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Tuesday, 28 February 2017

An Evening At Mr Holroyd’s

Story from Janus 34 by R.T. Mason
Angela looked up at the clock. Half past six. ‘I’d better get ready. He doesn’t like me to be late.’
Bryan grunted but went on eating his dinner and reading the newspaper at the same time. His pretty 23-year-old wife got up and went upstairs, where there was shortly the sound of the shower running. Bryan, also 23, went on eating and reading as if oblivious to what Angela was doing, but he wasn’t. He was well aware that it was Wednesday evening again and he knew what that meant. Of course there was no point getting excited, he had after all agreed to it. All the same it was not something you could easily ignore.
Just to prove to himself that he really didn’t mind he shortly got up and followed Angela upstairs. In the bedroom she had just started dressing.
She gave a groan. ‘Oh god, Bryan, you’re not going to watch me, are you?’
Angela’s shapely form was nude apart from a white satin suspender belt and a pair of black nylon stockings. She was holding a pair of brief white nylon knickers and, bending to step into them, her full breasts were pendant, the pink nipples slightly erect from the shower. Bryan felt a twinge of lust — mingled with the sharp pang that for two hours this evening his wife would be someone else’s plaything.
Angela slid the knickers up the shapely stocking-clad legs and fitted them tautly over her quite full hips and bottom. She quickly took a matching bra and harnessed the bobbing breasts. As she did so Bryan reached for her.
‘Ange — why not tell him you’re ill or something. I... well I feel like... you know, bed.’
Irritatedly Angela pushed her husband away. ‘Oh god Bryan! You know I can’t. Look I wish you’d let me alone to get ready. Do we need the money or don’t we? And if you’re feeling horny save it up till I get back — you know it always turns you on to see me with some fresh red stripes on my bum.’
Bryan gave her a sullen look but did not stop his wife as she proceeded to put on a white schoolgirl blouse and a short navy blue pleated skirt, and then a red-and-mauve striped tie. She sat down at her dressing table and tied her shoulder-length hair into two bunches with red ribbons.
Bryan looked a bit sick. ‘Whatever do you look like!’
She made a face in the mirror. ‘Like a schoolgirl I suppose. And if you don’t like to see it why watch?’
She had a final look in the mirror, slipped on a pair of black high-heeled shoes, and stood up. With her fresh complexion and soft full mouth Angela did look like a schoolgirl — a rather mouth-watering Sixth Former which was what she was supposed to be.
She turned to Bryan and put her arms round him. In a more conciliatory tone she said, ‘Don’t worry about it, darling. I mean it’s not as if I was on the game, is it? It’s not as if he was doing me. And we agreed we could really use the money.’
She kissed him. ‘Look, I’ve got to go or I’ll be late. I’ll see you later, OK?’
Bryan said nothing as Angela slipped on a light raincoat and picked up her handbag, car keys and a straw boater with red-and-mauve ribbon matching her tie.
He watched her go out. There was shortly the sound of the car starting. He wondered whether to go out to the pub but decided he really didn’t want to. He went downstairs and started to do the washing up.
These Wednesday evenings had been going on for six weeks now. It had been a real shock when Angela had first mentioned it, that her friend Jane Walters knew this man, etc, etc. And then Angela had said she wouldn’t mind trying it, and after some discussion Bryan had agreed, as long as the bloke wouldn’t be screwing her. After all it was Angela who would be getting that cane on her bum.
The deciding factor had naturally been the 20 quid a time that Angela would get. But although he had agreed to it you couldn’t be expected to enjoy it. Especially during the actual two hours each Wednesday evening. When she got back, though, with those red stripes on her tail, well that was funny, he hated it but at the same time it turned him on.
It didn’t take Angela long to drive to Mr Holroyd’s, a quarter of an hour. As usual she felt the excitement welling up as she got closer. She had never been caned before, not before Mr Holroyd, had never really thought about it until that day her friend Jane told her what she did one afternoon a week. And had then asked if Angela would like to try it — Mr Holroyd was looking for another girl and Angela was his type. It had seemed just an impossible thing at first but then after thinking about it it hadn’t seemed quite so bad. If that was all he wanted.
So she had plucked up courage and finally broached the subject to Bryan. She had persuaded him to let her try, and it had started. She had been really scared at first, and as she had thought, it hurt like hell. But at the same time she found it stimulated and excited her — although she hadn’t told Bryan that.
At Mr Holroyd’s she parked the car and then wearing the light coat and carrying the hat walked up the driveway. At the back door, hidden from the street, she put the straw hat squarely on her head and then, heart beginning to thump, rang the bell.
It opened almost immediately. ‘Ah, Miss Simmonds. Yes, I was expecting you of course.’
Simmonds was her unmarried name, and it seemed to take her further than ever away from her married status, even in a way that was rather liberating. Mr Holroyd said using that real name added potency to it. He was sixtyish and a bit like schoolmaster although Jane said he was a retired civil servant. The eyes behind the spectacles were bright as inside the back porch his rather bony hands unbuttoned her coat. The hands pulled the coat apart and Angela gave a little gasp as he took hold of both breasts through the tight white school blouse.
‘Yes Miss. Reliable reports tell me you have been seen out with boys. Young louts, I’ve no doubt, who’ve been allowed to maul your body and get you all hot and excited, is that it?’
‘No sir!’ gasped Angela, flush-faced. It was almost as if she were 17 again, and all this was for real. He sounded as if he really meant it. Not that it had ever happened, not like this.
‘My sources, Miss Simmonds, are most reliable.’ One of the hands left her breasts and slid down and up the front of her short school skirt. Fingers lightly touched the bulge of her pubis through the tight nylon knickers. They moved spider-like.
This, Miss. Boys getting this all excited. Is that correct?’
‘, sir,’ she felt herself trembling.
‘Turn round, Miss.’
She was breathing really fast now.
With her back facing him Mr Holroyd lifted the bottom of the coat and Angela’s skirt. His hand took a firm hold of one nylon-clad bottom cheek.
‘So what we will do, Miss Simmonds, is give this part of your anatomy a warming-up. In fact I intend to warm it up so much that you will not want to sit on it for some time to come. That is the best antidote I know for randiness in a Sixth Former.’
The hand gave her bottom a sharp pinch and then a slap. ‘So get into the sitting room, Miss — and get yourself ready. Look sharp!
With a mixture of dread and excitement Angela went smartly into the room. She knew what she had to do and she also knew what she was going to get. It would hurt like bloody hell but at the same time she knew she would in a way enjoy it as well as hate it.
Angela took off the coat and the straw hat. Unfastened the skirt and stepped out of it, and then slid down the knickers and stepped out of them. She was nude below the waist apart from the suspender belt and stockings. Mr Holroyd standing in front of her now had the cane in his hand.
‘Yes Miss — girls who get hot between the legs need their bottoms hotting up, I’m afraid.’
A gasp from Angela as the cane whipped out and slashed into the side of her thigh, stinging like a wasp.
‘Get over, Miss. The usual position.’
Obediently Angela stood at the back of an upright chair and bent forward and down so that her arms and head were down in the seat. And her own bare seat was sticking prominently out, ripe globes awaiting the sharp kiss of that stinging cane.
It was unceremoniously raised, and then brought swiftly down — THWATT! squarely across the ripe rump.
Eeeooowwhh!!’ Angela’s yelp of agony was no way contrived. It really bloody stung! As it always did.
THWATT! A second awful stinger landed not far from the first line of impact. Another agonised yell and a frenzied writhing of bare buttocks.
THWATT! Aaaoowwch!!’ The third was where Angela especially hated it — just below the lowest curve of her rump at the very top of her thighs. She wriggled and desperately clenched her buttocks in an attempt to dissipate the awful pain.
Mr Holroyd, eyes glinting and erection in full flower, waited for the girl to get still. He loved to get a girl’s bottom really wriggling, like a fat pale fish on a line.
THWATT!Aaaooowww!!’ The fourth landed on the full fat undercurve and produced another bout of splendid bottom-writhing.
Another pause... and the cane again raised. THWATT!...
He gave her 12 in all. That was what he usually gave her — after the first couple of times of course when she was still learning to take it and he had restricted himself to six. In his experience 12 was what a girl was prepared to take once she’d got used to it. Twelve good hard ones. And if they were spread out that was the time it took for him to be ready to break off. To call the session to an abrupt halt as he exited to the bathroom to relieve his by now brimming arousal.
Angela, her bottom blazing from those 12 red stripes, was briskly told she could stand up and pull up her knickers. The first part of the ordeal was over. As Mr Holroyd went out she pulled the tight knickers up over her hot bottom, causing it to sting even more. She thought of Bryan... and bed. She would really feel like it when she got home, she always did, but she had never let on to Bryan. She was pretty sure he’d hate the thought of that, her getting turned on by Mr Holroyd’s cane. Although Bryan himself did of course.
She looked around the room, its activities hidden behind the heavy closed curtains. Jane came here on Fridays and got the same treatment. Jane also went to another man, Mr Warren, who wanted to have a go at Angela as well. But Mr Warren wasn’t content with just caning, he wanted something else afterwards. Angela couldn’t bring herself to agree to that, although Jane didn’t seem too bothered. She didn’t tell her husband of course. Not the truth.
Mr Holroyd was suddenly back looking a bit less intense than when he’d gone out. ‘Haven’t you started making the coffee, Miss Simmonds?’ he asked.
Angela should have known although he hadn’t specifically told her this time. Standing there dreaming, she had forgotten. She said ‘Sorry sir’ and went out to the kitchen. She was still Miss Simmonds because Mr Holroyd hadn’t finished yet. If things followed the normal routine there was still Punishment PT to come after the coffee. When, if things ran true to his quirky pattern, he would be addressing her as simply ‘Simmonds’.
Angela had never told Bryan about the Punishment PT. All he knew was that she got the cane and also the strap to a certain extent. Punishment PT in fact usually took up quite a lot of the two hours Angela was at Mr Holroyd’s and to account for all that time Angela said they sat and talked a bit. Well, Mr Holroyd obviously wouldn’t be caning her for two hours non-stop, or she wouldn’t be able to stand up afterwards. But she did not enjoy Punishment PT, which was why she didn’t tell Bryan about it.
And yes, it was to be the same routine tonight. As soon as Mr Holroyd had finished his coffee he said, ‘Right then, Miss. Punishment PT now!’
Angela knew what she had to do. Finishing her own coffee, she slipped off the high-heel shoes and stood up. Standing in front of him she took off the skirt again and also the tight white knickers. Once more she was in just blouse, suspender belt and nylons.
Mr Holroyd told her to get into position. Obediently Angela stood facing him a couple of feet from his chair, with her feet wide apart and her hands on her head. Mr Holroyd proceeded to give her another lecture, more lengthy this time, on her supposedly unladylike behaviour. As he sternly addressed her one of his hands failed to leave her alone...
Angela couldn’t imagine that schoolmasters ever really did this, although Jane said that at her school the games master had groped girls whenever he got the chance. But anyway in Mr Holroyd’s prelude to Punishment PT he always touched her while he spoke. As usual she simply tried to pretend he wasn’t doing it, looking straight ahead and doing her best to keep still. At last the lecture ended and the hand was taken away. It was time to start the actual Punishment PT.
He had a set routine of exercises and as usual she had to go through them all. On her back on the carpet cycling her legs in the air was always the first; while Mr Holroyd stood over you with that wicked two-tongued strap, whipping it out at bottom and thighs if you didn’t perform exactly to his requirements. The cycling was always pretty awful, not just because she could never do it to his satisfaction, but also because, with no knickers on, it was such a really awful position to be made to get into.
The cycling finally finished and then there were the others — deep knee bends; toe touching; running on the spot; high kicking. A nonstop routine which had Angela gasping for breath, punctuated at frequent intervals by sharp squeals as that strap snaked out. It was a performance which, as usual, Angela did not like one little bit. And which she would try very hard to screen out of her mind afterwards.
Mr Holroyd on the other hand found it highly arousing and it went on until he was again close to that brimming-over stage. Then the Punishment PT stopped, to be followed by a second caning session — four strokes this time — after which Mr Holroyd made another prompt exit. This time at least the evening’s activities were essentially over.
Back home Bryan was sitting on the settee watching the telly. In an artificially bright voice she said, ‘Hello — I’m back!’
Bryan didn’t answer. Angela went to sit next to him, forcing a kiss on him. ‘Bryan darling — I’m back! Don’t you love me?’
He pushed her away. ‘I don’t want you going to the bloody bloke anymore.’
Angela bit her lip. ‘Oh come on, Bryan don’t be silly.’ She opened her handbag and took out the four £5 notes Mr Holroyd had given her for the evening. She handed them to Bryan but he simply threw them on the floor.
‘I’ve had enough of it! You’re not going there anymore and that’s final.’
Angela picked up the money and, red-faced, put it back in her purse. He was bad-tempered at times when she got back but never as bad as this. He seemed really mean tonight.
In bed a little later they had intercourse. Bryan couldn’t resist that in spite of his anger. When he had finished he got off her and lay on his back. Still breathing heavily he said, ‘Promise you won’t go there anymore.’
There was a silence and then in a quiet voice she said, ‘OK. If that’s what you want.’
She would promise but she didn’t mean it. She would just have to go in the afternoon when Bryan was at work. It wasn’t only the £20, she had got to be really aroused by it exposing her bottom for Mr Holroyd and then that feeling of dread and excitement as she waited for the cane to land. Even the Punishment PT, which she wouldn’t think about — well, especially that, really... the fact that she hated it yet he made her do it, that was what did it for her, made her tummy turn over.
That wasn’t all. Just before she’d left Mr Holroyd tonight he had again said that Mr Warren was very keen to see her. She had hesitated and then finally, this time, said OK, she would see him.
She had agreed to go round to his house tomorrow afternoon. Mr Warren was younger than Mr Holroyd, in his forties, Jane said. And he was very dominant. Lying there next to Bryan and looking up at the ceiling, Angela shivered.
‘So no more visits,’ repeated Bryan. ‘We don’t need that bloody money.’
‘OK,’ she said. And then her hand reached out and her lips closed in, needing him again. So urgently.

Taking Her Medicine

Story from Blushes Supplement 24
It was a large and luxurious hotel, living up to its name: The Grand. But then money was no real object for Mr Bellish, he could well afford to indulge himself. Having no money problems of course may not be everything — a man in that position can easily become bored with life without the central interest that making money provides for the rest of us. But George Bellish was fortunately not in that situation. He had his young companion. Joanna. His niece as he sometimes referred to her. ‘Mr Bellish and niece,’ he said at the lobby. ‘We have two adjoining rooms booked.’
He might call her his niece and Joanna, at 19, was young enough to be that but she was not any blood relation. She was more or less his ward one could say though not strictly legally that either. But certainly George Bellish felt all the responsibility of a guardian: not onerous but a serious matter. Especially in these days when one can see all around the results of modern, less structured life. A complete abrogation of responsibility in other words, no sense of purpose, or discipline. This was the last thing he wanted to see in his Joanna. Mr Bellish guarded constantly against it. At his home in Wiltshire and also when, as now, they were on a short holiday. One had perhaps to be even more careful on holiday when the regime he had ordained at home could easily be replaced by the sybaritic cosseting of hotel staff.
But on the other hand the different, more cosmopolitan surroundings of a well-appointed hotel did offer extra opportunities for shall we say testing of his very attractive young companion.
‘This seems pleasant enough,’ he observed when the bellboy had disappeared after showing them their quarters: two pleasantly furnished rooms facing the sea on the second floor, with bathrooms en suite and of course the interconnecting door.
‘Yes, Uncle George.’ Joanna delicately testing her double bed with her most attractive bottom. She was a very attractive girl all over, from the top of her head of thick ash-blonde hair cut medium short to the tips of her toes, at present in white high-heeled courts. The distance between these two ends was some 5’ 6” in her stockinged feet. They were — the stockings — just that. Mr Hellish abhorred the abominable tights which for some years had been almost ubiquitous. Even if stockings had not made something of a comeback he would certainly have had Joanna in them, with a nice suspender belt. That or simply bare-legged. The 5’ 6” was composed of all the usual bits and pieces that 19-year-old girls have except that with Joanna one could say they were Jaguar components rather than run-of-the-mill Ford. A pert-nosed, full-lipped face; and the rest slim but nonetheless well-rounded wherever it should be. As was of course especially evident when Joanna had no clothes on.
Perhaps George Bellish had this in mind, to be refreshed by this sight after the mildly tiring drive down. ‘I should take a shower,’ he observed. Meaning, as his young companion knew, Joanna rather than himself. She smiled and stood up. ‘Yes. Should I unpack first perhaps?’
Mr Bellish didn’t feel there was need for unpacking at this moment. No. He wanted to see Joanna. In the shower and out. Before and after. And not only see her. There was something else. One needed to get into a routine right away in strange surroundings.
Joanna, standing, was already unfastening, unbuttoning. Obediently. ‘And perhaps we can walk on the front afterwards. Before dinner.’ Her big blue eyes with a shine to them. Excitement. And also apprehension. A girl may in a way be used to something but that does not mean... that it doesn’t cause... a little shiver. The thought. Because taking her clothes off... usually means.
Discipline for one thing. A disciplinary session. The sight of Joanna unclothed seemed to send Mr Bellish — Uncle George — reaching for... his cane. Or a similar item. Joanna tried not to look at Mr Bellish who had sat down in the armchair and was undoubtedly looking at her. As blouse and skirt came off. And the rest: slip and bra and knickers. Suspender belt and stockings last of all. Sometimes he would make her keep them on. While he went to get the cane. Her peripheral vision said that Uncle George was getting up. Coming towards...
Standing with her knickers in her hand and the stockings still on. Mr Bellish patting her bare bottom. ‘Not putting on any little extra ounces, are we, Joanna dear?’ His hand smacked: a meaty splat. ‘Second helpings of pudding perhaps?’
Joanna said a sharp ‘No!’ Her weight was a constant nine stone, give or take a few ounces.
The hand splatted again, causing a heavy judder of the undeniably firm flesh. George Bellish didn’t really think there was any extra weight on this splendid shape but it paid to keep a girl on her toes. His other hand came up and rubbed across Joanna’s pert breasts, taking in the soft pink nipples. Her breath hissed out in a sibilant. ‘Ooooh.’
‘I don’t know, Joanna. I don’t know. I wonder if you are putting on just a little. And with rich hotel food... Should we perhaps have you on a diet whilst you’re here? Bread and water. And some nice big spoonfuls of healthy cod-liver oil for vitamins!
‘No! Please...’ she squealed. The trouble with Uncle George was that you never knew when he was joking or not. The most outrageously awful things could turn out to be for real. Like the first time he said she was going to get the cane across her bare bottom. He couldn’t mean that. So she had thought.
‘We’ll see,’ Mr Bellish said. He rubbed her nipples again. They were firmer now, beginning to stick out. ‘Actually I rather like the idea of cod-liver oil. It is good for you. Perhaps we could get someone to bring some up...’
‘’ she breathed. But Mr Bellish had that look in his eye. He gave the pretty tits a final fondle — Joanna’s nipples were right up now — and slapped her bottom. ‘Get your stockings off and have your shower.’ He was sitting down. Picking up the phone.
‘Nooo... oooo...’
Get in the shower, Joanna!’
Joanna obeyed. Shoes and stockings and suspender belt off and walking with that lovely sway of her bare bottom to the bathroom. Behind her Mr Bellish was talking to the desk. She tried to close her ears. But he was asking...
A polite knock at the door. ‘Noooo....’ Joanna breathed again. ‘I’ll be sick,’ she had said a few minutes earlier. ‘No you won’t be sick,’ was the answer. ‘I’ll hold your nose. A person can’t be sick if someone is holding their nose.’
Joanna was in her dressing gown: sea-green silk, knee-length and fastened with a sash. Nothing underneath. She had had her shower and she hadn’t been caned. Because Mr Bellish had got this other diabolical idea. Cod-liver oil.
It was a waiter. In a short white jacket; middle-aged, sort of Italian looking. And carrying... a bottle... and a big metal spoon. Mr Bellish let him in and closed the door. Began explaining. Joanna tried not to listen but of course she was listening.
‘My niece may have some trouble taking it. So...  if I hold her while you...’
The waiter was going to give it to her. He was grinning, and nodding. Joanna felt herself sweating, her face scarlet. She shook her head. ‘No. I... can do it.’ Although she doubted if she could actually take a spoonful of that awful stuff. But anyway Mr Bellish didn’t want that. He was going to hold her, he repeated.
‘Put your hands in your pockets and keep them there.’ It was happening. Mr Bellish behind her pushing Joanna’s hands down into the hip-high pockets of the dressing gown. The sash almost immediately came loose, undone, and the dressing gown slid apart. ‘No!’ she squealed seeing the gown opening, but it was quite possible that Mr Bellish wanted it to happen. He was in that mood. Making her show her tits to the waiter while he fed her this awful stuff. She tried to close her arms together, in the pockets. Mr Bellish grabbed them. Pulled her arms — and the gown — apart. Her tits... and everything else. Her pussy. The waiter’s eyes were almost coming out of his head. Mr Bellish let go of her arms and grabbed Joanna’s head. Her nose... and her mouth. Forcing it open. ‘Come on,’ he rasped to the waiter. ‘Two good spoonfuls.’
It made her gag. The dreadful oily fishy sensation filling her mouth. She spluttered... but Mr Bellish held Joanna’s head back with a firm grip on her nose and forced open her mouth. She had no option but to swallow. There was no thought now for the fact that her gown was gaping wide, exposing her tits, her pussy, to the eager-eyed waiter. ‘And another one,’ dear Uncle George said.
The big brimming spoon came up again. Tipping into Joanna’s open mouth. Some of it was spat out, onto the waiter’s nice white jacket, but most of it had to go down. Uncle George let go of her. Joanna grabbed at her mouth. She was gasping, tears in her eyes. A strangled cry and then a stumbling, half-blind dash to the bathroom, the dressing gown trailing out behind her.
‘You really didn’t take that very well, Joanna. A rather undisciplined performance. Do you agree with that?’
Joanna swallowed and bit her lip. They were in the dining room. A table for two over in the corner with a view out onto the front. Mr Bellish had ordered. Joanna had half expected he might continue what he had started with the castor-oil. Order bread and water for her, to continue her humiliation. To make her cringe as she sat here. It was the same waiter, the one a little while ago in the room obligingly spooning that gagging stuff between her lips. But Mr Bellish hadn’t done that; he had let her choose.
‘Don’t you agree, Joanna?’
‘I couldn’t... help it. I just couldn’t.’ She could still feel it in her mouth. ‘I was going to be sick.’
‘But you should have done better. It’s no answer to say you couldn’t help it. It is simply weakness, isn’t it?’
Joanna mumbled something. But there was no point in showing dissent; that would simply make it worse.
‘I think we’re going to need a little taste of the cane, my dear.’
Joanna rolled her big blue eyes. But it was no more or less than she could have expected. Mr Bellish — Uncle George — had caned and strapped her for less than this. At times for nothing at all. She squirmed her bottom on the chair.
‘And I’m going to ask the waiter to do it.’
Joanna blinked. She wanted to scream out. That Uncle George just couldn’t humiliate her in that way. But screaming in public, in a hotel dining room, would be a terrible offence. Her cheeks had gone bright red. A hissed, whispered, ‘Please...’
Mr Bellish said, ‘I shall ask him to take your knickers down and make sure you really feel it. Right after dinner I think.’
The waiter was coming over with the soup. Joanna fixed her eyes on the patch of dazzling white table cloth immediately in front of her. Seconds later the soup plate was placed there. That hand holding it had spooned caster-oil into her mouth... and was now going to be wielding Uncle George’s cane. Because he meant it, it wasn’t a joke. Uncle George was in one of those awful moods when he would do impossibly awful things to her. Things that were done in the name of discipline. He meant it. He was saying it to the waiter.
‘After dinner if you’re free I’d like you to come up to the room again.’
Joanna glanced up, face scarlet. Her eyes met the waiter’s. He smiled. He was no doubt remembering her bare tits and pussy, and the strangled cries she made as that stuff was poured between her forced-open lips. And he was no doubt wondering if there was going to be something else like that.
Mr Bellish didn’t beat about the bush. As soon as the man was in the room he told him. ‘I want you to cane my niece for me. She did not behave at all well earlier. All that struggling and spluttering. Getting it on your jacket in fact. She needs a caning. And I don’t really like caning her myself.’
That wasn’t true; Mr Bellish was quite happy caning her and he did it often enough. He simply wanted the extra humiliation of her being caned by the waiter. ‘Can you do that?’ Mr Bellish asked.
The waiter looked confused but as the meaning sunk in his expression changed to one of excitement — as well it might. ‘Yes. Of course.’ He had a slight Italian accent. He was wearing an informal sweater now, not the white jacket. ‘Yes. Of course,’ he repeated looking hotly at Joanna.
She was wearing the same dress as in the dining room: form-fitting pale green jersey-knit material. But Mr Bellish had made her take off the slip and bra she had had underneath. Now Joanna had only a brief pair of bikini knickers under the dress. Their outline showed through; as did the outline of her bare nipples.
‘I want her to really feel it. Can you cane her really hard?’ Uncle George’s voice was dispassionate, as if he were discussing how he wanted his steak done. The steak, though, was Joanna’s bottom.
The waiter nodded, eager-eyed. ‘Whatever you say. Young girls these days need some discipline, yes?’
‘Yes they do. Joanna, lift your dress. Right up. Over your head.’
She was standing by her bed still not fully able to believe Uncle George would go through with it. But disbelief or not he was handing the cane to this man. ‘Lift it, Joanna.’
The stretchy material came up, rather like skinning an animal. Inside-out and up over her head and raised arms. Her body trembling, nude except for the tiny bikini pants. Her bare tits sticking out. ‘Now lie over the bed.’ Mr Bellish’s voice heard from inside the green-lit tent of the dress. ‘Lie over the bottom of the bed.’
She was down on the bed and someone was pulling her knickers down. It was the waiter. Mr Bellish had gone to sit in the armchair, she could tell that from his voice. It was the waiter’s hands on her, tugging her knickers down across her knees. Her bottom was bare and she could sense the waiter drinking it in with his hot eyes. And relishing the thought of the cane.
‘Give it to her then. I want you to hurt her.’
Uncle George from across the room, his voice dispassionate as ever. A little pause... Joanna readied herself...
Her cry was muffled in the bed cover. The man had done as instructed; it was as bad as any Mr Bellish himself had ever given her. Like a knife slicing into the ripe crests of her buttocks.
Almost on top of the first one, and just as bad. Joanna opened her mouth to bite into the bedspread. Her face was wet. She was dribbling, or crying. Or both.
After four of them Joanna felt her dress being pulled down. Not right down, just to her waist. Her bottom was still bare: her red-striped quivering nates. But she could see now. The man. As Mr Bellish turned her face sideways. His hand came on her burning bottom.
‘All right, Joanna dear? You’re all right, aren’t you?’
She made a sobbing sound. Yes she was crying.
‘It’s not finished yet, my dear. You’ve got to have some more. But I have to go out. I’ve an appointment to see a gentleman. I shall leave you here with Mr Tardelli. You’re to do exactly what he says. Agree to whatever he tells you. Is that clear?’
What? What...? Joanna made another sobbing, choking sound. Her poor bottom felt red hot. And she was to have some more. Was that what Mr Bellish was saying? More of the cane.
‘What...?’ she managed. But he was going out. The door closing behind him. She was here alone with this man, the waiter. Mr Tardelli, Uncle George had said. As if to bring this home to Joanna he now sat down next to her on the bed, where Mr Bellish had sat. His hand came onto her bottom; like Mr Bellish’s had.
‘Your Mr Bellish says you are to have some more, Joanna. You heard him say it.’ His voice was nervous, excited. As if he could scarcely believe this. The hand was fondling her bare bottom. His fingers sliding down in underneath.
Joanne gave a yelp... and the fingers pushed firmly in. Hard in between her warm thighs. ‘I think you need something else as well as the cane, Joanna. Mr Bellish told me he thought you needed it.’
‘No!’ she yelped, all at once aware that he wasn’t only talking about the cane.
The fingers came away. He smacked her still-hot bottom. ‘Yes Joanna. First some more cane. And then something else that a young girl needs, eh?’ He was all at once grabbing at Joanna’s lowered knickers. Pulling them on down. Off over her struggling feet.
‘Yes. First the cane,’ he repeated. ‘And then that other thing!’
Mr Bellish was away about an hour. When he got back Joanna was still lying on the bed, sprawled on her front. The light was off and the curtains closed. Without switching the lights on he went to sit on the bed next to her. Joanna’s skirt was halfway down her thighs. Her knickers were lying on the carpet still. Mr Bellish’s hand slid up under the skirt, to her warm bare bottom.
‘Come on,’ he said softly. ‘Time for bed.’ His hand gently caressed. ‘You can come in my bed tonight.’

Isolation Wing

A continuation of Comrade Verushka, from Blushes Supplement 22
Through the window she can see the trees again. See them and smell them too, for the window is open. It is a smaller window than the one in the room where she had her earlier interviews with Comrade Myanski and it is open. But there are bars — thick vertical iron bars. All the rooms in this part of the building have barred windows. It is the Isolation Wing and it is possible that, in desperation, a girl might attempt to get out. So the windows are barred, but they can be opened and thus the scents of the outdoors, of the great expanse of forest trees, can waft in. The heady scents of pines and birch. So that it is possible, if you close your eyes, to imagine...
For Verushka to imagine she is not in this tiny bare room, a toilet, but is out there in the summer air and the sun. She can’t imagine this for long though. Not with the thought of Comrade Myanski. Who will shortly be here.
‘Go to Room 7, Comrade Verushka. Comrade Myanski will see you in there.’
Room 7 is this very small toilet. And here Comrade Myanski without doubt has some further dreadful punishment in store for Verushka. Another dreadful caning perhaps. Can Comrade Myanski use a cane in the confines of this little room? Or something else...? It is easy for a girl’s mind to imagine other dreadful possibilities — but there can without doubt be things she cannot imagine.
He has broken Verushka now. That session in the room at the end of the corridor. She couldn’t take it. Could anyone? Finding her voice and begging to be allowed to sign the forms. Olga’s form as well as the others. After five minutes with Comrade Myanski in that little room Verushka would sign anything. But the Comrade Inspector is not listening. Hearing her but not willing to accept a recanting. Not yet. She has to be taught a lesson. ‘A proper lesson, Comrade.’
Perhaps Comrade Myanski enjoyed his time with the pretty Comrade Instructor so much that, even though he can now get access to the girls he wants, he wants more time with Comrade Verushka first. ‘I think we need a further lesson, Comrade.’
In any event Verushka has been transferred today to the Isolation Wing. The special wing of the Academy building which is always off limits. A suite of rooms behind a locked door. Girls are very occasionally sent here for ‘special studies’ or ‘special investigations’. The nature of these is not generally known — it is vaguely assumed to be connected with security. Most things unknown and vaguely sinister are assumed to be connected with security; the State Police. If you are sensible you do not inquire. But whatever takes place in the Isolation Wing can proceed free from any interruption from the rest of the staff and student body. Behind that ever-locked door.
Merely being here in the Isolation Wing is a frightening prospect. Being woken early this morning and taken to the Deputy Director. ‘Comrade Myanski wishes to question you further, Comrade Verushka. He has suggested...’
Handed over to one of the custodial staff, Comrade Kritkov, a middle-aged, grey-faced man whom she has never liked and who probably knows nothing but has a vivid imagination. And he has something to fuel his imagination. In the stark little room, empty save for a wooden dresser and a narrow bunk bed, to which he takes her he says, ‘I’ve been told to take your skirt, Comrade Verushka.’
There is no point questioning this. Comrade Kritkov, lecherous-eyed, is standing waiting. Verushka has no option but to take off her skirt in front of him. Underneath she has only a very brief pair of bright red knickers, grabbed without thought in that shock early morning summons. Comrade Kritkov’s hot eyes on her bare legs and the sexy knickers. ‘Perhaps you should take those pretties off as well, eh?’
But Kritkov is only a lowly subordinate. He can’t possibly think of attempting any of the things his eyes say he would like to do. A little later he is back in the room with some of Verushka’s other things, which in the rushed summons she has not brought. He tells her to put on white ankle socks and her white high heels. Verushka is otherwise in just the little red knickers and a white tee-top. An appetising sight for the custodian who is not in a hurry to leave. His eyes drinking her in. He would give anything for an excuse... just to touch. But unfortunately there is no excuse. He has no authority. Not like Comrade Myanski. So he delivers his message and reluctantly leaves.
‘Go to Room 7, Comrade Verushka. Comrade Myanski will see you in there.’
Comrade Kritkov did not touch her but Comrade Myanski will certainly touch her. Verushka has a sudden dream — of climbing up and squeezing out through those bars and wildly running, to the high barbed-wire fence surrounding the compound. Somehow climbing it and she is free...
It is a dream. Verushka turns and there is Comrade Myanski. In his hand is that cane which yesterday... It is a repeat of yesterday when all at once there he was, silent in his rubber-soled shoes. Verushka forcing herself to stand straight and still.
Comrade Myanski doesn’t speak as he steps forward. His hand briefly squeezing one unbrassiered breast, and then he is reaching for the window, to close it. Shutting out that fresh, scented air, that freedom. He turns.
‘How does it feel, Comrade? Fully recovered now? You had a good night’s rest I hope.’
That cane. There are still marks. On Verushka’s bottom, on the backs of her thighs; the insides. She can feel it again. Hear herself desperately yelling out, pleading for mercy. What can she say? Comrade Myanski does not seem to need an answer.
‘Take the knickers off, Comrade. Let me see. We must be sure you are in a fit state to continue the treatment. Our very humanitarian regime requires that. A young Comrade must be examined to ensure she is in a fit state for the caning to continue.’
He can’t cane me here, there is no room, Verushka tells herself. The room is tiny with the toilet taking up most of what space there is. But Verushka is naturally obeying, sliding down her knickers. Stepping out of them. Yesterday they came properly off when she was lying across the table. Comrade Myanski doing it himself, pulling them on down over her stockinged legs. Taking them off so that he could... As Verushka takes her knickers off now the thought darts through her head there probably are positions in which he can cane her, even in this tight, claustrophobic space. That cane...
‘Let me see, Comrade. Get up on the seat. Kneel on it. Your back to me and your knees spread on the seat.’
Verushka again has no choice. A 22-year-old Instructor of Gymnastics cannot refuse the wishes of a Senior Inspector. But why hadn’t she accepted this simple truth at the beginning? If Comrade Myanski wanted Olga and the others he was going to have them. If Verushka had signed the forms right away probably Comrade Myanski would not have concerned himself with her. She had known she couldn’t stop him. Olga... This cane...
Olga and Verushka met briefly yesterday evening, in Verushka’s room where Olga has been coming two or three evenings a week. They have to be very careful of course, liaisons between students and instructors are strictly forbidden. It was not a good meeting. Verushka couldn’t tell Olga what had happened, or what was almost certainly going to happen to Olga. The fact that she, Verushka, would be signing a form so that Comrade Myanski could have his way with her... They had briefly embraced and then Verushka said she was not feeling well. That was true; she had never felt worse.
Kneeling up on the seat of the toilet now with Comrade Myanski’s hand at her bare bottom Verushka tries to forget her dear Olga. There is no point worrying about her, there is whatever is to happen now to herself to be somehow endured. Whatever dreadful thing Comrade Myanski has in mind. His hand moving over her bare bottom, and then down. At her thighs. And in between...
‘What about here, Comrade? Mmmm? It stung, did it?’
Verushka is shaking, trembling, at the memory. And at Comrade Myanski’s hand now which is right there, where the last two, unspeakable strokes of the cane went. Meaningless sounds whimper from her lips.
‘Do you need to relieve yourself, Comrade Verushka? Before we start? Sometimes a girl can have an accident. Wetting herself. The shock of the pain can have that effect. It is a good precaution to use the toilet first.’
Hot-faced — at his words, his hand, everything — Verushka shakes her head.
‘Better try,’ Comrade Myanski says. ‘Sit down and try.’ He is clearly enjoying himself. Humiliating her like this, debasing her. Verushka sits on the toilet. Comrade Myanski is not going to leave. Standing in front of her. ‘Come on, Comrade. Try. Make an effort. A little extra effort. Like the girls in the gym, eh — a little extra effort.’
There is silence in this claustrophobic little room. Verushka looking desperately at the floor. And then... a light tinkling sound. Silence again. Verushka wants to scream but there is only silence.
Comrade Myanski steps closer. ‘Is that it, Comrade? Is that all? Not a lot, eh.’ His hand on her head. A handful of the blonde locks. And a sudden jerk upwards. This time Verushka does scream.
Comrade Myanski gets her up on the toilet seat again. Kneeling painfully on the seat with her back to him. He pulls Verushka’s arms behind her and takes both her wrists in one hand. Comrade Myanski has his cane in the other, held two thirds of the way down the shaft. Held thus...
The thin bamboo whips smartly into the firm ripe flesh. Yes there is space all right. A choking gasp from Verushka as the red-hot sting wells up through her. Comrade Myanski’s voice, soft, gentle almost —
‘Hold still, Comrade. We have a long way to go...’
‘...before we are finished.’
Fighting the searing pain Verushka tells herself that at least in here Comrade Myanski cannot do what he did over that table. He can cane her bottom and the backs of her thighs. But he cannot do that other mind-stopping thing... Not in this tight space. The cane across her bottom is killing her, but she can endure it. As long as...
But Verushka has got it wrong. There are other positions Comrade Myanski can put her in. He can make her kneel on the cold floor, her body bent over the seat. Her knees wide apart. And standing above her, in the tight little space at the side...
The room at the end of the corridor again, in the main part of the building. Two days later. Two days in which Verushka has been in the Isolation Wing but she is out now, standing here, her face white and drawn, at the side of the table. The table on which she had that dreadful caning but now after two days in the Isolation Wing... there are even worse things than that fixed in her mind.
The door opens. Comrade Myanski in his rubber-soled shoes enters. He is not alone. Olga Smylmov follows him. Student Comrade Olga, Verushka’s darling Olga. She glances at Verushka and bites her lip. Olga’s pretty face has the look or a rabbit petrified with fear.
Comrade Myanski picks up the ledger from the table and shows Olga. Lying on the open pages is the form which Verushka has signed. ‘Student Comrade Olga Ivanova Smylmov has not been working...’ He points to the signature. Verushka’s name.
Olga gives Verushka a shocked, disbelieving look. Her mouth opens, but she doesn’t speak. You do not argue with authority. This of course is the precept that Verushka should have followed. Comrade Myanski is closing the ledger and putting it on one side.
‘You will be caned, Student Comrade, and the Comrade Instructor will remain and witness the caning. Take your knickers off please. Then raise your skirt round your waist. And then lay yourself over the table.’
To be continued in The Unseen Eye...