Photo-story from Janus 139 featuring the lovely Tara Duncan. A sequel to Disciplinary Measures in Janus 132.
In the pretty English village where she lives Tara has, over the years, become something of a scourge. At night she would creep from her room and do things like uproot Mrs Marshall’s prize dahlias, white out signposts to confuse motorists, let down car-tyres, spray outrageous graffiti on the schoolhouse windows, free sheep from Farmer Wisegood’s pens.
At first it was simply mischief. Yes, her father spanked her over his knee fairly often, but Tara only laughed. Many times her mother locked her in her room without supper after tellings-off that left her hoarse and breathless — but Tara merely sneered. The girl was irredeemably wicked, impervious to punishment. A tomboy when younger, she beat up village boys and sent them home crying; climbed trees to dizzy heights, urinated on Mr Holmswood’s roses, rode her bike over wet cement, pushed down walls before the bricks had set, terrified old Granny Barkin in the churchyard by leaping from behind a gravestone and pretending to be a ghost.
Tara seemed beyond salvation. Even the vicar, after several attempts to make the girl mend her ways, gave up after his surplice ‘mysteriously’ caught fire just as he thought he had finally secured her attention.
In time the village nightmare changed: Tara’s tough little face and hyper-active body evolved to peach-pretty and shapely-slender and were now an irresistible lure to those same village lads who had once run from her in fear and trembling. But in addition to her outward change, Tara’s mischief developed into something more serious. In between breaking hearts as well as windows, she teamed up with her friend Natalie and went on a local shoplifting spree. Security cameras identified them beyond any doubt, and both girls were hauled up before the local magistrate.
The story has been told elsewhere (in Janus 132) of what happened next. The magistrate. Mrs Hilary Hanbury-Boyce, took the miscreants in hand herself and, rather than blight their futures with a criminal record, punished both girls so soundly with a leather strap, as well as her hand, that even Tara was in tears by the end of that never-to-be-forgotten thrashing.
And now? Maybe it was that talk by the vicar; or perhaps the time, soon after she’d been caught shoplifting, that Tara found her mother crying. Certainly that painful afternoon up at the Old Hall with the village disciplinarian had an indelible effect on the young tearaway too.
Whatever it was, a further change had recently taken place in Tara. Parental spankings had always been half-hearted and desperate, to be scorned rather than taken seriously, yet she’d felt such an unexpected sense of peace after the Hanbury-Boyce experience that — despite the scalding sensations in her bottom for several hours afterwards — Tara was forced to admit that, while not having enjoyed the thrashing itself in any way, the after-effects were definitely therapeutic.
Several months went by. Tara seemed to be a reformed girl. But then temptation taunted her, and she succumbed. It happened at a fête in a neighbouring village. A wealthy lady had left her handbag unattended for a moment, open, with a jewellery box in view. In the crush of people it was easy for Tara to snatch the little velvet-clad container. When she inspected the spoils of her enterprise she found it was a diamond necklace, worth thousands of pounds.
Tara felt a strange mixture of elation and dismay. But this time she felt unable to enjoy her ill-gotten gain, and spent a sleepless night. Next day she went to the police station and handed the necklace in, saying she had found it. The sergeant commended her for her honesty, and said the item would be returned to the distraught owner, who had already reported its loss.
Yet still Tara felt restless, unsatisfied in a way she couldn’t define. The feeling continued till it dawned on her that what she craved was the extraordinary sense of peace that had welled up in her after Mrs Hanbury-Boyce had punished her that day.
The realisation was astounding, but not to be ignored: Tara needed to feel she’d paid the penalty for her crime, otherwise she knew she would be tempted again and again.
But who would punish her? She thought of reporting to the Old Hall and submitting to the beating Mrs Hanbury-Boyce would no doubt be happy enough to provide. Yet somehow the idea didn’t appeal.
And then came a thought that made her pulses race. Mr Lambert, her History teacher at the local school! Tara remembered how, when telling the class about social values in Victorian times, he would go on at length about how severe the discipline used to be in those days. He even brought a cane in one day and demonstrated its use on a cushion in front of the class. Whack. Whack. Whack. The girls had giggled and the boys had sniggered, but Mr Lambert was obviously very interested in the subject.
Tara wasted no time. A carefully worded letter, delivered by hand to his house, was followed by a phone call. The result was that Don Lambert agreed to discipline his ex-pupil in the ‘good old Victorian manner’. He was most surprised, and secretly delighted, to receive such a request. The girl was of age, no permission need be sought, and the punishment was at her own suggestion. He felt that it was his birthday and Christmas all rolled into one.
Now here was Tara, in Mr Lambert’s basement room.
He had left her down here ‘to savour the seriousness of her situation’ as he put it. Following his instructions, Tara had unearthed her old school uniform and tried it on. It still fitted. Well, maybe the knickers were a bit tight now, but she didn’t suppose Mr Lambert would object, stickler though he was.
As the minutes ticked away, Tara began to feel nervous. The only item of furniture in the room was a chair. On it lay a cane. She recognised it as the one he’d brought into class that day. But now it wouldn’t be a cushion on the receiving end, but a real live bottom. Her bottom. The thought both thrilled and scared her. What would it feel like?
Mr Lambert came into view again and descended the cellar steps, as dapper as ever in smart casual jacket and bow tie. Tara’s heart set off at a trot as he sternly approached her, and her legs felt strangely weak.
‘Now then, Tara Duncan,’ he said in that terse, schoolmasterly voice. ‘Are you ready to be punished?’
Her voice came out in a squeak, so she licked her lips and tried again. ‘Yes, sir. I think so, sir.’
‘You think so?’
‘Excellent.’ He took a minute or two to inspect her. ‘Quite neat, quite smart,’ he rapped out, ‘but could do better. I hope you’re wearing regulation knickers.’
‘Show me.’ Tara felt a curious frisson as she turned and let him lift her skirt. She heard him catch his breath. ‘They are rather tight,’ he observed.
‘Are you going to give me the cane, like the Victorians did, sir?’
‘All in good time, my dear.’ He considered her gravely through his scholarly spectacles. ‘Y’know, the cane wasn’t the only implement our forebears used when chastening a miscreant.’
From his inside jacket pocket he produced a wooden-backed hair-brush. As Tara stared he slapped his palm with it. The sting was surprising, even at such low force, and he speculated on how a pair of pampered nubile buttocks would respond.
Well, it was time to find out. Lambert sat on the chair and patted his thighs: a moment to treasure. This wicked little tearaway had turned out to be something of a stunner. He could smell the perfume she’d sprayed on. Wicked or what? He sensed that she needed a spanking as much as he craved to give it.
‘Get across my knee.’
Tara Duncan obeyed, lowering herself tentatively over his lap. The school knickers tightened more, but Lambert resisted the urge to stroke and squeeze. Her bottom, hugged by the soft thin cloth, was magnificent.
Tara yelped like a puppy when the back of the hairbrush whapped across her buttocks. It didn’t hurt too much, nothing like the horrible pain of the leather strap the Hanbury-Boyce woman had used on her and Natalie.
Whap, whap, whap. It was almost pleasant, lying across the legs of a teacher she once had a crush on while he belaboured her knickered bottom with such obvious relish. Whap, whap, whap, whap.
Tara shifted on his lap, nudging something that felt suspiciously like an erection. She knew she mustn’t think of that. She needed to be punished, not titillated. But as the brush-back rose and fell with stinging little slaps, the feeling was becoming definitely sexy, and she wriggled some more.
Realising what was happening, Don Lambert brought the brush down with additional force, grunting with effort as he delivered the stroke.
‘Don’t you dare,’ he growled. and suddenly Tara knew it would be all right. ‘I think we’d better bare this wicked bottom,’ he snapped.
But with a wrench he pulled the school knickers down to her knees. Her naked cheeks shuddered as the brush cracked down on them with a loud report. This time the pain was almost intolerable, and Tara howled and tried to get up, but he held her firmly and continued more moderately.
In this way. Tara found that her bottom responded with jerks and twitches and agitated little shakes, but the hurt, though hot and hard, was bearable. It certainly wasn’t pleasant, though, and as the cracking wallops of the brush continued, Lambert gradually increased the force, allowing the girl’s behind to build up more of a tolerance.
Coupled with the searing impacts on her posterior was the undeniable embarrassment of being sprawled across a man’s trousered thighs and spanked like a naughty girl. Yet even as Tara yelped and squirmed there was a certain peacefulness about what was happening to her, a calming in the centre of her mind that the wrong she had done was at last being actively assuaged.
‘Good.’ The cane was in his hand. That cane. ‘Bend over.’
‘You heard me, girl — bend over! Legs straight, push that bottom out.’
Tara obeyed. He flipped the blouse up her back, giving a clear view of the luscious target: smooth, soft, bare, ripe. ‘You really do have a most splendid bottom, young lady,’ he murmured. ‘It’s a pleasure and a privilege to administer justice to it.’
The caning that now ensued hurt worse even than Mrs Hanbury-Boyce’s strap.
‘Running on the spot — BEGIN.’ And Tara did. She ran and ran. ‘Knees higher — HIGHER.’ The girl began to pant as she sucked in air and strove to do his bidding, pumping her legs up and down.
Sweat gleamed on her body as he made her sprint, harder and harder. She was gasping, the strength in her limbs failing, but still he drove her on. And even as exhaustion approached, she couldn’t forget the gnawing, sizzling, throbbing, freezing, burning sensation in her bottom where Mr Lambert had beaten her with the back of a hairbrush and a Victorian-style cane.
‘I have to go now,’ he said quietly. ‘Consider yourself punished. You may let yourself out.’ Then he left her. Just like that. As she stood in his basement alone once more, and prepared to put her clothes back on, his voice floated down the steps. ‘Remember, Miss Duncan, if you’re ever tempted again, you know where to come.’
She did. And she would. For something told her this was only the beginning.