed up with the fear. I wondered if I should ever see him again. My heart knew that I would.

Sunday, 20 January 2019

Prefect Punishment

Photo-story from Janus 137 and some appreciative letters from subsequent editions.
Lucy Naylor has just turned eighteen and attends a school which incorporates tertiary education. Soon enough she’ll be at college, but right now she’s a schoolgirl still, and wears the uniform to prove it. Lucy would be first to admit she’s not the greatest scholar. She hates Maths, Languages are a nightmare, Biology’s a bore. She’s quite good at English, though spelling isn’t her strong point. It’s games she excels at, being good at sprinting, long jump and netball. She works hard at her schoolwork though, making up in application what she lacks in flair, so when she entered sixth form at the beginning of term she was entrusted with the role of Prefect, of which she’s very proud.
The fact that Lucy’s a Prefect doesn’t stop her being admonished. In fact it makes any offences she might commit all the more serious, because she’s supposed to set an example to the younger girls. Two evenings ago she was seen by Head Teacher Mrs Lumb outside a public hostelry somewhat heady on drink, smoking a cigarette and talking to boys — a disgrace to the school that couldn’t be overlooked.
The following day she was summoned to Mrs Lumb’s office and told that her behaviour meant she could be a Prefect no more, and her record would be marked with a demerit. Lucy broke down and sobbed. She promised Mrs Lumb that never again would she behave in public like that — but please, please to let her remain a Prefect for the few final weeks before she left to go on to college.
Mrs Lumb relented, but insisted that the girl should be punished by being given the chore of cleaning out the stockroom. Well, that didn’t seem too bad. At home Lucy often helps her mother with the housework, so using a vacuum cleaner and wielding a duster and mop wasn’t too much of a hardship for her.
One subject Lucy does enjoy is History, and it intrigued her to learn that from 1923 when the school was founded, to 1967 when the extension was built, what is now the stockroom used to be the Headmaster’s study. Now, in the after-lessons stillness, as she applies herself to her punishment chore, she can’t help wondering how she might have been dealt with in the days when this rather poky little room was the main seat of authority in the school, where the Headmaster himself presided.
Would she have got off so lightly in those days for getting drunk, smoking and talking to boys in public? Her mother sometimes hinted at how dire the consequences of bad behaviour used to be when she was at school, even for things like being late or not handing in homework on time. To Lucy, as her imagination takes control of her romantic sensibilities, she gets a flutter of fear in her tummy as she conjures up the image of the stern male figure who once sat in here behind a polished mahogany desk. How would he have addressed her as she stepped into this room and was curtly ordered to shut that same door behind her? How would she have felt as she stood quailing before his desk, head hanging and heart banging, while he grimly intoned the details of her disgraceful misdemeanours, and uttered the dreaded consequences?
‘Ten strokes of the cane. No, not on your hand — put it back to your side, girl, and stand up straight. Your offence is far too grave to be treated with such leniency. I intend to deal with you much more severely.’
What would happen then, Lucy wonders, enthralled and appalled as the scene becomes vividly real to her. Fright vies with fascination. How would it have been? How shamefully, gut-wrenchingly awful would she have felt? How appallingly, horribly, searingly would it have hurt? Would it have stopped her, absolutely, from ever offending again?
‘Bend over, girl,’ comes a voice, deep and sonorous, vibrant with authority.
Lucy is about to find out.

Letter from Janus 138:
Picture of Innocence
What a little elfin-faced beauty!
I refer, of course, to the lovely Lucy Naylor, (Prefect Punishment Janus 137).
What a picture of innocence in that outfit and white cotton panties, or so it seems at first glance. Concealed behind those twinkling eyes lies a mischievous little madam. If I had my way she would of been caned in front of the entire school!
Janus, you have done it again. Another super model for us to dream about. How on earth do you do it?
S.J.,
Cardiff

Letters from Janus 139:
Hold the Front Page
I wish, quite simply, to register my thanks and congratulations for the magnificent cover which graces Janus 137. It is one of the most breathtaking, utterly arresting prospects ever to have adorned your esteemed publication — an all-time classic.
The image is perfectly realised. The angle of the girl’s head as she looks down and away in shame; the delightfully naive — or slovenly? — way in which her pigtails are tied with elastic bands; the symmetry of her pose — the elbows, the shadowed crease running down her spine… As I write, I’m working my way down from the top. The day I walked into the Janus shop to buy the edition, I couldn’t help but start at the bottom! What a superb specimen it is! Absolutely the kind of trim, firm, girlish behind upon which the angry lines of a fresh caning look so nice. The white knickers are excellent, properly full, but beautifully, achingly taut and, in fact, so tight that we can, if we look carefully, make out the contours of her most intimate parts as the cotton hugs close… Full marks for that detail: a connoisseur touch. And to show no more than the crook of the cane handle in the corner of the image is also a moment of culture and subtle restraint what a contrast to the full-frontal, head-on brandishing of the slipper on the cover of Janus 135 (not really my own taste).
But, above all, my heart leapt at the joyful return of schoolgirl gingham! So long overdue and so proper and right for a summer edition. It is, in sum, a cover of which you, sir, should feel proud indeed. Dress, posture, the lovely, teenaged figure of your model, the freeze-frame calm before the stomach-churning storm of what we hope will be a severe caning. The tableau is clear enough, but the imagination still has room enough to wander.
Yours etc,
G.W.,
Switzerland
…I have long envied the schoolgirlish looks of your models, and I continue to do so. Lucy Naylor is a particularly superb naughty schoolgirl in edition 137. On the surface she is a ‘butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth’ girl, but those of us who have been there know that in reality she is just a very naughty young lady, clearly in need of the cane.
I like the use of summer uniform — the simple cotton printed dress from my own school days, to be worn, with a blazer, between the Whitsun half-term and the summer holidays. The rest of the year it was blouse, tie and pleated skirt with blazer. The whole photo-shoot is very good indeed. I like to see shots of the cane across knickers before they are pulled down for a good, bare bottom caning.
One thing I would ask is for a couple of shots across the back of the dress or skirt, this is how I got it at school. Natalie in 138 is equally as good, although I am less keen on seeing her strip off for the cane, however my husband disagrees with me on this!
The cover shots of both 137 and 138 are also extremely good. I hope we will see more of both Lucy and Natalie in future editions.
I think that authentic uniforms certain add to the believability factor. In this respect I have to disagree with your Texan reader, Janus 138, on the subject of knicker colours. No English schoolgirl, even in the most exclusive establishments, was allowed to wear white knickers in the good old days. The popular colours were navy blue and bottle green, and less common were grey, brown and the colour I wore, maroon. Incidentally, in my first year I questioned why we had to wear maroon knickers, and I was icily told by an older girl that it was so that your knickers matched the colour of the marks on your bottom after the headmistress had caned you! A few years later I found out how true this was! So, please make sure your models are as authentic as possible.
Keep up your standards,
Yours,
Sandra

Saturday, 19 January 2019

Prefect Selection 2 – Advanced Training

From New Blushes Uniform Girls 2.06
That caning!! Four strokes!! Each one giving Pam the quite certain impression as she desperately gripped the arms of the chair that it had cut her in cleanly in two!
Sheer murder!!
When it was over she struggled off the armchair. Pam felt like she might never be able to sit down again. Well not for a full 24 hours at least. Her face felt all puffy and her eyes were welling with tears. She blinked them away. Her poor bottom!
Mr Murfield was all attentive now. He had put the cane down and his arm came round Pam.
‘Good girl! You took that very well, considering it was your first time.’
He switched so that his left arm held Pam’s. This allowed him to bring his right hand up under the rear of her short skirt which had slid down into place. She hadn’t had time yet to slide her knickers back up — or indeed been able to focus her mind on the thought of it. So Pam’s burning bottom was still bare up there. She gave a whimpering yelp as now Mr Murfield’s hand took hold of it.
‘Yes. Very good!’
Mr Murfield’s face was red too. He pulled her in against him — and Pam could feel again that firm bulge she had felt for the first time on Saturday when she was over his lap for the first spanking. She had known what it was of course. But now she knew something more. That something which Jane Mantley had told her. If you could believe it!!
Because yesterday Pam had briefly seen Jane, who of course was already a prefect. Jane knew that Pam was on the pre-selection course, it seemed her mother had told her, although no one else was supposed to know yet. Jane wanted to know if Pam had been spanked, and on getting her red-faced confirmation of this, Jane had whispered something else. Not the cane (perhaps she had wanted to keep that as a nasty little surprise for Pam) but something else.
Jane had said a giggly something Mr Murfield would probably want. Next time. Something that had made Pam’s eyes widen in shock.
It was this that had Pam’s pulse going all fluttery now, over and above what Mr Murfield’s cane had produced. That other thing that Pam had said he would want…!! His erect penis…
Pam had never done it. She had never had her hand on one. Not even dreamt of it. But she knew, or guessed, that some girls did. Pam had heard giggly whispers of what they said they had done with their boyfriends. But she had certainly not done it with Andrew, her own boyfriend, they didn’t go much further than kissing. And as for doing it to Mr Murfield…!! But Pam did want to be prefect, and her mother very much wanted her to be. But would her mother want her to do that…!!
In fact Mr Murfield didn’t want it. In spite of that hard bulge he had there. He didn’t want what Jane had said… Want her to take it out of his trousers… and stroke it. So the bulge was there, Mr Murfield’s undeniably erect organ, but Pam wasn’t required to do anything with it. He did rub it up against her. Her soft and quivery belly. But that was all. So maybe Jane had been having her on!?
A final rub against her and then he let her go. She could pull her knickers up now. Mr Murfield repeated that she had done well. She had taken her first caning very well. But naturally it was only the beginning of her training and he would want to see continuing improvement. So the matter of her next session…
‘I would like a session with you in the gym, Pam. Mr Samworth tells me you’re a promising gymnast. I should like to see you go through your paces. Shall we say after school tomorrow? Come to my room at five o’clock. Everyone will have gone home by then so it will be nice and private.’
----//----
Pam didn’t want to tell her mother about the caning but finally had to. Elizabeth Symonds had guessed the visit to Mr Murfield’s house might have involved a further stage in Pam’s preparation for prefect and when her daughter got home her questioning was quite insistent. Well, a mother needed to know these things. She finally got it out of her. A caning! And the other thing too: he had fondled Pam’s pussy, both when he had her over his lap for the spanking (there had been a second spanking too) and then when she was kneeling in the chair for the caning.
Pam’s face was hot with embarrassment. She certainly didn’t enjoy having to relate all this. She had hoped to be able to keep it completely to herself, not tell a soul. But at least her mother was sympathetic. She said it was no doubt all part of Mr Murfield’s training programme. Pam would just have to endure it, because she did want to be a prefect. Endure it and of course not tell anyone of these tests she was having to undergo. Including her father. Elizabeth told Pam her father might not properly understand about the tests. He knew about that first time of course, but didn’t really need to know any more details. And naturally she wasn’t to tell her boyfriend Andrew anything either.
But Elizabeth needed to know it all. All the details. It was highly stimulating. It made her feel quite hot! She couldn’t help putting herself in Pam’s position. Having her own bare bottom caned!! The thought of it made Elizabeth’s pussy quite wet! And there was another thought that made it really wet too. The thought of going to see Mr Murfield. Just herself of course, not with Roger…
----//----
When Pam knocked rather tentatively on Mr Murfield’s door at five o’clock she found he had taken off his suit jacket and put on a less formal sweater. And he had some things for Pam to put on: not the leotard she normally wore for gym but a pair of pale blue athletic shorts and a white top. It seemed the session wasn’t going to be in the gym after all; instead he told her to go along to Room 4C where she was to change into these things. He would join her in a few minutes.
Mr Murfield put a friendly arm round Pam and squeezed her bottom. ‘No knickers under the shorts. To allow good freedom of action. And nothing under the top either of course.’
Room 4C was not a regularly used classroom, but was available if masters wanted it for any specific purpose. There were some desks piled up at the back but the front of the room was cleared of clutter, except for one or two objects — a hockey stick, items of girls’ clothing — which had been left against the wall or hanging on hooks. In the middle of this space was a plain cream-coloured wooden chair and facing this a full-sized mirror.
Girls always wondered about this mirror. Well some girls did — others claimed they knew what it was for. According to them it was for when certain masters spanked girls. They would spank a girl in front of the mirror with her bottom facing it — and so had a marvellous view of the action. A full view of her pussy every time she parted her legs to even the slightest degree.
Pam didn’t believe this — or she didn’t want to believe it. She had never had to come to Room 4C with a master before. But now she was here with Mr Murfield — or shortly she would be. She could feel her pulse fluttering. It was no doubt going to be awful, mirror or no mirror. But she had better hurry up and get changed, otherwise she would be still doing it with Mr Murfield here. She didn’t want that…
Pam did just finish getting changed before Mr Murfield came in. The white top and the shorts and a pair of gym shoes. The shorts especially felt awful. They were very brief and loose-legged and with nothing underneath Pam felt worse than naked. She felt a desperate desire to put her hand down there to cover her pussy. Mr Murfield, with the door carefully closed behind him, told her to stand up straight.
He placed the chair in front of her and sat down.
‘OK? Shorts fit nicely?’ As he spoke his hand did what Pam had somehow guessed it would. It came out to cup her pussy.
She mumbled uneasily that the shorts were OK. The hand gave her pussy a little rub through the shorts. Then Mr Murfield inserted two fingers in one side. The fingers pushed in between her legs, inside the shorts now. After a moment Pam nervously parted her legs a little, reluctantly allowing the fingers greater access. They slid inside her pussy lips…
‘Did you see that boy at the weekend? Andrew isn’t it?’
She said yes. Mr Murfield wanted more details, like he had before. Sweating a bit now and in a jerky voice Pam repeated that they didn’t do anything. No sex. Kissing, that was all really…
‘But I expect you’ll soon be ready for more, eh Pam? A girl your age usually is. And I’m sure you play with yourself. Mmm…? Quite a lot…?’
Mr Murfield went on like this. While his fingers played with her. She struggled to answer the embarrassing questions. As his fingers stimulated her quivery pussy. The questions got worse. Did she enjoy what he was doing? Was it getting her hot…?
He finally stopped. ‘OK Pam. I’m sure you don’t object to this questioning. But I do need to get to know my girl prefects really well. OK?’
Pam, all trembly now, nodded, red-faced. Her pussy was all wet, but at least the hand had been taken out of her shorts.
‘Good. So now let’s see you perform, eh?’
She was in absolutely no shape for it. Shaking her head. ‘I… I… You’ve got me all shaky, sir…’
‘Oh come on!’ Mr Murfield urged.
Pam had to force herself to perform. Attempt some floor exercises. But her body, all quivery from what he had been doing, just wouldn’t respond in any disciplined fashion.
‘Maybe you need some encouragement,’ Mr Murfield observed. ‘Another touching up with the cane…?’
But it was a spanking. Over his lap as he sat on the chair. The little blue shorts coming down to bare Pam’s bum. Mr Murfield’s hand there. Fondling and stroking. And then spanking. Delivering sharply stinging smacks. To one cheek and then the other. To the backs of Pam’s thighs above the lowered shorts. The hand seeming intent on ensuring that not an inch of bare flesh was left unattended to.
It wasn’t as bad as the cane but those spanks nonetheless really stung. Pam uttering breathy yelps. As she tried to tell herself it wasn’t so bad. Nothing she couldn’t handle. All those other girls who had been made prefect had had to take this. And anyway the spanking wasn’t as bad as having him play with her pussy. That was really awful…
But of course just a little bit later Mr Murfield was playing with Pam’s pussy. He had stopped spanking and his hand was casually sliding in between her legs…
----//----
Pam’s mother naturally wanted to know all the details of this latest training session. There was a limit to what Pam was prepared to tell, and she certainly didn’t divulge everything, but Elizabeth got enough to fuel her continuing hot interest. Her mind was anyway now pretty much set on getting involved herself. Well, wasn’t it a mother’s duty to get involved?
So she phoned Mr Murfield…
Vincent Murfield wasn’t entirely surprised. It wasn’t at all unknown for a girl’s mother to show an intense interest. Sometimes they were not at all sure what they really wanted themselves. And then he had to guide them… Yes, he said, he would be more than happy to have a visit from Elizabeth Symonds. Just herself and not her husband? Yes of course. It was a very good idea indeed.
----//----
Elizabeth was feeling highly nervous now she was actually doing what she had heatedly imagined. Visiting Mr Murfield on this Saturday afternoon. It was rather like being at school again. A scary visit to the Headmaster! Except that she had never had any visits half as scary as this! Just keep calm, she tried to tell herself. Probably nothing will happen, just a chat… And was anyone else in? Mr Murfield’s wife?
No, no one else was home, Mr Murfield assured Elizabeth as he conducted her in. ‘Just the two of us.’ He could sense her nervousness. He took her arm in a firm, authoritarian grip.
‘Don’t worry, my dear lady. We shan’t be interrupted…’
It all quite took Elizabeth’s breath away. The cane!! Yes! Mr Murfield caned her there in the sitting room. Bending her over the arm of a chair. Having first sternly instructed her to remove her knickers. And then Elizabeth’s pretty summer skirt up round her waist. Her ripe bottom bare!! The thought that this was actually happening made Elizabeth almost faint with excitement. But then that cane…!
‘I’m going to give you it quite hard.’ boomed Mr Murfield’s unemotional voice. ‘Harder than I do Pam or the other girls. You are a mature woman after all and as such I think can take something stronger…’
Oh Jesus Christ!! The pain when it came!! There was no possibility of fainting now. With that white-hot sting searing Elizabeth’s ripe nates. She gasped desperately for mercy. But Vincent Murfield, eyes hotly riveted on her squirming bottom, simply hit her again, quite as hard. And again…
Six in all. And then it was something else. As befitted a mature married lady. Mr Murfield’s hand briefly there at her hot, wet cunt. And then his stiff prick… Elizabeth gave a shuddery, swoony wail as it slid into her.
----//----
Two days later it was time for Pam to have another session, round at Mr Murfield’s house after school.
‘Well, how do you think you’re coming on?’ he asked in the car. Pam said a nervous, ‘Uh… OK I think.’
Mr Murfield said he thought so to. Then he mentioned that Elizabeth had come to see him. ‘I don’t know if she told you. We had a most rewarding visit. Your mother is a very lovely woman, Pam. Yes, your father is a lucky man. But anyway your mother is keen for you to make good progress and I told her you were. So far very good indeed.’
It was news to Pam that her mother had visited Mr Murfield, but she didn’t have time to think too much about it. There were other matters to occupy her mind. Chiefly what was going to happen now, on today’s training session with Mr Murfield. Was it going to be the cane again? Oh God, please not!! And that other thing. The thing that Jane had told her. Because Pam had had another chat with Jane. Not really wanting to but Jane had seemed quite keen to talk about it.
‘Well did Mr Murfield want it? You know…’ Jane had rolled her eyes.
Flushing, Pam shook her head.
‘Oh he will! Maybe he just thinks you’re not quite ready. But he is going to want it!’
Was Mr Murfield going to want it? This time?
As it happened he was. That visit from Pam’s mother had given Vincent Murfield a clear green light. A compliant and co-operative mother was always a green light. No need for any hesitation now.
So yes, he made his special little demand. After another sharp caning. Harder this time than before, though not so hard as that which he had been meted out to Pam’s mother. Yes a good zippy caning first, so that Pam didn’t really know which way was up. And then… sitting in his favourite armchair and simply saying what he wanted. Pam kneeling. Between his spread thighs. And telling her to go ahead. She knew didn’t she? Girls nowadays knew all about it, even when they liked to deny they did anything at all with their boyfriends. Yes they knew alright. And this sweet Pam Symonds, she knew. What was what. Even though she liked to act as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Yes she knew. Well look at that mother of hers… Yes sweet Pam knew. Don’t you, sweet Pam? Come on then…

Pam, her bottom red hot from that awful caning, did it. Unzipping Mr Murfield’s trousers. And then pulling out that big hot thing. Taking it in her hand…