Search This Blog

Friday, 30 March 2018


From Uniform Girls 23
Tracey Jones was young and pretty, just nineteen years of age. She was standing in the centre of the room wearing just a pretty and very brief undie set. Her firm young breasts pressed outwards against the little bra-top, the hint of a dark-pink nipple protruding above the thin fabric. Her knickers stretched tautly across the her firm round bottom. Little darkish curls peeped out from behind the narrowest band of material at the very top of her long slim legs. Tracey felt very uneasy, standing there in front of her employer. Knowing that she was in the wrong. Realising that Mr Williams could throw her out, and report her to the police.
Conrad Williams sat down. ‘That was your very last chance, young lady.’ He raised his arm and pointed through the open doorway. ‘The front door, Tracy. You may leave… now.’
The girl glanced along the direction of her employer’s gesture and then shook her head. ‘No. Mr Williams. Please, Mr Williams. I’m sorry…’ The man remained silent, listening to the girl as she pleaded with him. ‘Please. I won’t do it again, honest I won’t. Please, I need my job… Oh please don’t…’
Williams waited as she offered her petitions. Yes. She was dishonest. He had caught her smuggling the garment out of the factory, hidden inside her own coat. And that hadn’t been the first time, either.
He signalled to her to step nearer, so that her bare feet were no further than inches away from his chair. ‘Now you are a dishonest and despicable young lady, aren’t you?’ Tracy nodded, her deep pink blush spreading across her pretty face. ‘And what arrangement did we come to, when you last stole from me?’ The blush grew deeper. Last time, he had put her across his knee, her skirt folded back, well above her waist, and he had smacked her knickered bottom. The memory of that incident had lingered with her. The awful embarrassment of her employer doing such a thing. Tugging her little white knickers right up as tight as he could so that most of her bottom was bared. And that awful long smacking which had her pleading with him, well before it was over.
‘I smacked you, didn’t I?’ She nodded. ‘I smacked your bottom.’ He reached forward and patted the seat of her knickers with one slightly curved palm.
‘But it doesn’t seem to have worked, does it?’ Again he waited, until Tracey signalled her agreement. Obviously, a smacking was not enough to correct young Tracey’s behaviour. ‘These don’t belong to you, do they?’ He was tugging at her pants again. ‘They fit you very well. You took the trouble to steal the right size, didn’t you? But if they don’t belong to you.’ Conrad Williams stood up. ‘So is it punishment from me, or a visit to the police?’
She whispered her reply, but the man heard each word quite clearly. ‘You punish me, Mr Williams, please…’
He told her to face the doorway so that her firm round bottom-cheeks, only partly covered by the knickers, faced towards him. ‘Now touch your toes.’ Slowly, reluctantly, Tracey bent forwards, her arms stretched outwards and downwards until her fingers touched her bare toes, her clean healthy hair falling forward to hide her face.
Williams stared at her bottom, the knicker fabric now tightened across her rump, and noted the ample firmness of the flesh which escaped either side of the thin triangle of material. A cane across those tightly-contoured bottom-cheeks would teach her a lesson. Half-a-dozen of the whippiest stinging strokes he could administer. She’d think twice before stealing again from her employer. That’s after she had ceased the inevitable war dance and the yelling and sobbing. But that would be too easy. Young Tracey would certainly feel the impact of the cane. It would do her good. But somehow it would be a very impersonal punishment. Williams knew that this punishment needed to be an intimate event. There was nothing very intimate about a young girl standing in pretty bra and knickers. After all, William’s factory made them. This time, her punishment would have to be very different. He was a little tired of the cheeky young girl, with nipples that almost peeped out at him above her bra, and dark secrets and little brown curls which only just managed to stay hidden behind those pants. And a bottom which richly deserved the most severe tanning he could imagine. And Conrad’s imagination was pretty wild at times.
Conrad Williams was a shrewd and experienced man. He had many young women working on his production line. Day by day, he watched them, and listened to their conversations. And he knew that a girl who appeared to enjoy flaunting her body was often the most shy of all the females in a group. Yes, they enjoyed displaying a little cleavage, or a hint of bottom-cheek, but if someone actually made them take their bra right off, or suggested that they needed a good sound smacking right across their bare bottom, with their little knickers taken right off… the very same self-confident little minx would almost die of embarrassment!
Tracey was still straining to touch her toes. ‘Alright. Get up, and stand still…’ She turned round once again, brushing the tangle of her hair away from her face. ‘As those garments are stolen property, young lady… my stolen property… you have no right to wear them, have you?’ Her face a bright crimson, the girl shook her head.
‘Perhaps I ought to drive you back to the factory, Tracey. Convene the Board of Directors. And then make you take off your stolen knickers, in front of them?’
The girl gave a quiet sob. ‘Oh please, Mr Williams. Please… just punish me here, Mr Williams… I’ll do anything… honest I will…’
He ran his index finger down between the girl’s breasts, and hooked it around the narrow centre band of the minute garment, pulling it away from her body. ‘Come with me, young lady.’ She scampered along, trying to keep close to him; fearful that the flimsy bra-top would rip with the strain of his tugging.
He marched her along the hallway and up the staircase. Halfway up both bobbing breasts fell free of the bra, as he continued to tug at the front strap. As she climbed the stairs, Tracey’s pretty tits swung from side to side. Frantically, she tried to push them back up. Finally, he stopped, and ushered her into a small plain bedroom. He released his grip, quietly pleased that his fabric design stood up to so much stress! Blushing frantically, Tracey pushed her breasts back behind the material.
Williams turned to the bedside cabinet, and withdrew a set of large plain handkerchiefs. He looked at her. ‘My punishment?’ he asked again, reminding her of her promise. ‘Your punishment… please…’ she replied, in a quiet faltering voice. He told her to put her hands on her head. She stood, quiet and still, her feet together, her hands clutched together nervously at the back of her head, watching her employer.
Williams took two of the handkerchiefs, and knotted them together, and then added a third. He held them up, his fingers holding the diagonal ends of the material, so that the handkerchiefs fell naturally into a string of three large triangles. He slipped them around the girl’s neck, as if fastening a necklace around her pretty shoulders. Quickly, the two ends were tied together behind her neck, the material was adjusted, and Tracey found herself wearing two plain triangles of material which fell loosely over the protuberances of her breasts.
‘And now I’d better retrieve my property, young lady.’ He turned her slightly, so that he could reach the fastening of her bra. He loosened it, and the bra fell away from her breasts, into his hand. ‘Don’t move, young lady.’ She froze. The triangles formed by the handkerchiefs falling down over her bared breasts, protecting them from his gaze.
The man rummaged about in the bedside drawer again, and found the two largest remaining handkerchiefs. Again, he knotted them together, and then slipped them around her slim waist, so that one triangle fell forward, hiding her pubic mound, the other lying draped over the roundness of her bottom.
‘And now your pants, young lady.’ He slipped his fingers beneath the handkerchiefs and tugged the little knickers down over her hips. As they reached her thighs, they fell free, and landed in a little tangle at her feet.
‘Please hand them to me.’ He held out his hand. Tracey bent forwards to retrieve her little pants. Williams watched, as the two triangles covering her breasts fell forward, and her pretty tits dangled free. And the one small triangle of loose fabric now covering her bottom tapered away revealing the plump lower curves of Tracey’s bottom in all their bare enticing glory. She fumbled as she placed the tangled pants in his hands.
‘Hands back on your head, young lady. And listen to me, carefully…’ Williams sat down on the edge of the bed.
Just a few feet away stood a pretty young woman, waiting to be punished. She looked incredibly appealing, standing there, covered in just three flimsy triangles.
From under the bed Williams drew out his cane. He watched Tracey’s eyes widen with fear as she realised its length. He flexed it between his hands, letting her see that it was also very supple, perfect for wrapping around the curvy contours of the little minx’s bottom. He lifted it, and with its tip, lifted the flap of triangle covering Tracey’s left breast. He admired the pert little nipple which he had unveiled. He let the handkerchief drop back again and then inspected the girl’s other breast.
‘I’m going to cane you, Tracey…’
She responded with another quiet sob. He told her to turn sideways, and then, again with the tip of the cane, he raised the triangle of material which was almost covering her bottom. He absorbed its pink roundness, and the dark cleft, and the soft curves of her lower cheeks. ‘Has this pretty bottom of yours ever been caned before?’
She shook her head. He let the handkerchief drop back. ‘I think we are being a little too modest, young lady.’ He dropped the cane onto the bedspread and stood up, turning the girl so that he could adjust the knot behind her neck. He pulled up the two ends of the triangles until the tips of the material only just covered her nipples, leaving her breasts exposed. The knot re-tightened, he adjusted the two handkerchiefs knotted around her waist, drawing them tighter so that they were raised an inch or two above her waist, until the tip of the front triangle just failed to cover her neat little triangle of dark hairs, and the one at the back left her bottom almost completely bare.
‘That’s better,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Much better.’
He led her to the foot of the small bed and told her to bend forward keeping her long legs as straight as she could. Tracey placed the palms of her hands against the bedspread to support herself. The two triangles over her breasts again fell forward, revealing the full roundness of the girl’s well-developed breasts.
Cane in hand, Williams waited as she positioned herself, her bare feet slightly parted, her bottom protruding at the ideal angle to receive its punishment. He tapped the stick against the lower curve of one fleshy bottom-cheek.
‘Are you ready, young lady?’ Tracey responded with a little quiet whimper. In her bent-over position, the handkerchief tied over Tracey’s bottom failed to cover anything. Her bottom, from the dimple in the small of her back, right down to the crease between her buttocks and her thighs, was totally bare.
He gave her the first stroke of his cane, and she yelled as the stick bit across the full width of both cheeks. She jumped up, the triangles falling forward again.
He bent her forwards again. The second stroke fell, and a second line of bright red lines appeared directly beneath the first set, traversing Tracey’s bottom. Again, the girl jumped up, with a loud yell, clasping her bottom.
‘Alright. So we’ll do it the hard way, young lady.’ He made her turn over so that she was lying on her back on the bed. He grasped her slim ankles and raised her legs aloft. Neither little triangle around her waist could offer any protection now. In fact, young Tracey was now displaying some very pretty charms.
He held her tightly in his left hand, her long slim legs well elevated, lifting her bottom-curves well away from the bedspread. And then he caned her again, and again. She tried to wriggle away from him, twisting her body as best she could. But apart from offering her employer a slightly new view of her feminine charms, Tracey achieved little more. However she tried to move, her bare bottom remained in the firing line.
Conrad Williams allowed himself to be only a little distracted from his task by her gyrations. It was only after nine firm stinging strokes had landed all over the young lady’s bottom-cheeks that Williams released his grip of her ankles, and allowed the cane to fall from his grasp.
Tracey kept her legs aloft. She discovered that by waving her legs about, and keeping her body-weight off her bottom she could at least dissipate some of the cane’s infernal sting. She no longer cared that the man was watching her intently. She just closed her eyes, yelled loudly, and waved her legs about with remarkable vigour.
He left her alone for a while. ‘I’ll call you down when I want you,’ he told her, as he closed the bedroom door, and left Tracey to her quiet sobbing.
Williams smiled to himself as she entered the lounge. Quite naturally she still looked a little flustered. Any girl would, having just received her first bare-bottomed caning. But she had re-adjusted her little triangles again, attempting to cover her breasts, and her pubic area.
He was amused to discover, as she turned sideways on, that she hadn’t worried about the handkerchief which covered her bottom. Her cheeks, still sporting the set of parallel red tramlines, were still totally naked. Perhaps even the gentle caress of a linen handkerchief would be too much for her to cope with against her punished backside.
He sat back on the settee and patted his knee. She tried to object, but he reminded her of her promise, and the consequences, should he feel the need to call in the authorities… With a little whimper of resignation, Tracey fell forward across his lap, hiding her head in her arms, her legs stretched out over the remainder of the settee her bare feet digging into a side cushion.
Quickly, but without any show of undue haste, Williams unknotted the handkerchiefs which had served as a flimsy bra. He drew them away from under her body. Next, he flipped up the remaining triangle which rested over the upper part of the girl’s bottom. He smoothed the palm of his hand over the slight ridges raised by his cane, and she jumped and flinched as he touched each sensitive red line.
He crossed his legs, thus elevating her bottom to an even higher plane. ‘I think a final sound hand-smacking, young lady, and you should have learnt your lesson…’
He pulled at the band of linen still wrapped around the girl’s waist, and the handkerchief came away in his hand. She was naked now, a big grown-up nineteen-year-old girl, lying upturned across his knee. She was a thief. And he still had to complete her punishment.
Williams slapped her soundly, his palm falling loudly and painfully across the cane-marks. Tracey’s bottom wobbled and flinched as he smacked her, and she began to sob again, in between urgent cries of pain and protest. Once again, her long legs waved frantically, and kicked against the settee cushions. But the smacking continued until the cane marks became merged in the all-over crimson of a well-smacked bottom.
He stood her up. It didn’t seem to matter to Tracey now that she was naked. He told her she could get dressed at last. A little later, and slightly more composed, she went home.
‘Tomorrow evening, I shall require you to attend my office. Half-past-six, young lady. And don’t be late.’ She promised she’d be there.
‘Oh. And on your way, Tracey…’ He had one last order to give her. She turned at the front gate and waited. ‘On your way to my office, go to the stores and draw out five large men’s handkerchiefs, please.’

Spankers Gallery – Julie

From Roué 26
Frightened, tearful soft thighs twitching,
trembling hands between her knees,
Pushing skirt folds even deeper,
Pressing hard in case she pees.
Julie’s waiting for a spanking,
Sitting there outside his room,
Poor scared Julie sitting, squirming,
Waiting for the crack of doom.
Through the closed door of his study,
Come the gasps and sudden squeals,
Crisp hard smacks on Susan’s botty,
Making Susan kick her heels.
Julie winces at the wailing,
Softly wriggling chubby bum,
Thinks of Susan, long legs flailing,
Tight against Headmaster’s tum.
Now there’s only Susan’s sobbing,
Teacher’s hand has ceased to smack,
Julie thinks of Sue’s sore bottom,
And her nerve begins to crack.
Fingers fumble at the door jamb,
Key’s inserted, door lock clicks,
Winsome teenaged pretty Julie,
Eases crotch of tight brief knicks.
Oak door opens, out comes Susan,
Hot flushed cheeks all wet with tears,
Rubbing smarting crimson buttocks,
Adding fuel to Julie’s fears.
‘Y-you’re-t-to-go-in-n-now.’ sobs Susan,
Rubbing eyes and tear-stained face,
‘H-hur-ry now don’t keep him w-aiting,
He wants you to take my place.’
Nervous Julie turns door handle,
Opens door and inside creeps,
Frightened of her strict Headmaster,
Lowers eyes and sadly weeps.
Door locked quickly, teacher takes her,
To a chair and then sits down,
Spreads his knees wide then bends Julie,
Over lap and over gown.
Gym-slip lifted, pulled up waist-slip,
Fingers hooked in knicker waist,
Shameful striptease for his pleasure,
Partial undress to his taste.
Schoolgirl knickers hips descending,
Slowly peeled down lissome thighs,
Pert cream buttocks quite denuded,
All exposed to gloating eyes.
Julie feels his hands upon her,
Clenches fists and starts to sob,
Buttocks fondled, legs wide parted,
Hot male hands enjoy the job.
Fresh sweet schoolgirl, such a picture,
Golden hair and sky-blue eyes,
Stripped half-naked at his mercy,
Bared young bottom, chubby thighs.
Teachers have this frightful duty,
Naughty girls to soundly spank,
Hard male palms on rounded bottoms,
Teachers love it! Let’s be frank!
Though he ought to only spank her,
Teacher likes to feel her bum,
Likes to feel her squirm and wriggle,
On the ridge beneath her tum.
Claw-like fingers fondle bottom,
Probing pats across cool cheeks,
Inside thighs and ever bolder,
Index finger cherry seeks.
Julie hates such bold intrusions,
But what is a girl to do?
Hopeless to defy your teacher,
If he wants his way with you.
Julie’s cherry tickled gently,
Julie’s eyes go wide with fright,
Tries her best to curb her feelings,
Nips her thighs and buttocks tight.
Teacher’s finger goes on rubbing,
Parting Julie’s peachy lips,
Tough she hates it, shameless schoolgirl,
Up and down his finger slips.
Girlish bud all pink and turgid,
Clenching thighs and wiggling bum,
Wild exciting funny feelings,
Tremulous in Julie’s tum.
But her dreams are rudely shattered,
(Teachers are such horrid chaps),
Just when Julie’s feeling super,
On her bum land stinging slaps.
Sudden squeals from winsome schoolgirl,
Echo round the little room,
Now at last sweet Julie’s meeting,
Hand of fate and time of doom.
Weeping schoolgirl, happy teacher,
Smacked red bum in strict male hands,
Twisting thighs and leaping bottom,
Tears and sobs as each smack lands.
Crisp hard smacks keep Julie crying,
Teachers hand her bottom stings,
Bottom red and buttocks wriggling,
With gasps and squeals the study rings.
Julie lies there hot and trembly,
Burning tears salt-stain her eyes,
Sobbing ebbing to a whimper,
Funny feeling front of thighs.
Just like Susan, Julie closely,
Presses down on Teachers tum,
Wiggles well-spanked bouncy buttocks,
Finds the movement makes her come.
Tingling schoolgirl, just turned sixteen,
Blushes pink with waves of shame,
Feels her legs and thighs turn rigid,
Tummy taut and thighs aflame.
Naughty Julie hopes Headmaster,
Hasn’t noticed what took place,
‘Please don’t let him feel me trembling,
Or the blushing on my face.
Soon she’s standing on the carpet,
Fumbling up her slipped down knicks,
Tugs them up above her pubis,
Fair damp curls give Teacher kicks.
Sweet fair schoolgirl bites her knuckles,
As the Teacher helps her dress.
Hot hands fumbling under gym-slip,
Hand-cupped buttocks cause distress.
One last feel around her bottom,
Sore red cheeks that throb and glow,
Now at last her spanking’s over,
Sadly Teacher lets her go.
Teacher takes her to the oak door,
Turns the key and lets her out,
Susan’s waiting sitting wriggling,
On sore bottom there’s no doubt.
Both girls tell the lurid details,
Recount stories smack by smack,
Tell of bottom stinging spanking,
But… they keep the best bits back.
Susan felt the same as Julie,
Too ashamed to tell her friend,
Blushing Julie tells her story,
Not what happened at the end.
Both agree to keep their secrets,
Hide their smackings from their mums,
Tell them they’d been in detention,
Fib about their hard spanked bums.
Dark-haired Susan, fair-haired Julie,
Soon forget how much they cried.
Whilst the Head in chair reclining,
Knows they all were satisfied.

Twins in Trouble

From Blushes 51
They really were stunning: huge light blue eyes, pouting mouths like ripe strawberries, tumbling shoulder-length hair so blonde it was almost white; plus of course their provocatively sensuous figures. Every male’s dream of perfect young Swedish womanhood in fact. And two of them. Twins, so identical it was impossible to tell one pair of big blue eyes from the other, or the statuesque boobs or bottoms. Margit and Lisa. Twin daughters of a senior Swedish diplomat. Nineteen years old. With a tinkling laugh — or two tinkling laughs they would say they weren’t quite identical. They could tell each other apart and so could their mother; sometimes their father made a mistake. Another of those laughs (or two), and the tinkling laughs plus the wide blue eyes and the thrusting boobs (they had very correct, erect postures) could make a mere male feel quite weak at the knees.
Naturally enough they caused a considerable stir on arrival at Oxford where there might be pretty girls but none as devastating as these two. And they caused a definite stir in Arnold Hemling, Master of Wroxeter College where the twins were to read History and English. A stir inside, in the pit of his stomach, a stir also in the front of his elegantly-cut trousers. Dr Hemling was a noted scholar but also a normal male. At 56, tall and distinguished-looking, he was considered attractive by many female students, an opinion with which he himself concurred. He had more than once in the past acted on this when the student was particularly attractive and willing, though naturally insisting on absolute discretion; the Master of an Oxford College cannot be known as a seducer of students.
Yes, the Swedish twins caused a stir in Arnold Hemling from the moment he first set eyes on them which was some weeks before term when they came for interview. Those scrumptious mouths, the big blue eyes, and what was under the thin summer frocks. Burgeoning young female bodies and everybody knew what 19-year-old Swedish girls were happy to do with their bodies. (And with their scrumptious mouths too come to that). And, Arnold Hemling reasoned they would be happy, would feel privileged no doubt, to do those things with the handsome Master of their College. He was quite sure the two stunning pairs of blue eyes, as he bid them farewell, said exactly that. He would make a move just as soon as term started, before they became too involved with various callow youths, as they inevitably would.
But as it turned out the Master of Wroxeter was wrong. Blinded by his own self-esteem perhaps. At any rate his cautious but obvious approach when he got one of them (Lisa) alone in his study was rebuffed. With one of those tinkling little laughs but quite unequivocally. Arnold Hemling couldn’t believe it and tried again. Only to get the same response. At that point he experienced a hot little flush of embarrassment. Plus also anger. It had never happened before because he had always taken great care to be sure. This time he had been too blinded by his desire for these mouth-watering visions. That of course was not how Arnold Hemling saw it: what he saw was a sexy Swedish tease (two in fact) who had led him on only to laugh at him. No doubt they would be laughing their tinkling laughs together fit to burst out of their teasing tight-bodiced dresses. And relaying this marvellous joke to everyone, the whole student body, of how ridiculous Dr Hemling had been. Arnold Hemling ground his teeth. If he ever got the chance with that little bitch… with either of those little bitches…
As we all know Providence sometimes smiles — on the good and the not-so-good as well. It smiled on the Master of Wroxeter just two weeks into the autumn term. When one of the two — Margit as it happened — was caught shoplifting, in a bookshop in the town. Books can be very desirable items and also rather expensive, at least to many students on tight grants. Not that Margit and Lisa were in that situation with well-off and generous parents. But booksellers in university towns can get very annoyed by shoplifters or plain thieves as they prefer to call them. When they catch one, even a stunningly attractive blonde one, they want some action. Margit of course made all the excuses — forgetfulness, was looking for somewhere to pay and just happened to walk outside, had a dizzy spell, etc. — and also did her very best with the big blue eyes and, shoulders back, her big tits. The proprietor was unimpressed — well, he was impressed with the tits but even so he wanted action. He would report it either to the police or to her college. Margit asked him, when she saw he was determined, begged him in fact, to go to the college. That of course was not wise. Not wise at all.
Naturally what Margit thought was that she would be able to get round Dr Hemling, persuade him to get it hushed up. The Master fancied her and Lisa, she had seen that in his eyes right away at the interview. It was true he had been cooler with them since that business with Lisa when she had rejected his approach, but he would still do something, Margit was sure he would. She would bat her eyelashes and pull back her shoulders…
Arnold Hemling couldn’t believe his luck. Couldn’t believe Providence had smiled on him in this marvellous way. When he got the phone call and it had sunk in he almost felt like getting down on his knees to offer up a prayer of thanks. He didn’t, quite. What he did do was call a porter to go round and tell the girls he wanted to see them both immediately . Both of them because he wasn’t too sure which was which and if this was the same one who had laughed at him; and in any case he wanted both.
‘I suppose you are aware of the seriousness of this, whichever one of you did it? That you can be expelled, sent back home in disgrace, your father’s career ruined probably. The two of you are aware of that?’
Arnold Hemling’s voice was hard, his eyes glinting. Sitting at his large polished oak desk and drinking in the sight of these two beauties standing nervously in front of him. It was October but still warm and they were in identical summer dresses, blue-and-white polka-dot, loose-skirted but tight at the waist and bodice. Their ripe tits seemed to thrust out at him. White court shoes completed their outfits and their legs seemed to be bare. Sometimes they wore identical outfits like this and sometimes not.
Margit stuttered out, ‘Y…Yes sir. I am really so sorry. I didn’t mean to do it. My head felt funny. I felt faint.’ They both had good English, though with an accent. She then attempted a winning smile accompanied by some work with her eyelashes.
Arnold Hemling’s expression did not soften. He had started off hard, over the top perhaps, and he continued in the same vein. He was inclined to do what he said, expel Margit. She was a disgrace. Etc., etc. Before long he had them both virtually in tears, because clearly Margit being expelled and sent home was impossible to contemplate. They both began pleading, Dr Hemling was not at all the soft touch they had thought he would be.
Arnold Hemling enjoyed their abject pleading, keeping his face hard, now and then shaking his head. He didn’t intend to expel her of course, he had much more interesting things in mind. For both girls. At last he said that if he didn’t expel Margit and if he could placate the bookshop proprietor he would certainly have to mete out some punishment of his own. And it would be something that would be not at all pleasant.
‘Anything!’ they pleaded. As long as the disgrace could be hushed up. ‘Please! Anything!’
Arnold Hemling permitted himself a wry smile. ‘Anything? Very well girls. For a start you can both take all your clothes off. Everything. Except perhaps your shoes. Those dresses, knickers and bras. Do sexy Swedish girls wear knickers and bras? We’ll see won’t we. Come on.’
They looked at each other, two faces going an identical shade of pink. Was it a joke? Just to scare them perhaps? The pink faces turned back to the Master of Wroxeter. He picked up his phone. ‘Don’t want to? Very well, I’ll call the police.’
‘No!’ and ‘Please!’ they squawked. Frantic, agitated voices. Margit’s said, ‘S…someone could come in.’
‘Lock the door then,’ she was told. With a whimper she turned, stumbled over to the door; locked it. Then came back. Licked her full lips in a desperate manner, glanced at her sister, and began unbuttoning. Lisa was doing likewise. The dresses buttoned right down the fronts, the tight bodices and then the loose skirts. Underneath they had white waist-slips and white bras. Their luscious melon-like tits bulging lacy white bras. And under the waist-slips? ‘Come on, keep going,’ Arnold Hemling told them. Getting to his feet now. One hand in his pocket. He had a full erection.
They were stepping out of the waist-slips. Yes, sexy Swedish girls did wear knickers, or at least these two did. Brief lacy white ones, high at the sides. The knickers and the bras now had to come off? Scarlet faces glancing again at him. Lisa starting to plead. ‘Off!’ he said. ‘Or I’ll take you round to the police station just like that.’
With no choice they did it. And were told to stand up straight, shoulders back, hands at their sides. Arnold Hemling felt a little faint. They were so fantastic. A whole lot more fantastic even than you would think looking at them dressed. Almost like some sort of porno dream. Their melon tits sticking straight out, no sag at all, with huge red nipples also sticking straight out, the fear and excitement of it all presumably having made them erect. Slim waists and below them the ripe flare of their hips., And at the centre of the hips, below the womanly swell of their bellies, the two bushes of blonde pussy hair. It was fantastic, the two of them together, side by side, and quite identical making it a real dream scene.
Arnold had moved close, to Margit’s side. His hand can up and slid over her fantastic tits. She gasped and he laughed. ‘We’ve got to be punished, haven’t we, Margit?’ He tweaked a big red nipple. Then his hand slid down to her pussy bush. Grabbing hold of a bunch of hair he sharply pulled. She squealed. Then he told them what he was going to do. For starters. They both yelled out. Desperate, frantic cries.
Arnold Hemling silenced them, his voice hard and authoritative. ‘If you don’t agree you know the alternative.’ He moved round behind them and his hand took hold of Lisa’s bare bum. Underneath hefting one surging buttock like a man considering some exotic fruit at the market. ‘I think you’ll both look very cute,’ he said softly in Lisa’s pretty ear.
They had no real choice of course even though what Dr Hemling had said was utterly sickening. Not if he meant it and he gave every indication that he did, firmly refusing to listen to further pleadings. He told them they could get dressed and go now, he would see them in the morning, 9 o’clock in his sitting room. He would do it then.
As they reached for their clothes Arnold Hemling had another thought. ‘Just a minute. Leave all your underthings here, put on only your dresses. Then I want you to walk twice round the quad, normal walking pace, before you go back to your rooms. And that’s how I want you in the morning. Those same dresses with nothing at all underneath.’
There were people in the quad of course, other students, mostly male, and their blue-spotted white dresses were semi see-through. With no slips or anything else underneath and the strong afternoon sun in the right direction the dresses were virtually transparent. Walking twice round the quad like that, being stopped at intervals by acquaintances — who could clearly see — was a horribly embarrassing ordeal. But nothing like as horrible as tomorrow was going to be.
Dr Handing was not alone when, at precisely 9 o’clock and dressed as demanded, they knocked on his door and entered. That was a nasty shock. Another man, in a white tunic. He grinned at them. Dr Hemling said ‘Good morning girls. This is Mr Gallini. He’s a professional barber. I thought you’d prefer a proper job rather than have me hack it off.’
They both gave pitiful yelps. It was actually going to happen. This man was going to cut off their beautiful shoulder-length blonde tresses. Arnold Hemling grabbed Margit, pulling her over to an upright chair. ‘I’ve told him to leave perhaps half an inch all over. Like a convict.
Margit screamed and there was a desperate whimper from Lisa. Screams or not, Margit was seated on the chair and wrapped in a white sheet. She began crying as with Dr Hemling holding her shoulders firm the scissors crunched into the wheat-coloured locks. Lisa couldn’t bear to look but she could hear the scissors’ sickening crunch mixed with Margit’s sobbing.
When the barber was finally through he held a mirror up for Margit to see. A renewed burst of hysterical sobbing. He hadn’t quite done as Dr Hemling had suggested; there was about one and a half inches left all over. Nonetheless it looked really dreadful.
Margit was bundled, out of the chair and it was Lisa’s turn. Squealing and then crying too as she heard that dreadful crunching into her own hair. Lisa got exactly the same cut. ‘Very nice, Frank,’ Arnold Hemling said. ‘You’ve done a really good job on them both. And now the other, eh? Their pretty pussies. I want them shaved as clean as a baby’s bottom.’
Dr Hemling had said that too yesterday but like their heads it had been difficult to believe he meant it. It was clear now that he did. The barber had produced an old-fashioned shaving brush and soap stick — and one of those dreadful cut-throat razors. Margit and Lisa both screamed again at the thought of that frightening thing at their private parts and the thought also of having their pussies denuded. At the same time there was still the horror of what had just been done — all their beautiful hair now scattered about the floor.
‘Margit first again,’ Dr Hemling said. ‘Let’s have your dress off and then we’ll have you up on the table.’
More screams of course but the two men simply grabbed her. Lisa watched in shocked horror as they roughly unfastened the buttons of Margit’s dress and then yanked it off. Nude Margit was hoisted up onto Dr Hemling’s polished rosewood side table and pushed down on her back. She was sobbing hysterically. Arnold Hemling smacked his hand hard across her thigh.
‘Now listen to me, Margit. Stop that noise and keep quite still. Otherwise you could get a nasty injury and it would be your own fault. All right? Perfectly still… and open your legs wide.’
The yelling abated into frightened whimpering. Margit’s legs were lying over the edge of the table. Dr Hemling pushed her knees wide without resistance. ‘That’s better.’ His hand went to her pussy, now completely exposed and thrust out in her supine position. ‘You’re going to look very sweet with no hair on it. And your sister too.’ His fingers slid in between the outer lips and began stroking her super-sensitive inner parts.
Lisa, still with her dress on but presumably not for long, watched in horrified fascination. The barber was lathering his brush, then stropping that dreadful razor. It was all a horrifying nightmare. Margit lying motionless, making little moaning sounds, with Dr Hemling playing with her open cunt. Margit with her awful cropped hair. Lisa’s hand went up to her own, in the same sickening state. It had to be a nightmare. But it was a nightmare that was real. The barber was ready. Dr Hemling stopping what he had been doing. Now saying, ‘Keep quite still… He was doing it. The barber lathering Margit’s pussy…
He did do it. Shaved every last soft blonde hair from Margit’s pussy. Lisa had turned away, unable to look, but now Dr Hemling made her look. Margit on her feet again, scarlet-faced, trying to cover herself with her hands but they pulled the hands away. ‘Look, Lisa,’ Dr Hemling said. ‘Have a good look. Doesn’t it look nice?’
It looked dreadful. Really dreadful.
He laughed. ‘Now your turn. Come on. Dress off.’
Afterwards, after Lisa had been done too, Arnold Hemling made the two of them do a little dance, a sort of can-can, for himself and the barber. Just as they were, nude except for their white court shoes. With their blonde crop-heads, their nude tits and bums jiggling and jouncing, and their pussies as bare and pink as the day they were born. After that he said they could go, in just their dresses again. Dr Hemling said he would want to see them again that evening.
They skittered out and along the corridor, desperate not to be seen before they reached the sanctuary of their rooms. Fortunately no one was about. Inside with the door closed they both burst into tears again. Hugging each other and howling. What were they going to do?
Clearly Margit and Lisa were not going to be able to hide their awful state from the world at large — or not their heads at least. The rest of the college would have to know, they couldn’t stay in their room for ever. Dabbing at red eyes they cautiously looked at each other. They could only say they had got it done themselves. As a joke? A bet? They had become bored with long hair? Margit said, ‘If we wash it…’ But they were still going to look dreadful. And no one would really cut off their own beautiful hair.
There was nothing for it, though, washed and set Margit and Lisa decided they didn’t look quite so bad. They would say it was for a bet: a large sum of money, someone back home in Sweden perhaps. Would anyone believe that? They couldn’t really worry about it, because there was the other thing to worry about. Dr Hemling, the Master, hadn’t finished with them of course.
They hid to go back at 7.30 he had said. Wear a pretty dress again (identical ones) and no underwear as before. They had to do it of course. Going back in fear and trepidation. It was going to be something horrible again. And it was.
‘Oh you do look nice,’ Dr Hemling greeted them. The two girls had put on light blue dresses, not see-through at least. He rumpled Margit’s short-cropped head. ‘Yes, really cute looking. Two cute girl convicts. My guests are going to adore you.’
Yes guests. Arnold Hemling went on to explain to the sick-looking pair that he was having a small dinner party, a little group of close acquaintances. Margit and Lisa were going to act as maids.
‘Oh yes of course you are,’ he told them as they began desperate pleadings. ‘Of course. And they’re going to love you.’ Arnold Hemling’s arm went round Margit’s slim waist. ‘They’re going to love your big juicy boobs and also of course those pretty shaved pussies. What a treat!’
The guests would be arriving shortly. Meanwhile there was just time for Dr Hemling to take a few photos. ‘With your pretty dresses off of course, girls.’
Naturally there was more pitiful pleading but he cut them short. They would both get a good hard caning on their bare bottoms if they made any fuss. He marched them into his rather splendid bathroom and told them to take the dresses off. If they didn’t do it right away his guests would be there and they would no doubt be more than willing to strip the girls. At that Margit and Lisa got moving.
When they were nude except for their shoes Arnold Hemling stood them up against the tiled wall and fondled their tits. ‘I want these big nipples really sticking out, girls.’ His hands groped their tits and their pussies as well. ‘I want both of you nice and hot for these shots.’
The Master of Wroxeter College posed his two nude students in a variety of positions. Sexy shots; blatantly revealing shots. He had just finished a full roll of film when there was the sound of his doorbell ringing. The first guest! Margit and Lisa were told to put their dresses on again. ‘For the moment. I want you both looking sweet and demure to welcome my guests. But later on I think showing a bit more, eh?’
There were four guests altogether. All men, of about Dr Hemling’s age, all senior university figures. Arnold Hemling had promised them a surprise and here it was: those two stunning Swedish girls, but… with their lovely blonde tresses completely cropped off.
‘We… uh… did it… for a bet,’ said scarlet-faced Margit.
The host just grinned. There was even more reason to have a scarlet face a little bit later. When the girls were brought by Dr Hemling into the sitting room where the guests were now seated with their drinks. Margit and Lisa’s dresses had been exchanged for undergraduate gowns. The scarlet-faced pair were wearing only the short black gowns and their white court shoes. Nothing else.
Arnold Hemling told them to stand in the centre of the room. ‘Now both of you hold your gowns wide open. Let our guests have a proper look at you.’
It was too much. Margit and Lisa stood transfixed, the gowns clasped tight round their nubile bare bodies. Showing everything to five men! But of course they had to. As Dr Hemling said, if they didn’t the gowns would be forcibly pulled open, and indeed taken completely off. So Margit and Lisa did as they were told. Stood in front of the four guests with the black gowns held wide. Showing everything: their melon-ripe tits; their shaven pussies.
It was dreadful all right. But compared to what was to come, with the stunning Swedish twosome providing the evening’s entertainment, standing in the centre of the room displaying themselves was not all that bad. Not, compared to what Margit and Lisa were later made to do — and indeed what they had done to them — standing there and merely showing everything was not bad at all.