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Saturday, 3 February 2018

A Ritual Caning

From Blushes Supplement 23
Perhaps the best description of the man is nondescript. There is nothing remarkable about him, nothing noteworthy, unless it were his very nondescriptness. Well, there are his feet, which are certainly larger than the norm: large for his height and build which are very much average. The large feet are in scuffed black shoes; distinctly unpolished. The rest of him is distinctly unpolished too: a rumpled old sports jacket over a not-very-clean, cuff-frayed shirt , and baggy unpressed trousers. Oxfam would kit a man out a lot better than this. The man himself, this nondescript individual, is perhaps fifty; with grey hair that has disappeared on top but as if to compensate there is a good day’s growth of greyish stubble on his jowls. The smallish eyes give him a watchful look. They dart furtively about the room: alert, on guard, with an animal-like quality in their wariness. As if their owner, this nondescript man, is fearful of something, someone. As if perhaps he is not supposed to be in here and at any moment someone might appear, to catch him red-handed. In the act of whatever it is he is doing, or plans to do.
The room is quite small, twenty by twenty feet perhaps, and starkly decorated and furnished. A plain, functional room with two facing doors at one end. But if it is functional what is its function? There is a wooden chest, with drawers, against one wall, there is a large notice board, and in the opposite corner, across the institutional grey floor covering, is a strongly-constructed wooden trestle. These items are all the room contains.
The horse is of the gymnasium variety, not the sort one finds in the nursery. Its four splayed legs support a leather pommel, the top of which would be about mid-thigh height to a full-grown girl, say. So that such a girl, spreadeagled over it, would be on the very tips of her toes. Not that any girl is stretched across this horse at the moment: the room is empty save for our nondescript friend with the very edgy look.
He goes over to the chest and after a wary glance at the door, opens a drawer. He peers inside and then closes it again. And then is going over, with a sort of tiptoeing gait on his large feet, to the notice board, whereupon there is chalked in large letters: Sharon Smithfield: 11 o’clock. Under this is chalked: Janice Maybury: 11.30.
He glances up at the clock on the wall. It is displaying 10.50. The furtive eyes slide over to one of the doors and then he is rummaging in the pocket of that scruffy jacket. His hand comes out with something and he examines it. It is a tube, as it might be a tube of toothpaste. It is not toothpaste though. The hands, with their rough, uncared-for nails, twist the tube about, testingly squeezing it. He unscrews the cap and raises the open tube to his nose. A querying look as he sniffs. The cap is replaced, the tube goes back in his pocket. He glances again at the same door and then he walks in his tiptoeing way across to it. He seems on the point of opening the door, to look outside perhaps, but at that moment the door opens anyway. A girl.
‘Oh!’ Evidently she is not expecting this gentleman with the interesting tube in his pocket. ‘I… What’re you…?’
‘Hello Sharon.’ A gruff, not-particularly-educated voice. The wary eyes take her in. She has masses of soft blonde hair framing a pretty face. A sensitive, full-lipped mouth whose pinkness is probably not the result of lipstick. She is of medium height with what would seem to be a nicely-rounded figure in a check blouse and dark skirt. Below there are bare legs with white ankle-socks and white flat-heeled shoes. She stands uncertainly before the man whose eyes are focussed firmly on the front of her blouse with its twin bulges one on either side of the row of little buttons. Yes there is a bra, the sharp eyes say. But still…
‘Uh… Mr Balcher… I’ve got to get… ready…’ A glance up at the clock to make the point. She shuffles her feet.
Mr Balcher, for that is evidently the name of our unprepossessing character, gives her an owlish look. ‘I know that, Sharon. But don’t you mind me. You go ahead. I… ah… got to check in ‘ere.’
There would not seem to be a lot to check in this sparsely furnished room. Perhaps to give credence to his statement he goes over to the chest and opens a drawer again. The girl shuffles her feet uneasily. He looks up.
‘Get on, Sharon. If you’re not ready… well, Mr Pearling won’t be pleased, will ‘e?’
Sharon sucks in her soft lower lip. She blinks. Her deep-blue eyes look slightly frantic. Clearly Mr Pearling not being pleased is a serious matter; but at the same time it is equally clear she is not at all happy about doing whatever it is she has to do in the presence of this Mr Balcher.
What Sharon has to do is take her clothes off. So yes, one can understand her reluctance. Probably not many girls would relish the prospect. With his shifty eyes and general unkempt appearance Mr Balcher does not exactly look a girl’s favourite harmless uncle. One can easily imagine him doing… well, unpleasant things. It may be that he has already done unpleasant things, in this place. Taking advantage of his position, whatever it is. So that…
Mr Balcher looks up again from his pretended examination of the drawer’s contents. Sharon is still standing uneasily immobile. ‘He don’t like a girl not to be ready. An’ ‘e’ll make sure she knows ‘e don’t…’
But now Sharon is already galvanised into action. Turning her back to Mr Balcher she is unbuttoning the little buttons of her blouse. Pulling it open. And then the waistband and zipper of her skirt. Her face is pink, like the full pink lips, with the knowledge that Mr Balcher’s shifty eyes are not shifty at this moment; they are firmly fixed on her, eager to see every inch of her body as it is reluctantly displayed. But there is no choice: she can’t tell him to go out, if you try that he just won’t take any notice, he is more likely to do the opposite. So far he hasn’t done that. She should tell him to go out, he has no right in here. Not when… it’s bad enough, it’s going to be bad enough… without Mr Balcher. Sharon feels like crying. Everything has to come off, including her knickers.
She steps out of her skirt. Her blouse is already off. Her bra has to come off too. And then… they are the special knickers that she has on. Special for this appointment with Mr Pearling. Tight transparent plastic material. They are very uncomfortable to wear; the plastic material sticks to damp flesh and flesh quickly becomes damp inside the impervious plastic. These knickers don’t have to be worn all the time and they are to be taken off on visits to this room, to Mr Pearling. The knickers are sticking and uncomfortable. And now as she unhappily removes her bra they are her only garment. It is 10.55…
‘Want some ‘elp, young Sharon?’
 ‘No! The word comes out sounding slightly hysterical. Sharon’s hands are up covering the pert, quite large tits which are now of course bare. Her back is towards Mr Balcher. Unfortunately she has only one pair of hands which means her bottom in the tightly-stretched transparent knickers is inevitably exposed, at risk. It is quite a large bottom too, with nicely-rounded cheeks, and it is for all intents and purposes bare. She wants to yell at him to go but that wouldn’t help. He won’t go — well, not until Mr Pearling gets here. That’s nothing to look forward to either but at least horrible Mr Balcher will go then. What time is it…?
‘He’s goin’ to be late. So Mrs Billings told me.’
Mr Balcher is suddenly close behind her. Close up, that scruffy jacket in intimate contact with her nude back. And his arms… his hands are reaching round. Pushing aside Sharon’s own hands which are lightly covering her nude tits. Mr Balcher’s hands taking hold of the tits, one pertly trembling one in each hand. Squeezing. She yelps out.
Aarrr! Lovely, young Sharon.’
She struggles, in a frenzy, but the hands are there, firmly grasping. Mr Balcher with a cackling laugh. After some long, heart-stopping seconds he does let go. ‘Don’t take on, young Sharon. Jus’ a bit o’ fun like, They’re lovely, ain’t they!’
Sharon splutters something, her body shaking from the sudden shock assault. Then another yelp. Mr Balcher’s awful hand is there at her bottom in the tight plastic knickers. A quick grope and he lets go. Cackling again.
‘Come on: you got to get yer business on. Let me ‘elp.’
She gasps a ‘No!’ again but Mr Balcher has got them from the chest. Her punishment shorts.
‘I’ll do it,’ she squeals reaching for the shorts while covering her tits with her other arm. ‘You…’ The thought of Mr Balcher’s hands on her again… ‘Don’t touch me.’
Mr Balcher gives up the shorts without a struggle. Surprisingly perhaps. He stands back eyeing Sharon as, her back to him still, she begins tugging at the snug, crinkly-sounding plastic knickers, sticking to her sweat-damp buttocks and thighs, peeling them down, then down her thighs. She leaves the knickers on the floor and steps hurriedly into the shorts, yanking them up, zipping and buttoning. Mr Balcher puts his hand in his pocket.
The toothpaste-like tube which doesn’t contain toothpaste; it in fact says Ralgex on the side. He is unscrewing the cap again, not this time to sniff the contents but to squeeze some out on his fingers. A good-sized dollop. Replacing the cap and then the tube back in his pocket. Now his hands together so that the greasy substance is equally distributed on the tops of the first two fingers of both hands…
Sharon is meanwhile still fastening the button at the waistband of her shorts, with fumbling fingers that are not as effective as they otherwise might be. Mr Balcher’s letting up on her has got her just marginally relaxed — but in any case she can’t with only one pair of hands protect her tits — or her bottom come to that — and do up the stiff button at the same time. And she has to have it buttoned before…
Mr Balcher’s hands… those cream-laden fingers… are round and at her tits again. More specifically they are at her nipples. He is rubbing the greasy substance into them. She squeals again.
‘Stoppit! Ooowwwhhh!’
‘Make yer feel good, that will.’
‘Oooohhh!’ What… the stuff is coating her nipples: white, oily cream. It has a funny aromatic smell. She has to get it off but at the same time doesn’t want to touch it. Looking desperately round. ‘What… is it? Ooohhh!’ Sharon is close to tears. ‘I’ll tell Mr Pearling.’
Mr Balcher gives a short laugh. ‘‘E won’t be bothered. Anyway that’s good stuff, that is. Make a girl feel good. All ‘ot. You know what I mean.’
She looks at him. Sharon is now aware of a hot tingly feeling in her nipples. With a frantic yelp she grabs for her blouse. Using the bottom of it she wipes at her nipples. Some of the cream can be wiped off but most has sunk in. Deep penetration: it says on the tube. It also says:  Do not use on sensitive body areas.
The hot sensation is increasing. Sharon’s nipples are throbbing. They are also becoming erect. Sticking out. She holds her blouse loosely over them. ‘What is it?’ she squeals again.
Mr Balcher doesn’t answer this time. He is turning away from her. And taking that tube out of his pocket again. Unscrewing the cap and squeezing some more of the cream onto his fingers. Just the fingers of his right hand this time. The recapped tube goes back in his pocket. The hand with the cream is behind his back as he turns to Sharon. And comes back towards her.
‘That ‘ull make yer feel real good,’ he repeats. And grabs her again. Pushing her face-first against the wall this time. Sharon is still holding the blouse over her now pulsating tits and is not ready for this rear assault. Mr Balcher’s large feet get in between Sharon’s, forcing her legs apart. His left hand deftly undoes the button that has taken Sharon so long to do up, and the zip. And then his right hand comes into action. Fingers curled, knuckles first, it goes down the back of the shorts and in between her legs. Once inside, the fingers straighten. As Sharon screeches out in shock the glob of cream is slid into her opening. The fingers briefly work, making sure it is well in there, in this most sensitive of parts. The hand comes out. He lets go of her, a grimly satisfied look on his face.
‘Make a girl feel good, that,’ he says once more.
Sharon is gasping for breath. She shuffles agitatedly from one foot to the other, her aroused, reddened nipples bobbing. Ooooh!’ She grabs herself where Mr Balcher’s hand has so shockingly been but the cream of course is out of reach, inside her. ‘No!’ she gasps. But it is done; there is nothing Sharon can do. She fights back tears. Mr Balcher is now standing at an innocuous distance. The clock is showing 11.10. Sharon desperately re-zips and re-buttons her punishment shorts.
The door through which Sharon has entered opens. Mr Balcher’s timing has been exemplary. A man some years younger than him and somewhat more presentable-looking: he has shaved for one thing and his suit does not look as if it has come from some downmarket Oxfam. It is the expected, though late, Mr Pearling. Mr Balcher is at once obsequious but correct; there is no indication that minutes earlier he has been grossly interfering with the girl who is here to see Mr Pearling.
‘Ah… I jus’ came by, Mr Pearling. Checking if everything was OK like.’
A curt nod from that gentleman. Who no doubt thinks he knows well enough why Balcher is here: which is to gaze on Sharon in just her punishment shorts, to see her nude tits which are at this moment thumbing out in a rather sexy manner as well as seeming redder than usual. She is also, as she stands with her blouse in one hand, squirming her hips in an odd way — almost as if she needs to use the bathroom.
‘Put the blouse down and stand up straight, girl.’ Mr Pearling’s words snapped out in a precise, well-modulated accent. ‘Do you need to relieve yourself or something?’
Sharon shakes her head. She is feeling awful. All hot and itchy. Her nipples and even more between her legs. That awful stuff that Mr Balcher has put on her. She could tell Mr Pearling but it wouldn’t do her a lot of good. He wouldn’t want to hear. And Mr Balcher would deny it and she would probably get it worse, for trying to cause trouble. She blinks. There are tears threatening to roll out down her cheeks.
Mr Pearling is going over to the chest and selects a cane from its top. Mr Balcher is shuffling about in the background. He would like very much to stay and watch Sharon get caned but he has no excuse to stay. ‘This is not a public spectacle,’ Mr Pearling would sarcastically say. With a final good look at Sharon’s engorged nipples he shuffles to the door.
‘What is the matter with you, girl? I had thought you had at least learnt to stand still.’
Sharon shakes her head again. She can’t keep still. It is all she can do to keep her hands at her sides and not start urgently rubbing herself. Her nipples and between her legs. It has got worse: those sensitive parts are really swollen up and throbbing. She squirms her hips again. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Pearling. It’s… I feel all itchy.’ She adds forlornly. ‘P… perhaps it’s… these shorts.’
That doesn’t explain her nipples, which are sticking out like fat red thumbs. Mr Pearling is icily eyeing them. ‘It’s not something else is it, Miss? You haven’t been playing with yourself while you’ve been waiting?’
‘NO!’ she yelps, violently shaking her head. ‘No!’
Mr Pearling holds the cane up, in front of her face. ‘I certainly hope not. But I know how to treat an itch in a girl. We’ll give you a double dose shall we? Get over the horse.’
A frantic whimper but you don’t argue with Mr Pearling. He could easily say you were getting a double double dose for arguing. Tottering across the floor. The movement at least helps between her legs, causing some friction to momentarily ease the throbbing. And when she gets to the horse, bending over, with her back to Mr Pearling, she can quickly rub her hands across her hot nipples. She yelps. A preliminary cut of the cane has whipped in across the back of her leg. Mr Pearling is impatient to get started.
Sharon stretches herself across the horse, on tiptoe with her legs wide. That is how he wants you and a girl quickly learns to get in the proper position without being told. Mr Pearling likes action and quick cooperation and any slight excuse can mean a double dose. Head down, Sharon whimpers. She is itching as bad as ever. Perhaps the itching will partly take her mind off the cane.
Oh God! No! The itching is straightaway forgotten. All Sharon can feel is Mr Pearling’s cane. The red-hot sensation of that whippy bamboo zipping into her thin-cotton-covered bottom.
‘This is the thing for itching, my girl.’
A second one across the stretched seat of the tight shorts. Being caned in the shorts is quite as bad as being caned on the bare. Indeed you can sometimes wonder if it is worse, if that tight cotton coming between cane and bottom-flesh can somehow add an extra something, an extra dimension of pain.
As the third one zips into Sharon’s seat one of the two doors quietly opens. Not the one through which Sharon and Mr Pearling have entered but the door opposite. A man, and we have seen him before: scruffy and with large feet and this time carrying a broom. This object is his excuse to trail back in: if Mr Pearling makes any comment he can claim he is about his janitorial duties. Mr Balcher’s eyes fix greedily on what he has come back in to see — the stimulating sight of Sharon over the horse being caned. He tiptoes slowly across the room. He can’t stay of course but he can pass through… and enjoy a greedy look.
Mr Pearling is concentrating on what he is doing. You can’t allow your mind to be distracted when you are giving a girl a caning you intend her to remember.
‘Stick your seat out, Miss.’
A ringing shriek is the only answer as the cane whips in again. The clock is now showing 11.18. As the other door opens. A girl. This second girl is another very attractive specimen, but in contrast to Sharon is brunette. She is wearing the same outfit as Sharon before she undressed: check blouse and dark skirt. Her mouth comes open in shock: presumably at the fact that Sharon is still here being caned; and also there is the lurking form of Mr Balcher. Mr Pearling desists for the moment from his work.
The other girl, who is the Janice named on the notice board, stands uneasily, chewing her lip. It is Mr Balcher, quickly scenting an opportunity, who speaks up.
‘Mr Pearling… Perhaps I better take young Janice nex’ door an’ get ‘er changed. While you’re still dealin’ with Sharon like.’
Mr Pearling eyes him. ‘I don’t know that she needs any help, Balcher. But yes, go next door and change, Janice. We’re running a little late. I’ll call you when I’m ready.’
It is Mr Balcher who, in spite of Mr Pearling’s words, nips over on those large feet to the chest. To take out Janice’s punishment shorts. Janice looks at him and at Mr Pearling and then at the still bent-over figure of Sharon. Her bottom in the tightened cotton, under which can be imagined the red stripes of Mr Pearling’s handiwork. She swallows. And turns towards the door. Mr Balcher is close behind.
‘Get off!’ The voice is slightly hysterical.
‘Now then.’ Mr Balcher as is frequently the case, is all hands. Grabbing hands. He has not taken a lot of notice of what Mr Pearling said, he is attempting to help Janice undress. Or that is what he would claim he is doing. He is in fact grabbing at Janice’s tits. They are still covered: she has her bra on and also her blouse though it is now mostly unbuttoned. She has to go ahead and get undressed of course, if she is not ready when Mr Pearling wants her it can make things an awful lot worse. The thought of that makes a girl feel sick in her stomach, a regular dose is bad enough. But at the same time… Mr Balcher…
Get off. He said you weren’t…’
But what can she do? Janice knows, like Sharon, that complaining to Mr Pearling can be, as they say, counterproductive. He says these things to Mr Balcher but he won’t make him, or stop him. And Mr Balcher of course knows this.
Janice is dressed the same as Sharon. That is under her dark skirt she has on a pair of plastic knickers and it is these plus her ankle-socks and shoes that she has to strip down to. This is a fact, whether Mr Balcher is here grabbing at her or not, because by way of variety, Mr Pearling has said that he is going to cane her in her plastic knickers.
‘Get off,’ she yelps again but in a hopeless tone. She might as well let him. He is not going to stop. Or at least not until he has really… ‘Ooooh!’ Janice is reluctantly down to the knickers now. Mr Balcher has his hands on her nude tits which are very nice ones; there is not a lot to choose between hers and Sharon’s for a tit-fancier like Mr Balcher.
‘You better get those shorts on,’ he advises, hands busy. ‘‘E’ll be ready any moment.’
Let go…’ Like others before her — like herself on other occasions — Janice is close to tears. Mr Balcher has another good grab… but then does let go.
‘Get on then. Get them on, girl.’
Janice stutters that she isn’t to put her shorts on, this time. Mr Balcher is reaching in his pocket.
‘‘Ere. I got somefink nice ‘ere.’
Mr Pearling is still caning. A double dose naturally takes longer to deliver than a regular caning. There is the caning itself and he also allows a short break of a few minutes halfway through. This might be thought by the uninitiated as a humanitarian action giving the canee a respite, to allow her to gather her resources for the second part; but in fact the effect is to let the throb and heat of what she has already had develop to the maximum, to let the girl’s bottom become fully tenderised as it were. For Sharon on this occasion the double dose has been even worse. Because of Mr Balcher’s actions her body has been acutely sensitive from the very beginning. Her bottom, and all the rest of her, has felt as if they were on fire from the very first stroke.
The clock shows 11.40 and Mr Pearling is still caning. He has not altered his routine, he has not speeded up his rhythm, merely because he is running late. He has had the proper break between the two halves of this double dose. A caning is not something to be treated cavalierly; it is, for Mr Pearling at least, a highly important part of a day’s schedule. Other duties and commitments can be thrown out, squeezed up, but not a caning. It is true he was unavoidably late to start but that simply means that everything else will be late as well.
11.40 and Sharon’s caning is almost finished. When the left side door opens again. It is Janice. Dressed as she has been instructed to be for this caning, i.e. in her plastic knickers and ankle socks and white shoes and with a number ‘7’ tied to her back, its tapes coming round to criss-cross above and below her tits in front, because Janice wearing a number is part of Mr Pearling’s peculiar rituality when it comes to caning the girls. On this occasion, the number ‘7’ has significance only to Mr Pearling himself. Mr Balcher is close behind Janice. If one knows Mr Balcher one would surmise that he has his hands at Janice’s bottom and such a surmise would indeed be correct. A final grope and then he takes his hands away though. He is not following Janice into the room. Enough is enough and he must not push Mr Pearling’s patience too far. And anyway the activity will now be at a low point: Sharon is just about finished (he has guessed from the limited view through the keyhole) and Janice will not be started for a minute or two. No, he will come back through in perhaps five minutes, with his trusty prop the janitorial broom (an item which Mr Balcher does not in fact spend a great deal of time actually using).
‘Stand there,’ Mr Pearling says curtly. ‘I’m almost ready for you.’
Janice stands where she is told. Her face is red, with a somewhat anguished look. Anguish from what is about to take place and also perhaps because of a sharp irritation in certain areas of her body. Her nipples are an angry red and sticking erectly out. With Mr Pearling’s back for the moment towards her she brings her arm swiftly up to rub across the hardened nipples. She squirms her hips.
Sharon is crying. Snuffling, gasping sobs. But this is nothing really to be remarked on; it would be more noteworthy if after a double dose from Mr Pearling a girl were not crying. But one more solid meaty THWACKKKK! and Mr Pearling is finished. He puts the cane on the chest.
‘Right, Sharon. That will do. We must hope you will remember that for a little while. Come over here. You can stand at attention whilst I deal with Janice. Janice, get over the horse.’
So they change places: one in considerable distress from what she has suffered and the other in a state approaching that in anticipation of what she is about to get. Number 7 replaces Sharon over the horse, Janice’s bottom in the plastic knickers trembling slightly, quivering, in expectation of the first one. Sometimes you can think that the first one is the worst: once you have taken that one, your body has absorbed that first stunning shock, then at least you are to a certain extent acclimatised. You can think that, if sometimes, lying in bed perhaps, you are thinking about a caning. But it is not true. The first one is a tremendous shock even if as you lie over the horse you try to get yourself ready for it; but it is not the worst. They build up, it is like building a house, one brick on another, until you have — Mr Pearling has — a splendid edifice of girlish distress. In the case of a double dose… but she is not going to get a double dose, not this time. She has not done anything… to get a double dose…
Mr Pearling’s hand at her bottom. ‘Ants in your pants, Janice?’
She makes a ‘Nnnghhh’ sound. Mr Pearling’s hand is jiggling her behind. ‘Both you girls seem the same this morning. Squirming about. As if you’ve got ants in your pants. As if you need to go to the loo. As I have reminded Sharon, standing straight and at attention is of course one of the first things we learn here.’ The hand gives her bottom a sharp slap.
‘Sharon has had a double dose for that reason.’
Oh Christ. Oh please Jesus. Janice has tried to keep still when Mr Pearling was looking and not squirm her legs, her hips. But with this awful itching… even… now… with the immediate prospect of the cane to concentrate her mind. Mr Balcher…
‘So we’d better treat you both the same, eh? I’m sure Sharon who’s had her double dose would agree with that.’
11.50. Janice’s caning is in full swing as Mr Balcher circumspectly opens the door again and sidles in. Janice’s caning is in full swing and so is Mr Pearling’s arm:
Her gasped yelp as the cane impacts on that thinnest-of-thin plastic skin which covers but certainly does not protect Janice’s bottom. Crimson stripes glimpsed in a de-focussed way through the girl’s plastic knickers give graphic and abundant evidence of Mr Pearling’s efforts thus far. Mr Balcher quietly closes the door behind him, his eyes already glued to this stirring sight.
And there is Sharon too. Standing at the side having to watch what is happening to Janice (‘I want you to watch, Sharon. Is that understood? If I catch you not watching for one instant I might just have you over the horse and give you yours all over again.’) Having to stand and watch though she herself is still shaking from her own caning, her bottom resembling a nuclear reactor perhaps. Not to mention the still persistent irritation from what Mr Balcher did. Sharon’s eyes momentarily go to Mr Balcher as he enters, then snap back to Janice’s red-striped bottom. Mr Pearling looks up. His cane taps in annoyance against the leg of the horse.
‘Balcher: is it really necessary…’
‘Sorry sir. Not wantin’ to interrupt, sir, but I got me duties as you know.’ He is looking round, as if he might decide it is necessary to start sweeping the floor. That, though, would be going too far. And there is something else.
‘Ah… Mr Pearling sir…’ Balcher is pulling something from his pocket. There is in Sharon’s eyes, which can see this without leaving their proper object of Janice’s bottom, the thought that it is that dreadful tube. But it is not. It is a small, round, cylindrical in fact, wide-capped bottle.
‘This ‘ere cream, Mr Pearling. Mrs Billings ‘ad it. It’s ‘ighly recommended, Mr Pearling. Very soothin’ action. An’ I thought, now that you ‘ave finished wiv young Sharon an’ wiv ‘er ‘avin’ ‘ad a double dose an’ all…’
Mr Pearling’s eyebrows rise. ‘You’d like to cream her bottom. Is that it, Balcher?’
That is indeed it. It is perhaps a somewhat bold suggestion for Balcher who is after all only a janitor. But as they say nothing ventured nothing gained.
Mr Pearling eyes him. ‘Would that perhaps stop you wandering in and out of here and continually interrupting me, Balcher? Is that possible, do you think?’
‘Oh yes sir. I mean I’ll put it on right away. An’, well, I do ‘ave work in the other wing, sir. I wouldn’t need to come through ‘ere anymore, sir.’
‘Very well, Balcher. Take her. And kindly do not interrupt me any further.’
‘Yes sir. Right, Mr Pearling.’
As Mr Balcher goes triumphantly out with the most-unhappy-looking Sharon he adds. ‘An’ that Janice, sir. When you’re through wiv ‘er…’
‘Get ‘em off then, my girl.’
No! No, Mr Balcher. I don’t want any cream. Honest I… Aaaoowwh!
Mr Balcher is in close. Grabbing of course. Grabbing Sharon’s tits although it is her shorts which are being discussed.
‘Don’t know me, young lady. Or I don’t know wot I’ll ‘ave to do to yer. You ‘eard ‘im. You ‘eard wot ‘e said. An’ your bum is in a fair old state. So get the shorts off and then get up on the table.’
Sharon is struggling to get away from the hands. ‘Or I’ll ‘ave to take ‘em off myself.’
The trouble is that Mr Pearling did say it. To get rid of Mr Balcher of course. Sharon can’t refuse. Mr Balcher only has to go to Mr Pearling and say she is being awkward, uncooperative, and she’ll be in there over the horse again for another double dose. Though in any case Mr Balcher will do what he says: take them off her himself. So there is no choice. Her bottom still feels dreadful but the last thing Sharon wants is Mr Balcher putting cream on it. But…
‘That’s it. Now get up on the table. On yer back, and lift the legs up in the air.’
No! Mr Balcher’s mention of the table earlier had not really sunk in. ‘No! Not like that!’ If he has to do it there is no need for that. But of course if you are Mr Balcher there is; he is going to be just as outrageous as possible.
‘Come on, Sharon.’ She yelps as he grabs her again. ‘Trouble wiv you girls, you always want to be sayin’ no. Now get up ‘ere…’
Nude now except for ankle socks and shoes, Sharon is man-handled — Mr Balcher-handled — onto the plastic-covered top of the table. On her back. She is yelling but there is no-one to hear, not in this room. No-one except Mr Balcher. Who is grabbing her struggling legs and lifting them up, in the air, doubling them up over her. Exposing of course everything: her red-striped bottom and also… everything. With no choice she is doing what he says: holding her legs in that position.
 ‘Ah… that’s more like it, my girl.’ Mr Balcher’s eyes like fierce beacons eager for every little detail. ‘That’s more like it. Jus’ you keep still now.’
His hand is searching in his pocket. ‘‘Ow was that there other stuff I put on? Feel good, did it?’
A frantic howl from upended Sharon. The thought of that awful stuff. Its effect has finally worn off but the memory of that fierce throbbing and irritation… and the sudden heart-stopping thought. He’s not…?
Mr Balcher’s cackle. ‘Nah. It’s cream wot I got ‘ere.’ Showing her the little bottle. ‘Lovely cream.’ He is unscrewing the top. His fingers taking out a generous blob. Sharon shivering again at the memory of the other time. Holding her breath. The shock of Mr Balcher’s hand on her hot bottom. Her breath hisses out… but it is all right. Cool. Soothing. His hand sliding over. It is all right: it is ordinary cream.
‘‘Ow’s that?’ His cackle. ‘You thought it was that other. Eh?’ His hand massaging the cream in. It is soothing. Mr Balcher stops. Turning away. Sharon gazes up at the ceiling. With his back turned Mr Balcher is doing something. When he comes back again to the side of the table his fingers are charged once more with white oily cream. A really thick dollop this time. Sharon is still holding her legs up because Mr Balcher hasn’t told her she can move.
That unpleasant cackle. As he looks down at her. ‘Wot you thought, my girl… You thought it was this…’
And his hand is between her legs. The fingers which are loaded this time not with the soothing cream but the other: Ralgex. The extra-large blob, it could be half the contents of the tube, slid in between the furry exposed lips. Into the moist pink interior… which is going to earn Sharon another dose of punishment, later, this evening; because if she still can’t stand still when Mr Pearling has her and Janice paraded before him, in a few minutes time, for his ritual post-caning lecture and bottom inspection… well…


  1. A good additional dose of the reformatory cane is needed. At least a dozen but given her sullenness a further six

  2. Love photo 20, the little slut looks like she doesn't know if she's bawling or coming. Either way I'd get another tube of Ralgex to hand

  3. Absolutely the most fabulous tits ever to grace the hallowed pages of Blushes.

  4. Great story and one of the few I don't think I've ever read before.

    Love the line ‘You’d like to cream her bottom. Is that it, Balcher?’