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Saturday, 30 December 2017

Captain of Cricket

From Blushes Uniform Girls 6
‘Good luck then, Shona. I am as you know expecting great things of the team this year.’ Miss Cartwright rose to her feet and Shona Ashford got up as well. The coffee session, the little tête-à-tête with the Head, was evidently over.
‘Yes, Miss Cartwright, I… er… I hope we will.’
The Headmistress raised her eyebrows. ‘Hope, Shona? I expect more than hope. I expect results; and I imagine that Mr Kirby will ensure we get them.’
‘Yes, Miss Cartwright,’ said Shona, exiting, somewhat red in the face. At 18 she was a big girl and a pretty one, short blonde hair and clean attractive features, tall and sturdily built with solid but shapely thighs and buttocks, not to mention big firm breasts. The sturdy but shapely buttocks seemed to be tingling slightly as she walked down the corridor from the Head’s office, Miss Cartwright’s words ringing in her ears. ‘Mr Kirby will ensure we get them…’
The results that Miss Cartwright spoke of were those the school cricket team was expected to get this year and Shona Ashford, for her sins, was captain. She wasn’t really all that keen on cricket and also not especially good at it, but back at the end of last year she had been appointed captain largely on the back of that large and athletic build. It wouldn’t have mattered, the school had always had an awful cricket team (and an awful hockey team as well) and no one had bothered except Miss Cartwright and there wasn’t much she could do because Miss Fleming, in charge of those games, was quite hopeless and ineffectual. It wouldn’t have mattered except that…
At the end of last year Miss Fleming retired and Miss Cartwright, incensed that that school always lost its matches, decided she would do something. She hired a man, an ex-army PT Instructor. And this winter his results with the hockey team had been truly amazing. They had started off losing as usual but then the last four matches had all been won. Unprecedented!
It was clearly down to Mr Kirby, the new man, and everyone knew how he did it. He was a hard man. He had girls running long miles and jumping up and down, to get fit; also practising until they felt ill. But he also did something else, something that not everyone knew about. He caned girls. It was this thought that was making Shona’s firm and shapely hindquarters twitch as she walked away from the Head’s room.
Yes, he caned girls; not a lot of people knew that but Shona knew because she was quite friendly with Penny Hurstley, captain of hockey. Penny had told Shona, sometimes tearfully — because Penny had been on the receiving end more than once last winter. It was not a pleasant sight to see a fellow member of the Upper Sixth in tears because she’d been caned on her bottom. On her bare bottom.
Mr Kirby’s philosophy apparently was to be especially hard on the team captain — as an example to the others and to ensure her keenness and co-operation. As a result poor Penny had seemed to get it rather frequently. When Penny had first told Shona she had simply not believed it. For answer Penny had lifted her skirt and slid down her knickers. Shona had blanched. There across the pale flesh of Penny’s good-sized rear were six distinct bright red stripes.
‘Holy Cow!’ she gasped. ‘Tell Miss Cartwright!’
Penny had laughed, a bitter little laugh with tears in her eyes. ‘Bloody Cartwright knows — and approves. She’s so bloody keen for us to beat someone she’d probably let him kill me.’
Shona had then said, ‘What about your parents,’ but had been forced to agree with Penny that at 18 you couldn’t go crying like a baby to your mother and father complaining that you’d been caned. So clearly if Miss Cartwright OK’d it you had to take it.
‘You just wait till it’s cricket season,’ Penny had said, and Shona had felt sick. Everyone knew that Miss Cartwright’s father had played county cricket back in the middle ages, so she was even keener on cricket than hockey, even more chagrined that the school team never won.
Holy Cow! thought Shona as she walked away from her cosy coffee session with the Head. It was the beginning of Summer Term, the very first day. Later, this afternoon, she had a meeting with Mr Kirby...
Shona hadn’t in fact seen a lot of him yet except that at the end of last term he had called the prospective team members into his office and said he expected them to be in sharp physical condition when they got back from the holiday. ‘Do some running, do some sport, and keep off the sex, girls,’ had been his instruction. With that making them all rather red-faced he had ‘playfully’ slapped a hard hand across Shona’s bottom. ‘You especially, Shona. The captain leads by example.’
Shona had spent a nervous and apprehensive holiday. She had not done any real exercise and she had indulged in what even she herself considered to be too much sex, mainly as a result of being nervous and apprehensive. Three or four times a week with Roger, her boyfriend. They had only started a few months earlier and Roger of course wanted to do it all the time, and when you were worrying about something having intercourse was a big relief. With the prospect of her meeting today with Mr Kirby, Shona had let Roger do it yesterday even though they’d also done it the day before as well. A longish session, going on for over an hour, and leaving Shona with a bit of a headache. So what with all that she knew she was in just awful shape, and if that hard Mr Kirby was ever to guess…
The day passed like a dream. I hate cricket, she told herself, and I hate awful Mr Kirby as well. She thought ruefully of her misspent holiday; no proper exercise, just mooching around, and those long sex sessions with Roger when her mother was out. Oh God. She was big and athletic-looking but running half-a-mile would probably kill her. Sex sapped your energy, Miss Mather in Biology had said that, reinforcing Mr Kirby’s message. It was probably true. All too soon it was 4 o’clock. Everyone else going home except the odd stragglers. Everyone except Shona… and presumably Mr Kirby. Oh God!...
She went to the changing room to get into her cricket gear which was how Mr Kirby wanted her. The white shirt and very brief skirt; the skimpy white knickers underneath; knee-socks and white sports shoes. She put her blazer back on top, and made a face in the mirror... At his room she felt a desperate urge to turn and run. Penny had said he caned you in his room, bent over his desk. Also in the gym... also in the sports pavilion… She felt sick. But she couldn’t run, she had to knock… and go in…
He was seated at his desk, writing, his close-cropped head bent. He looked up, those hard grey eyes… then got up. Mr Kirby, late forties, was a hard man…
‘Ah Shona, good. All ready for the season then, are we? Fit and raring to go?’
‘Yes sir,’ said Shona who wasn’t at all fit and ready to go, but Mr Kirby wasn’t to know that, was he?
‘Good. Let’s see then, shall we? Let’s have a bit of running on the spot.’
Holy Cow! He couldn’t! But he could. He made her take off her blazer, and then the short skirt… and start running. Shona’s big thighs pumping, her big buttocks in the brief tight white knickers… She felt weak at the knees…
‘Knees up, girl. Up! And faster, faster!’ She was gasping already, full thighs trembling, buttocks jouncing in the brief sports knickers. His hand flashed out to splat stingingly across the heaving buttocks. ‘Get moving, girl. Faster, faster!’
There was a burning pain in her lungs, her legs were two lead weights. Before long she simply ground to an exhausted halt, gasping for breath.
Mr Kirby’s curt, clipped tones said it was incredibly bad, he had never seen a girl less fit. His hand again smacked hard across Shona’s trembling buttocks. ‘Kindly explain!’
‘ I... I’m s...sorry, sir,’ gasped Shona, breathing heavily. ‘I... I meant to... do some running, sir... But...’
‘What have we been doing then, miss?’ His hand came out and sharply smacked the front of one pinkly glowing thigh. ‘We have been doing something, I have no doubt. And can I guess? Is it excessive masturbation perhaps? Or is it letting some horny youth get up there at frequent intervals. Is that it? Let’s hear it, if you please.’
Shona didn’t answer but went bright red in the face. Was he allowed to talk like this? But who was there to stop him?
‘Masturbation, miss; is that it? Bringing yourself off all the time?’
Hot-faced, Shona shook her head. She didn’t do that, or at least not very often, not like some girls. ‘So it’s the real thing then, eh Shona?’ His face had come very close. ‘Your boyfriend, is it? Letting him shag you. How often?’
Shona didn’t answer; she felt weak and sort of dizzy. Surely Mr Kirby shouldn’t be allowed to ask such questions, but who could she complain to? Not Miss Cartwright... and not her mother either. Shona’s mother certainly didn’t know she and Roger did it and if she did she would stop Shona seeing him. The hand gripping her thigh let go; then she gasped. Both of Mr Kirby’s hands had come up to her big breasts, squeezing them through the cricket shirt.
‘How often, Shona?’
She heard herself gasp, I don’t... oooh... I... three... three times... a week I suppose...’
The hands gave a final painful squeeze and let go. ‘With the shape you’re in, my girl, I would have thought three times a day would be more like it. That will have to stop forthwith, Shona.’
She blinked her eyes, not looking at him. This was just impossible. ‘Did you hear me?’
‘Yes sir.’ But she couldn’t just stop, Roger wouldn’t let her.
‘We will say no sex whatsoever for the present. None. I will consider the situation again in, say, two weeks’ time. So you’re to tell him it’s out, you’re in strict training. Is that clear?’
‘Yes sir,’ she muttered. This was all quite impossible. Penny had said nothing about any of this. But maybe Penny didn’t do it, though Shona knew she had a boyfriend.
She gasped again as Mr Kirby’s hands once more came out to squeeze her breasts. Penny also had said nothing about that. ‘If you get really desperate, Shona, we can allow a very occasional indulgence in DIY. Masturbation is not so sapping of a girl’s energies and I am aware that all girls do it anyway. But no more than twice a week.’
Shona bit her lip. Perhaps she was dreaming all this. In some sort of nightmare.
He let go. ‘Right, miss. Well, that’s that; and now I think we need a little something to hopefully show you the error of your ways for complete disregard of the instructions I gave at the end of last term. For the team captain, Shona, your behaviour has been quite unacceptable. Or as we would have said in my army days, a proper bloody disgrace.’
He paused, his grey eyes glinting. ‘So I shall now cane you, miss, and we will see if that will drive the message home. Slip down your knickers.’
Shona’s heart was thumping. This part, of course, Penny had told her about but being told about it was one thing. To be here in the close confines of his room and have him telling you to take your knickers down was something else. The room, and Mr Kirby, started spinning around a bit.
‘Take them down, miss.’
Her hands were somehow obeying. In the top of the tight white knickers and sliding them down off her womanly hips. ‘Right down to your knees,’ his brusque voice said. Her hands did it. She stood, trembling, at the side of his desk, wanting to cover herself with her hands but knowing that he’d bawl her out if she did. The cricket shirt was short, reaching only inches below her waist. The knickers were bunched at her knees. In between... well, Shona was a big girl, a well-developed one. Full womanly flanks and heavyish thighs. In the centre a thick swatch of light brown hair on the full mound of her sex — which was where Mr Kirby’s eyes were riveted.
‘A girl can’t let her pussy rule her head, Shona. Certainly my team captain can’t.’
Shona was staring intently at the carpet in front of her white gym shoes. Trying to concentrate on it.
‘So you keep that thing under firm control, is that understood?’
‘Yes sir,’ she mumbled.
‘Good. Now get yourself over my desk.’
She turned, and bent herself down over it; over the side of his desk that he had cleared of papers etc. His hands positioning her, stretching her arms out to grip the other side, then placing her feet, parted as far as the lowered knickers would allow but not too far from the desk so that her bottom was well thrust up. His hands then at her bottom, positioning that; slapping and squeezing it... and then...
Cheek against the polished surface, over her outstretched arm, Shona saw him go to the cupboard... and take out a cane... a slim, curvy, crook-handled bamboo... she closed her eyes. Her heart was thumping against the desk; she could feel her bottom flinching. She was sweating... she was going to faint... she had never had the cane...
Crack!...
Oh Jesus Christ! She heard her breath burst out in a gasping yell. It felt like she’d been cut in two. Cut in two transversely across the full meat of her bottom. Her stricken rear went into a desperate jiggling dance. Great waves of pulsating pain shot through her. They were still pulsating through when there was a second Crack!...
Spaced out, there was a third and a fourth; a fifth and a sixth. Each one punctuated by a wild howl; in between a sort of low moaning sound.
When it was finished and he told her to get up Shona saw she had dribbled on his desk. Saliva. Or was it tears? No, there were tears and dribble. Her bottom was absolutely white-hot, glowing with pain. It felt like raw meat. She clutched at the desk, her legs refusing to support her.
Mr Kirby, coming back from putting his cane away, unfeelingly slapped his hand on her glowing bottom, producing a further yelp of pain. ‘Get your knickers up, then,’ he brusquely told her. ‘And you can put your skirt back on. Then I want to talk about the rest of the team.’
And incredibly, with her knickers and skirt back in place, Shona was expected to sit at the side of his desk and discuss the other team members as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Mr Kirby drawing up his list of players. ‘I’ve got Julie Piercy and Sally Micheldene down as opening bats; how does that sound?’
The names were just names... Shona heard without really being able to put faces to them. They weren’t real; what was real was being bent over Mr Kirby’s desk and the cane slicing into her bare bottom. Her poor bottom that she was now painfully sitting on. It still felt like a slab of raw meat.
His finger prodded out, flipping her left nipple. ‘Shona, are you paying attention?’
----//----
She went home in a daze, and couldn’t eat any tea. She saw Roger later. His parents were going out and as far as he was concerned that meant another marvellous opportunity to do it, an extended session on his lounge sofa. Shona said no, and also said that she would now have to cut it out quite a bit. She had to get in training. Naturally she couldn’t actually say that Mr Kirby had forbidden it.
Roger at first thought it was a joke, she couldn’t be serious. Girls getting in training was a joke and girls playing cricket was an even bigger joke. When he saw she meant it, it wasn’t a joke, he became unpleasant. Shona finished up crying... but she didn’t let him. Later, in bed, she was crying again. The whole thing was impossible — including the fact that she had been told to get up tomorrow morning and run two miles before breakfast. She cried and then she did something else — something that they said sapped a girl’s energy but not as much as actually doing it with a boy. But in the state Shona was in she couldn’t help it, she just had to.
----//----
Woken by the shrill cry of her alarm Shona groaned out of bed at the crack of dawn and in her track suit went running — or more accurately half-jogging, half-walking something like two miles. It just about killed her and she was too exhausted to eat any breakfast. Fortunately she made some sandwiches which she ate at morning break because there was a note from Mr Kirby saying he wanted to see them all before lunch: the whole team.
They were told to change into their cricket gear and report to the pavilion. Quite a number of girls did not look very happy, knowing how the hockey team had been licked into shape. Mr Kirby produced a hard-eyed smile.
‘Welcome team. I hope I find you all fit and eager, as I requested; and I hope none of you have been undermining your fitness by engaging in sexual activity. I shall be questioning each of you privately about that; meanwhile we will see just how fit you all are. Eight times round the field, all of you, at a nice brisk pace.’ He clapped his hands...
They all set off, most of them groaning when out of Mr Kirby’s earshot. Eight circuits was over two miles. Three or four girls clearly had got themselves in decent shape — and perhaps also had not been indulging in too much sex. The others were very soon in various degrees of desperation. Shona’s early morning run had naturally done nothing for her fitness yet — it had merely left her with stiff muscles which now were agonisingly painful. She thought she was going to collapse. She wanted to die. Somehow she finished — next to last.
In the pavilion, with most girls still gasping and groaning, Mr Kirby told them, ‘Right; four girls in passable shape. The rest of you a bloody disgrace. So apart from those four you can all take your knickers down and we’ll see how you like those bottoms warming up.’
They stood looking at him; looks of shock and disbelief. Some girls had not known about the caning — or at least not believed it. But Mr Kirby now had a cane in his hand — and whipped it in across the calf of the girl nearest to him. ‘Jump to it, girls! Knickers off! And then we’ll have you over this desk. The captain first of course; she is just about the worst offender.’
They were getting out of their knickers now, spurred on by that nasty swipe across Mandy Fulford’s leg. None of them, except of course Shona, had ever had the cane before and the prospect was pretty terrifying. Of the four fit ones three had been members of the hockey team; they had seen this before, which was why they’d got in shape. And so shortly, for the second time in less than 24 hours, Shona was bending over, offering up that ample bottom for Mr Kirby’s cane. This time there was a dozen or so extra watchers — but at least most of them would soon suffer the same fate. For some time the pavilion echoed to the sound of girls’ howls...
----//----
That second caning, though, had the effect of strengthening Shona’s resolve regarding Roger. If she didn’t get in shape it could well mean that dreadful cane every day; and so she just couldn’t let Roger do her. She would have loved to let him, she really needed that marvellous relief it could give, but she couldn’t afford to. She had to get fit. Roger that evening got very nasty, but Shona couldn’t help it. In the morning she went for another heart-straining run, and that afternoon there was their first practice session: batting, bowling, catching. Mr Kirby watching them all like a hawk, making notes in his little book.
At the end of the session eight of them were told to report to Mr Kirby’s room after school. Eight unhappy girls being called in, one by one; and the first, naturally, was the captain. ‘Everything needs a great improvement, Shona. Knickers down, please and get over the desk.’
This sort of strict spartan training did work, though. After only a few days, from thinking you were going to die, you found instead that you were improving; you were fitter, you could run further, and faster. And your cricketing skills, which might have been almost non-existent before, also improved. What it also did, of course, was play hell with your love life. After one whole week of enforced abstinence Roger announced angrily that he didn’t want to see Shona any more.
Amidst the tears she told herself that he didn’t mean it — he couldn’t. She had pleaded that it was only for this term, for the school cricket season. Roger had just started swearing, ‘Fuck the cricket season’ etc., and had stomped off. But she had no real choice. She was afraid that if she did it even once she would be right back where she started. That was what Mr Kirby had told her: Any indulgence in actual sex and all her hard-won fitness would be lost ‘So I shall know at once, Shona, if you do it,’ he had told her, his hand sliding round to squeeze one sturdy haunch.
So, well, she could only hope he would eventually relent. At least a couple of other girls were in the same position regarding boyfriends: hoping.
Another week and apart from boyfriend problems and the fact that they were still getting the cane at times, they were mostly feeling not too bad. A lot fitter and sharper. The second Saturday after the beginning of term was their first match. St Hilda’s. On Friday they had their final practice and Mr Kirby seemed reasonably content with their performance. They were in good shape, he said, but they would need to perform at their very best. Or else… Then he suggested to Shona that perhaps she would like to come round to his house in the evening; to discuss final details.
Shona was not exactly enthusiastic. Her bottom trembled. Mr Kirby was Mr Kirby. He was quite capable of giving her a brisk caning just to make sure she was on her toes tomorrow. She had had the cane quite a few times by now and she did not enjoy it any more than that first time. But when she got there Mr Kirby seemed pleasant and friendly.
‘I know it’s been a hard haul,’ he said sympathetically. ‘But I’m sure you’ll agree it’s been worth it.’
Shona said yes and tried to make it sound as if she meant it, but quite frankly she would still rather have never heard of cricket. Mr Kirby slid his arm round her waist in a friendly way. He suggested she take her blazer off… and then he had produced a bottle of wine and two glasses.
‘How’s the boyfriend?’ he wanted to know.
Shona made a face and said things weren’t going too well with her boyfriend. Oh dear, Mr Kirby said, was it the sex aspect? Shona, flushing, said ‘Yes’.
They were sitting on his sofa. His hand came out and settled on her thigh. ‘A little abstinence is no bad thing for a young man, Shona. But there is another side to things. Keeping off it as you have has allowed you to get in pretty good shape. Now you are in good shape… well, just once wouldn’t really affect your fitness… Not to any extent…’
Mr Kirby had certainly never said that before, it had always been ‘even once’. His hand had pushed her skirt back and was now on her bare thigh. Stroking.
‘No… in fact just before a match… well, it can relax a girl. In fact get her in just the right frame of mind. Keen yet relaxed. And it is important that the captain is feeling just right, at her very best.’
Whatever could Mr Kirby be talking about? It surely couldn’t be… The hand stroking her thigh felt very nice, arousing even… especially after not getting any attention from Roger this last week.
Mr Kirby said softly, ‘Pity about the boyfriend… but anyway if you did let him now it would probably cause problems. On the other hand…’ All at once he was gently but firmly pushing her down on the sofa. What…? Oh no! He couldn’t… But yes, Mr Kirby’s hands were up under her skirt and at Shona’s knickers. Tugging them down.
And it was fairly evident that, this once at least, he didn’t have a caning in mind. No, clearly not. ‘Just relax, Shona. We want you in the very best mental shape tomorrow.’ Shona’s knickers were off… and there was the sound of a zip. Mr Kirby’s zip.
----//----
They didn’t beat St Hilda’s, they lost, but it was a very close-run thing, much closer than anyone could ever remember. All the girls did very well, and the captain… well, the captain did all right but a lot of the time Shona wasn’t too clear what was happening. Her head was still in a spin from Friday evening at Mr Kirby’s.
After the match he took Shona home with him. He said he’d have to cane her because they had lost and she was the captain. And he did cane her. But then he did that other thing again: did it. Shona, with Mr Kirby on top of her, and with her bottom still glowing from the cane thought: Surely this is going to ruin my fitness? At the same time, though, it did feel very very good.

Bargain Price

Story from Blushes 58
Mr Minley’s car crunched up the leaf-strewn gravel drive between trees and shrubs resplendent in their autumn reds and browns and golds. The house came into sight against the crisp blue sky. It looked as big as Mr Minley’s own house but more shabby, dilapidated. And the lawn at the side was uncut, resembling a meadow almost and also liberally covered with more fallen leaves. Quite unlike Mr Minley’s immaculate sward.
This place is probably falling apart,’ he observed as he pulled up before the house. ‘And that fellow doesn’t seem to be here yet. Anyway let’s have a look.’ His hand squeezed Susan’s thigh.
Susan followed him out. On this warm September morning the delectable Susan was wearing a white sleeveless top and full, calf-length pink skirt with large white buttons down the front, plus white high heels. She had nothing underneath, no underwear. On Mr Minley’s instruction of course. Sometimes she was allowed to wear underwear and sometimes not. It depended. It could depend on whom they were going to meet. Sometimes she wore sheer finest-denier stockings fastened with a trim suspender belt but today there wasn’t even that, her pretty legs were bare.
George Minley was interested in buying this place, to convert into flats, but only if the price was right of course. He stepped out onto the neglected lawn to view the front of the house. He frowned.
‘What d’you think Susan, eh?’
Susan demurely answered that it needed painting at least. Mr Minley moved closer, put his hand on the rear of her skirt. On Susan’s shapely bottom in fact.
‘Yes. Paint and all the rest. No knickers my dear? Or anything else?’
‘No Mr Minley.’
‘Good. Excellent. Do you think he’ll like you, this chap? Think you’re a pretty, sexy thing?’
‘I don’t know.’ Susan’s voice was nervous.
George Minley fondled the unfettered cheeks of her bottom. ‘Oh I’m sure he will. If he likes pretty girls and all men do, don’t they? Unbutton the skirt. All the buttons. And then... just let it slide open. So he can see just what a pretty girl you are.’
Mr Congrave arrived a few minutes later, his Sierra pulling to a skidding stop beside Mr Minley’s Rover. He was a few minutes late but that of course had allowed Susan to unbutton her skirt as instructed. She observed him with somewhat anxious eyes as he hurried across to them. He looked younger than Mr Minley and was wearing a suit whereas Mr Minley had on an anorak and slacks, the more casual attire of a man not desperate to do business no doubt. Mr Congrave looked ordinary, not a villain or anything, but that didn’t mean a whole lot. Anyway she didn’t know what Mr Minley had in mind, he hadn’t said and she certainly wasn’t going to ask. But no underwear and now having to unbutton all the buttons of her skirt, right up to her waist, well....
Ronald Congrave was apologising to Mr Minley for his late arrival. He had been unfortunately held up at his office. His eyes, though, were certainly taking in Susan as well as his prospective purchaser. Taking in this rather stunning young miss with the big brown eyes and soft full mouth and the slim but shapely form in this most attractive outfit. The top which was tight enough to clearly show the jutting peaks of her boobs. And the skirt, all those buttons. They were... He could see a bit of bare thigh above one pretty knee. And yes... those buttons were all undone. Right up to her waist.
----//----
Inside the empty house, upstairs, on the landing, Mr Minley asked if the water supply was connected, functioning. Mr Congrave replied that it was, speaking in a somewhat distracted manner as if the matter of public utilities was not fully engaging his mind. Perhaps this was not surprising. By this stage, after some ten minutes of preliminary looking over the dilapidated house and its neglected grounds, Susan’s unbuttoned skirt had revealed a good deal. Everything in fact, at the front at least. Her pussy for instance. The neat brown bush adorning her delightful sexual parts. Susan’s delicious cunt in other words. Ronald Congrave had had a quite full view of it on more than one occasion during their tour of inspection. As her pretty skirt as she walked, climbed stairs, etc, simply slid open. So if he did sound distracted this was not entirely remarkable.
‘Good,’ Mr Minley observed. ‘I mean considering the general state of the place you wouldn’t take it for granted, would you? We could test it out. The shower. My young Susan here, I’m sure she’d like to test it out. A nice cold shower on a warm day. Most invigorating. Well naturally there’ll only be cold, won’t there? OK Susan?’
Susan said a panicky, ‘No thank you Mr Minley. No really I wouldn’t.’
Mr Minley laughed. ‘She’s joking Mr Congrave. Of course she’d love a shower. If you’ve no objection that is.’
A breathless ‘No. Not at all.’ In Ronald Congrave’s head was still that vision of this delicious girl’s cunt. He was hardly able to believe he had seen it but he knew he had all right, no question. Two full and complete views as well as a number of partial sightings. Susan’s skirt was closed again now as she stood demurely still, feet together. But those buttons were all unfastened and as soon as she moved again... And now this other. A shower.
‘Lovely,’ George Minley said. ‘There you go then Susan. Slip your things off. Do it here, Mr Congrave isn’t going to mind, he’s seen girls before I’m sure.’
There was no point protesting or arguing, Susan knew that. If Mr Minley told her to do something she had to do it. It was just another test of discipline and obedience he would tell her. And if you didn’t like the test he would think up another one that you would like even less, either here with this Mr Congrave or when they got back home. So... just do it.
‘She doesn’t wear any underwear in this warm weather,’ George Minley offered obligingly. ‘As you can see. I believe it’s more healthy for a girl to have the freedom of her limbs etcetera.’
Ronald Congrave had been watching with lustful eyes as the pink-faced Susan removed top and skirt. Nothing was hidden now of course as she was left in only the white high-heels. George Minley took the two items of clothing from her to make sure the view was unimpeded. She turned, juicy bottom jiggling, to make a dash for the bathroom...
Mr Minley stopped her. ‘Just a mo. Don’t rush. Let our friend Mr Congrave here have a look at you first. See what a lovely girl you are. Come on, stand up straight, hands at your sides. No, better, put them on your head, that’ll stick those pretty tits out. That’s it.’
Scarlet-cheeked Susan was doing it. Because she had no choice. ‘There, isn’t that nice Mr Congrave? Isn’t she really lovely? Those boobs and of course that pretty puss. Turn round now dear, let him see that saucy bum.’
----//----
On the landing again. She had had her shower. Had stood under the jet of cold water which felt like a shower of icicles drubbing against her bare flesh. Mr Minley and Mr Congrave had been in the bathroom with her and had kept her under the icy jet until she thought she was going to die. Then Mr Minley had rubbed her dry with a towel. After that she had been left alone with Mr Congrave while Mr Minley went out to his car. Mr Congrave hadn’t done anything, except look at her with greedy eyes. He had asked if she had a boyfriend. Susan had said a nervous yes.
She was warmer now after the rubbing dry with the towel but she could still feel that awful icy water. She still had nothing on of course. Just the towel clutched round her. Then there was the sound of Mr Minley’s footsteps on the bare boards outside.
He came into the bathroom, a smile on his face. Susan gave a little squeal. In his hand Mr Minley held his tawse. That split-tongued length of stiff leather which Susan had felt across her pretty bottom more than once since she had been with Mr Minley. He had a cane and he had that tawse. It was difficult to decide which was worse, either could be worse in fact. Depending on how Mr Minley felt like using it.
‘No! Please...’ she breathed.
‘I just thought we might give her a little warming up. After her shower. It’s the discipline training of course. That’s very important when you keep a young girl of this age. If they don’t get plenty of discipline there’s no knowing where you are. But I’m sure you know that Mr Congrave, I’m sure you know about girls of this age.’
Mr Congrave said yes he did. Mr Minley was leading them out onto the landing again. There was a wooden splay-backed chair out there and he was placing it up against the banisters.
‘Kneel up on this Susan. Holding onto the back and with your bottom nicely out. Then we’ll show Mr Congrave how disciplined you are with the tawse, eh? I’m sure he’ll be impressed.’
‘No!’ she whispered again. Although knowing that protestation was no good whatsoever, not when Mr Minley had decided on something. Especially if that something involved his cane or tawse. ‘Please...’ But of course Susan had to get up on the chair.
Ronald Congrave was goggle-eyed, scarcely able to believe this. Scarcely able to believe any of it: the unbuttoned skirt sliding apart to display this delicious girl’s quim; then in the shower with that icy water blasting down on her squirming, writhing form; and now this. This perhaps most of all was difficult to believe. The pretty miss kneeling on the chair and bent forward, her hands gripping the back. Mr Minley raising the leather tawse. And then zipping it down...
SPLATT!...
‘Aaaeeegghhh!...’ The girl’s urgent cry echoing in the empty house. A bright red imprint appearing, rapidly darkening, to mark where the leather had landed squarely across the meatiest aspects of both cheeks. The shrill cry subsiding into a whimper as George Minley’s arm swung back again.
SPLATT!....
Another high-pitched yell announcing electrifying contact of leather and girl’s bottom-flesh. Followed by the lower whimpering sound. Then another high urgent cry as George Minley’s arm came forward for a third time.
Ronald Congrave watched, rapt, rooted to the spot. Heart thudding. Front of trousers distended, tight-stretched over his swollen member.
----//----
Susan is out in the garden. Mr Minley has suggested that she go out and stretch her legs in the soft sunshine. While the two men discuss business. She strolls on the unkempt lawn which is not at all like Mr Minley’s lawn, and indeed not at all suitable for high heels.
Susan has her top and skirt on again and the skirt’s buttons are now fastened to about halfway down. Mr Minley told her to button it when he said she could get her things on again. Which was after he had finished with the tawse. That bloody tawse! She can still feel it. That hot burning feeling as if she has been made to sit on a red hot stove. Susan’s hand goes ruefully behind her. It doesn’t hurt now, or hardly. But... what are they saying inside? Mr Minley and Mr Congrave. Mr Congrave who when Mr Minley had finished with the tawse was invited to run his hand over her burning bottom. Mr Congrave’s hand sliding over her glowing bare bottom.
‘Keep still Susan. Mr Congrave is just checking that I’ve done a proper job.’ Mr Minley’s little chuckle. And Mr Congrave’s breathless voice as he fondled. ‘Yes.. Yes.. You seem...’
What are they saying now? Inside. What deal is being struck? This house that Mr Minley would like to buy even though it is so dilapidated, empty for months, maybe years it looks like. Until today when the three of them have been in it. With herself nude in that dreadful shower. And nude on the landing over that chair. But dilapidated, going to seed, as it is Mr Minley would clearly like to buy it. At a good price. Yes only at a very good price. A very cheap price in fact. And to get his cheap price... there is herself.
There is pretty Susan. Delectable Susan who doesn’t always wear underwear. How does that affect the equation, the sale? If pretty Susan now kicking those pretty high heels in the garden is thrown into the equation? What is the price then? Susan bites her lip. Turning to look round. At any moment they will appear. Smug smiles no doubt on both faces. Mr Minley because he has done a deal, got his very good price. And Mr Congrave because he has got her, Susan. For a course of discipline perhaps. Disciplinary training.
Mr Minley will say, ‘Susan dear. We’ve decided... that you can go with Mr Congrave for a couple of days. It’ll be very good for you. A little change...’ That is what he will say. Unless of course it is a couple of weeks, or a month even. If Mr Minley has got a very good price.

Friday, 29 December 2017

Lesley: The Bottom Line

By Richard Manton from Janus 34. By popular demand, Lesley resumes her disciplinary adventures from Janus 13 & 21.
The house with the green verandah stood at the end of an elegant late-Georgian terrace, among tree-lined residential streets high above the city. Its classical façade was hidden by the screen of chestnut trees dividing the main road from the crescent of the private terrace-drive.
There was nothing to indicate who lived in the house or what use it might be put to. Early on most afternoons several young women would arrive at intervals — never the same young women. Later on, one or two men would follow — never the same men. It was rare to see one of the girls leaving on foot or bicycle. As a rule they were collected by taxi or private car from the front door.
The blouses, ties, and short pleated skirts of some of the girls suggested fifth-formers arriving for a lesson in deportment. Others, in their tight jeans and singlets, might be girls from shops or offices. There was a third group — self-possessed young women with unisex haircuts — who suggested that a conference on sexual equality and women’s rights was about to take place there.
The girl who arrived early one May afternoon belonged quite clearly to this last group. In a trouser-suit of thin black nylon, she pushed her bicycle into the driveway and locked it. At 28 years old, Lesley was quite tall and trim, her figure remaining firm. If her looks were spoilt it was by the way her straight fair hair had been cut in a ‘liberated’ urchin-crop with long parted fringe. The hair was shaped close to her head from the high crown to her jawline. An admiring glance from a male passer-by was returned by an aloof dismissive stare of her blue eyes. Lesley had the classic good looks of the English middle-class girl in her firm fair-skinned features, though marred by her self-possessed arrogance. Her mouth and chin showed a little girl’s sulkiness.
As Lesley bent over to padlock the bicycle, the thin black nylon of the trouser-suit was drawn skin-tight over a pair of statuesque young buttocks, nicely firmed out by a couple of well-controlled pregnancies. Her thighs were still long, trim and well-exercised. Yet the eyes of the men who were passing the entrance of the drive were drawn at once to that slight proud firming out of Lesley’s bottom!
Straightening up, Lesley shook her parted fringe into place with an impatient grimace. She gave the men an annihilating glance of distaste and rang the door-bell. The way led past several internal doors, each of which closed with the whisper of an airtight and soundproof partition.
Melanie, the Chinese girl who had opened the door, led the visitor to a room where Julie, a bronzed Amazon of thirty with a sheen of black hair, sat at her desk.
Without looking up, she said, ‘You must be Lesley. We use first names here, by the way. And I presume you know why you have come here?’
Julie stood up and faced the newcomer. ‘Answer, please!’
The boyishly-cropped young wife shook her fringe again with the same nervous habit.
‘Yes,’ she said with dismissive contempt in her blue eyes.
‘Good,’ said Julia briskly. ‘After we’ve finished with you here, you’ll know better than to ignore a question put to you by someone in authority. I won’t waste time lecturing you. You are here, of your own free will, to be soundly thrashed for the pain and distress caused to others by your adultery and promiscuity.’
Lesley brushed the fringe with the edge of her hand.
‘If that’s what he wants! If that’s what it takes to soothe his sick little ego!’ The disdain in her high school and college voice was undisguised.
Julie sighed and opened a folder, reading the case-details.
‘Young women come here to be chastised for many reasons, Lesley. They come here, like you, of their own free will. Once here, they are made to obey the rules. You will be no exception to that.’
It was beneath the dignity of the educated and emancipated young wife to reply to this. Julie consulted the file again.
‘I see you actually abandoned all your marital responsibilities, in order to sleep around, Lesley. Adultery and promiscuity!’
‘This is 1984 for goodness sake!’ Lesley’s voice rose like the whine of a spoilt girl-child, ‘My body belongs to me! I decide who uses it! In case you haven’t heard, it’s called a woman’s right!’
Julie ignored the outburst and looked at the file again.
‘Your husband wants you back in the marriage-bed, I see. You want your freedom, as you call it. And, naturally, you want a cash settlement from him as well. To resolve the dispute, you agree to be whipped here in his presence. If you still want a separation and settlement after that, he will consent.’
Lesley’s blue eyes and sullen jaw conveyed a wilful defiance.
‘Anyone who thinks adultery belongs with guilt and punishment is still living in the middle ages,’ she said sulkily.
Julie put the file away.
‘You’re too intelligent to believe such libbers’ claptrap, Lesley. People are still punished through adultery — but now it is the innocent who have to suffer. Think of the years of suffering you have caused to husband and kids by your selfish sleeping around. As for guilt, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re here this afternoon from a deep subconscious need to be punished for your conduct.’
‘That’s ridiculous!’ But the words came in a gasp, as if Lesley had been suddenly shaken into recognising a profound truth about herself. The firm line of her mouth faltered. Julie smiled grimly.
‘You’re a young tart, Lesley. That’s the proper term for it. I’d like you to be caught at it in Arabia. They’d know how to use a lash across your bare buttocks and make you scream at every stroke, Lesley. Even that’s less than the suffering you’ve caused!’
For the first time Lesley’s self-assurance wilted and her snooty blue eyes reflected a deep sense of shock. Despite the trendy women friends and the men she slept with, there were those who wanted to see her bottom squirming and eyes brimming like a whore under the lash in some feudal punishment.
‘Off with your trouser-suit, Lesley!’ said Julie sharply, ‘Let’s see what you’re wearing underneath!’
‘No!’ Lesley gave another peevish whine, ‘Why should l?’
‘Want to do it the easy way, Lesley? Or the hard way?’
The boyishly-cropped young wife gave another petulant flick of her long parted fringe.
‘All right,’ she said grudgingly. ‘If I must!’
She took off the jacket of the thin trouser-suit and laid it upon the chair. Undoing the waist of the black nylon trousers, Lesley pulled them down over her hips and drew her legs clear one by one. She folded the trousers over the back of the chair. Above, the waist she now wore a snug, short singlet in white cotton. The singlet shaped her long sleek back with its sheen of mature flesh, and her firmly mature young breasts cupped high by the bra which she wore — breaking all her libber’s vows — as a condition of the agreement.
Below the waist, she was encased only in sheer translucent panty-tights of honey-toned nylon. Julie smiled her admiration at finding a young wife of 28 with such firm-toned Spartan-girl thighs. Her eyes rose to the pressing of fair pubic hair and slight proud swell of the young woman’s belly. Making her turn, Julie admired the marginal broadening of hips caused by careful child-rearing, the erotic firming-out of the mature pale moons of Lesley’s bottom.
‘Now bend forward over the desk, Lesley!’
The young wife turned her fair urchin-crop and hesitated.
‘Get over that desk, Lesley! At once!... That’s better! Tighter still! Good. It’s going to be a real pleasure taking you down a peg or two in the next few hours. Quite still, Lesley while your bottom is examined.’
This caused another peevish wail of protest, soon answered.
‘Don’t be silly, Lesley. You’re going to be thrashed hard. Before that happens we must be satisfied that your hind cheeks are in a fit state to take it. Suppose you’d had a kinky time with your boyfriend last night and he’d birched you for kicks. What a pretty pickle we’d make of your behind, Lesley, if we caned you on top of that!’
With obvious resentment the young wife bowed her fair-haired crop over the desk, and was pressed down until her belly was tight on the polished top.
‘Give your hands to Melanie, Lesley! That should remove one temptation!’
The Chinese maid stood before Lesley with feet braced apart, smiling gently. She took the hands firmly.
Julie’s hand examined lightly the fully rounded and broadened moons of Lesley’s bottom in the filmy honey-toned sheen of panty-tights. She took the elastic waist of the tights and peeled them down and off over Lesley’s ankles. The firm pale flesh of Lesley’s arse and hips swelled free a little in pale feminine voluptuousness as the constricting nylon mesh was drawn clear. Julie smoothed palm and fingers in a light circular massage over Lesley’s buttocks.
‘No, don’t flinch from it, Lesley! When you’ve had the hands of a husband, lovers, and even the randy old doctors in the ante-natal clinic checking you like this, you can’t really be bashful!’
While her fingers mapped the smooth pale contours of Lesley’s arse-cheeks gently, Julie drew up a chair and sat to study the target. Lesley was, indeed, like a young Amazon soldier-girl caught bending, her pale seat-moons so full and firm in this posture, they cried out to be thrashed.
‘I’m sure you look more exciting from this angle now than when you were a bride of 18 or 19, Lesley!’ said Julie quietly. ‘Carrying a baby or two has given just that firm erotic maturity to your seat and hips! When you’re back with your better half, make the most of it. Find a pair of those tight faded blue jeans you wore at college. All the better if they’re a size or two small now. Struggle into them. When he comes home, let him catch you in them, bending over to clean the oven. It’ll be worth every bit of the trouble. He’ll probably take you straight up to the bedroom without even waiting for dinner! Send the kids on a long walk first!’
Lesley wriggled a little to express her libber’s contempt for turning herself into a ‘sex object’. Then she struggled even harder as a flash-gun popped behind her several times and, in addition, Julie stepped round to take two close-ups of her face.
‘For the record, Lesley. Just to show that your derriere was unblemished and in a state to be tanned before we started!’
The examination continued with quiet but remorseless questioning.
‘We know you haven’t been whipped during marriage, Lesley. Nor I suppose at college. Any tannings at school or home while you were growing up?’
This sexist question, so outrageous to an educated and emancipated suburban wife, produced wrestling and gasping. Julie, who had been locking the trouser-suit and tights in the filing cabinet, took a slim triple-tailed leather tawse from another drawer. Without further warning she brought it pistol-smacking down across Lesley’s 28-year-old backside. There was a shrill cry — outrage rather than anguish to begin with.
‘Answer, please!’
‘No! Not at home or school!’
Smack!
‘Ow! That hurts!’
‘Good. A real stinging with the tawse should get you in the mood for what’s coming later, Lesley. It should also help to make up for what you missed at school. In fact, I imagine quite a few of the men who taught you wouldn’t mind paying off a score each this afternoon! Young married women sometimes need to be treated like little girls, Lesley!’
Melanie waited, an enigmatic gleam in her slant Asian eyes, as if she were secretly smiling at the promiscuous young wife in her predicament. Julie whacked the supple leather tawse across the full pale moons of Lesley’s bottom with a sting that smarted like fire.
‘OW!’
An upward lash of the tawse, catching the soft undercurve of Lesley’s seat-cheeks had the boyishly-cropped young libber right up on her toes with the impact of it.
‘OOOW! Stop! That hur-r-ts!’
Julie did not need to be told. Lesley’s bottom was surging and writhing like the rear view of a girl cyclist rising from the saddle and working the pedals hard on a steep hill. The next crack! of the tawse across the crowns of Lesley’s buttocks had a sting vicious enough to have reformed the most defiant fifth form girl. Crossing and tightening her thighs, the young wife jammed one knee into the back of the other in a desperate attempt to contain herself.
The face that was twisted round to Julie had lost all its snootiness. There was such woe under the fair parted fringe of Lesley’s urchin-crop. The sulky mouth opened wide and shrill as the next smack! of leather brought a pink flush — like the sting rash of a nettle — to the lower softness of Lesley’s arse cheeks. Julie smiled.
‘And the last two right across the same undercurve, Lesley!’
‘No! OH, NO!’
Julie put all her wicked skill into the final pair and the room rang with Lesley’s cries. The chastiser stooped to make a close and loving inspection of Lesley’s bum-cheeks which now glowed cherry-red from eight lashing strokes of the school tawse.
‘Such a fuss over a school tanning, Lesley! You ought to have been getting that every week from the fourth form onwards. Bare bottomed over the desk in front of the class. Believe me, it’s nothing to what you’ll get later. In half an hour you’ll be pale in the arse as ever, ready for anything. You needed a taste of leather across your bare behind just to bring you to your senses. Frankly, I don’t much care for arrogant young tarts, Lesley, when they mask their selfishness under a lot of yelling for their rights at the expense of everyone else’s.’
Melanie stood back and Lesley straightened up gingerly. She blinked back her tears, her hands moving towards her seat but not daring to touch the throbbing soreness.
‘You bitch!’ she sobbed gently. ‘Oh, you bitch!’
Julie was not the least angered by these insults.
‘Did you enjoy having your arse tanned, Lesley?’ she snapped. ‘Enjoy it so much that you want some more? No? Mend your manners then, you young tart! Make trouble again and you’ll get your backside into real bother!’
The last tears were blinked away. Lesley flicked her fringe again.
‘You wouldn’t dare!’
‘Ah,’ said Julie understandingly. ‘You mean I wouldn’t dare to leather you half a dozen times before your proper chastisement. Quite right. I’ve got a better way. I’d give it you once, probably twelve sizzlers, just before your bottom’s big moment over the stool. Your bum-cheeks smarting like fire, Lesley, and the real chastiser just choosing a cane for you. Fancy that, do you?’
Lesley stared back, her clear blue eyes now clouded by doubt. The mere suggestion would be enough to make her spine tingle with fright. Julie would not dare to do such a thing. Or would she? Someone would stop the caning, wouldn’t they? Or would they? Julie’s smile suggested that the chastiser — whoever it might be — would actually put more zest into the bambooing if he saw that Lesley’s buttocks were still smarting from the tawse. Might in fact lose all control, incensed by witnessing the effects of her preliminary strapping.
Julie noted the faltering of the sullen mouth and jaw. That pleased her. She knew Lesley would take no chances. Long ago, Julie had learnt that the art of punishing was almost entirely verbal. A chastising service would close overnight if the girls disciplined there emerged as stretcher cases or walking wounded. The key to dealing with a young married libber was to give a real stinging with the tawse across her bare bum, then play on her imagination. Alas, thought Julie, there had to be a limit to the amount of discipline inflicted on Lesley’s bottom. But the art was to make the young libber believe that the amount of whipping was open-ended.
Julie’s success seemed already proved. By renouncing her wish for separation and settlement, Lesley would have been free to go. She was free to go, in any case, without bothering to explain the renunciation. Yet Julie’s natural authority, as well as the automatically-locking soundproof doors, the locking away of tights and trouser-suit too, made her freedom seem an illusion. So Lesley stood, urchin-crop bowed like a chastened little girl after a scolding, naked from the singlet hem at her waist down to her bare feet.
Lesley was next shown the rooms of the chastising service. Punishments were carried out in a large high-corniced drawing room with shutters closed outside the windows and thick velvet curtains drawn within. The bright fluorescent tubes were augmented by spotlights. A heavy music-stool with padded leather top was securely placed at the centre of the carpet with a folding screen to one side. Upon the sofa lay half a dozen canes and two birch rods of official pattern — three long switches bound at the handle.
The next door opened on to a smaller waiting-room.
‘We call it the dance-hall!’ said Julie humorously. ‘You should see the fretting, the pacing about, the nail-biting that goes on in here. Once you get the ten-minute warning, Lesley, you won’t be able to sit still however hard you try!’
Next to this was a toilet. For reasons of prudence, it was a recess without a door. Last of all, across the end of the corridor, they came to a bedroom of considerable luxury.
‘Our Reconciliation Room,’ said Julie with obvious pride.
Lesley’s contemptuous movement of the mouth was ignored. Julie indicated to her the silk-covered bed, the divans and love-nests, the stools of various heights suited to supporting a girl who bent or knelt over them. A slim crook-handled bamboo lay on the carpet. Julie picked it up and put it in the wardrobe.
‘I shan’t be needing this room!’ said Lesley sullenly. ‘I didn’t come here to be reconciled!’
Julie smiled at this.
‘You never know, Lesley! It’s astonishing how demonstrative a husband can be after he’s seen his young wife get her bare bottom caned! I suspect most of the young madams think all their howling and weeping well worth while!’
Lesley turned her face away in distaste.
So they came back to the office. Lesley used the edge of her hand to brush her fringe into place again as she stood before the desk naked from her waist to her feet.
‘I’m not staying,’ she said suddenly.
‘As you wish,’ said Julie. ‘May I tell your husband that the agreement is ended?’
‘No,’ said Lesley. ‘You can pay me and get it back from him. I want that money now!’
‘We do not keep money here, Lesley!’
‘Write a cheque — or else...’
‘Or else?’
‘I’ll go straight to the Police. I’ll tell them I was brought here by force. I’ll tell them I underwent lesbian rape from you. And I’ll do things to myself to make them believe it! I want that twenty thousand! You can get it back from him!’
‘This is blackmail, Lesley,’ said Julie quietly.
‘Who cares? The law was made for men by men. I’ll tell any story I please.’
‘Very well,’ said Julie calmly. She got up and called, ‘Melanie!’ The Chinese girl came in.
Playback, please, Melanie,’ said Julie quietly. As if from a well-tuned stereo came Lesley’s voice.
‘I want that money now... I’ll go straight to the Police... I’ll tell any story I please.’
There was a click as the tape went off.
‘Did you not realise that complete recordings are kept here? It is the most elementary precaution.’
There was such dismay in the aloof blue eyes under the parted fringe at this revelation. Presently Lesley had the courage to ask:
‘Will I… will I be recorded...?’
‘While you’re getting it, Lesley? Most certainly!’ Julie gave her a knowing smile, ‘Especially then!’
Wearing only the short white singlet, the young wife with the short-cropped hair was escorted to the waiting-room. Julie’s eyes dwelt on the rhythmic rounding and falling, meeting and parting of the firmly mature cheeks of Lesley’s bottom as she walked behind the culprit. As the door was about to be closed upon her, Lesley summoned up her nerve again.
‘Will I be... Will it be... Will he...’
‘Will you be caned by your husband, Lesley? That, as they say, would be telling. We also arrange a screen to prevent you seeing the identity of the person. It may be him — it may not be. It is his privilege to choose.’
‘And how many... how many...’ She was having uncharacteristic difficulty in expressing herself.
‘Not quite so snooty now, are we, Lesley? How many strokes? That’s entirely up to the chastiser. Whatever he decides. He can take you all the way. We merely ensure that you get them.’
Julie had arranged matters so that Lesley would be able to hear, faintly through the partition, the sound of several other girls paying their penalties first of all. There were sounds of Helena, a Swedish language-student tanned for shoplifting, and Noreen, a strapping young trollop of nineteen, whose bare bottom was birched for some act of insolence. No leniency was shown and the birching of the sturdy young cheeks of Noreen’s bottom was intended to set Lesley’s nerves jangling.
Last of all, Julie went to fetch the arrogant young libber. When she opened the door, as she predicted, Lesley was on her feet almost wanting to run to the place of chastisement and get her ordeal over with. Julie took her by the arm and led her the short distance to the appointed place.
A curtain was drawn across the room, concealing the firm pale-figured young wife as she walked across to the heavy music stool. A few hours ago, Julie thought, Lesley would have sullenly refused any order to kneel forward over this punishment stool. Now she obeyed hesitantly but without defiance. Julie adjusted the screen on the left-hand side. It was arranged so that however far Lesley twisted her head round she could see nothing of the chastiser. Whoever caned her would see only Lesley’s arse and hips, her thighs and protruding  legs as she knelt. The upper part of her body, firmly over the stool, was concealed. Melanie once again held her hands. This was principally to save Lesley the embarrassment of getting up suddenly and discovering the identity of the chastiser.
There was a last refinement. With a chinagraph, Julie would trace across the broadened and rounded cheeks of Lesley’s bottom the strokes which were to be inflicted, adding a number where more than one was destined in a single area.
The murmur of conversation among the spectators, also concealed from Lesley by the screen, subsided as Julie squatted down with her chinagraph. She tickled Lesley’s behind rudely with its tip to draw her attention. The promiscuous young wife twisted her urchin-crop round in outrage and alarm, the alarm growing as Julie explained the purpose of the marking.
She studied the full pale moons of Lesley’s 28-year-old backside. Then Julie drew a line across the fullest width of the cheek-crowns, allowing Lesley to feel her writing the number ‘3’ beside it. There was a protest, half-gasp and half-cry.
‘Right where you sit, Lesley!’ said Julie with a quick grin.
Twice the marker traced higher up. Then with a wicked smile at the woebegone blue eyes watching her, Julie traced a line across the crease dividing Lesley’s buttocks and thighs. She added another ‘3’ and drew two more lines at half-inch intervals above that. Lesley was no longer too aloof to plead for herself.
‘Not there! Please!’
‘Right where the edge of the chair comes, Lesley! I’ll let you into a secret as well. Some men can’t tell a 3 from a 5 or an 8 without their reading-glasses! Still want to give us a lecture about woman’s right to choose? Still think that screwing around was worth it?’
A wail of protest answered this as Julie now began to draw diagonals across the horizontals. At last Lesley’s yell was loud enough to be heard, with a murmur of amusement, by the onlookers.
‘No! Not any more! Not with a cane! Oh, you bitch! You bitch!’
‘Such an outburst, Lesley! I think that rates making at least one 3 into a 5.’
Julie finished and then stood up.
‘This is it, Lesley! All the way! My goodness, how that pulse in your neck is racing! Let me slide a hand under you a moment. Yes, indeed! I can practically feel the butterflies in your tummy!’
----//----
The chastiser stepped forward with the bamboo. Like Julie, he had no sympathy with emancipated young wives who practised adultery under the pretext of women’s rights. He paused a moment or two, inspecting the target. Like Julie again, he admired the effect of the child-rearing in giving Lesley such an erotically firmed-out seat. He could not resist touching the first aiming stroke across the crease dividing Lesley’s arse-cheeks and thighs. Even as he measured it lightly, he saw that the menace of it made her toes curl in fearful anticipation.
He thrashed once — and twice — across that low undercurve of her seat with pitiless skill. Then, because Lesley was ear-piercingly demanding not to be caned there again, he gave her two more cracking strokes across that same soft lower fatness.
‘Now across the widest spread of your arse, Lesley,’ said Julie who still presided over the punishment. ‘Let’s see you stick it right out. Ah! Did that one make you want to jump right through the ceiling? And again! No, don’t twist your bottom aside like that, Lesley, or you don’t know where it may catch you.’
Then Lesley yelled wildly as the fifth stroke landed across her cheek crowns. A softer outburst followed, as Julie noted.
‘Ah, I thought we’d have tears soon, Lesley! The pity is they didn’t come years ago. Still even a 28-year-old liberated wife isn’t too big to have little-girl weepies!’
Lesley’s long firm thighs were writhing together as if she might be trying to manipulate a roller between them. The cherry-red stripes across her buttocks glowed like the bars of a fire, slowly swelling and throbbing into the traditional weals of the cane. Now the chastiser began, without compunction, to measure diagonally across them.
With stern approval, the onlookers watched the cheeks of Lesley’s bottom rounding and writhing under the strokes, arching and contorting in her desperation. There were gulping sobs and wild cries, the traditional lament of the punishment-room. All of course recorded for future reference. Yet it was rare even in such a place to hear them from an educated and emancipated young wife of her age.
The chastiser was skilled enough not to rush the proceedings. When a couple of diagonals were due across a certain path, he would pause, measuring across Lesley’s squirming seat-cheeks with tantalising skill. Expectation became the greater part of her punishment. Lesley’s buttocks contorted, struggling to contain her apprehension. Sometimes she was guilty of a rudeness which she would ordinarily have forbidden even her boyfriends or other women to hear.
So the chastiser went to work again, caning and touching, caning and touching„ until the last stroke was given with even more vigour than the first. The spectators left. Lesley was permitted to rise. She walked slowly, head bowed in tears, naked from the singlet hem at her waist down to her feet. Julie walked behind her, surveying the thrashed cheeks of Lesley’s backside with a mouth rounded in appreciation.
‘I’d say he forgot his reading-glasses, Lesley, wouldn’t you? And every stroke of the cane across your arse had you up on your toes, as they say. Didn’t it?’
No solace to be drawn from Julie’s spitefully precise observations!
The banter faded away. Outside in the hallway stood the husband. Lesley did the only thing possible to her in her condition. She flung herself, sobbing, into his arms. Julie smiled. Lesley, walking gingerly because of her ferociously smarting bottom, was being led to the Reconciliation Room. Julie nodded. Nine times out of ten it ended that way. A network of such services as hers might put the divorce courts out of business, she thought.
It was two more hours before the door of that room opened and Lesley emerged in search of her tights and trouser-suit. She walked thoughtfully now with the air of a young woman whose desires had been copiously fulfilled, several times in succession. Julie grinned at her.
‘Worth it, Lesley? You can’t wait to get back to married life now, can you?’
The young wife kept her urchin-crop bowed as her clothes were returned. Julie turned her round and looked quizzically.
‘I don’t think all those bamboo prints were across your bottom-cheeks when you went in there, were they, Lesley? That’s the true test of passion — when a man gives you that between your happy-times! Look at the state of those wifely young seat-cheeks, Lesley. Why, you’ve even got bruises on your bruises!’
With her emerging sense of humour, Julie may have exaggerated the truth a little. Yet when Lesley appeared in the doorway, her bridegroom and Julie were engaged in discussion of a certain tropical island where second honeymoons were all the rage — in the Arabian style. Julie was just explaining that no bride considered her wedding-night complete in that part of the world unless her bottom bore the imprints of bamboo next morning — among her other trophies. As Julie added, it was the custom, at breakfast for each bride’s chair to have a thick feather-soft cushion for its seat.
----//----
Julie never knew if the couple took that second honeymoon. She received as a present only a tape-recording. Some lovers, she knew, would act out their fantasies as a radio drama. What a privilege to eavesdrop. She played the tape. A woman’s voice with an accent of the East spoke.
‘Don’t be absurd, Lesley! The doors of the harem open only one way for slave-wives. They admit but they do not release. Ah, yes. Those black stretch-briefs encase your firm hips admirably. Come, Lesley, you surely knew you would have to undress! You took care to put on clean knickers! Now they must come down. Bend, if you please! This will be His Excellency’s favourite view! That firm pale-skinned bottom of yours, Lesley, is what will interest him most of all about you. Why, he will hardly be able to leave it alone! Do not misunderstand me. He is not a mere lecher. No, Lesley! His Excellency is a firm believer in strict discipline. Have you never seen one of these before? Why, the very sight of it makes your backside squirm. Wait until tonight, Lesley! He will keep you busy from dusk until dawn...’
Times were so busy for Julie that she did not realise for another day or so that she had failed to play back the other tapes — those on her answering service — for several weeks. When she did so there was a curious call received the day after Lesley’s chastisement — from a travel agency. It queried the tickets booked for the couple’s Arabian trip. Two tickets for the outward journey — only one coming back?
Julie looked at the tape. The Foreign Office? The Embassy? Interpol? How foolish she would feel! It was only a radio drama, surely? No one would actually do those things — even in harems — would they? That part where the volume seemed to go berserk. The master who had used such invention, set new records of discipline for Lesley’s bottom. All pure fantasy, Julie decided mischievously.
All the same, she settled down to listen to the tape again with a new sense of interest.