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Saturday, 24 March 2018

Culprit for the Colonel 2

From Uniform Girls 9
Twenty year old Rosalyn Minter had been an army driver for a little under a year. An unblemished record was just slightly tarnished the hot summer day when she decided to drive for the regimental colonel with no stockings on — an offence destined to find her on report. The colonel’s passing interest in CP leads to her being offered a dose of the cane, which she accepts albeit reluctantly [see Blushes Uniform Girls 7] to keep her record clean.
But Colonel Leyton’s appetite has been whetted by the knowledge that at Rosalyn’s convent they used both strap and birch to keep their charges in order: it’s up to the adjutant to obtain the necessary equipment… in case Driver Minter steps over the line again…
After Rosalyn had returned the car to the motor pool, she signed off duty and trekked off to her block where she pulled a piece of paper from her jacket pocket. It was the document she had been asked to sign after the colonel had so vigorously tanned her backside earlier in the afternoon with a very large wooden-backed brush. It read:
I, Rosalyn Minter, driver, Army no 8654293043, hereby agree that, at the discretion of Officer Commanding Charleston Barracks, Colonel Leyton, I may be required to undergo corporal punishment as an alternative to undergoing normal army disciplinary procedures. Such corporal punishment will be administered by the officer commanding or an officer nominated by him, and will consist of a beating administered to my bare buttocks with such implements as the officer of the punishment may decide are appropriate for the offence, and with such severity as may be required. If any form of rod, cane, strap or whip is used, a maximum of twelve strokes will be administered. The severity of any punishment using a brush, paddle, slipper or similar implement will be decided by the punishing officer, and I understand that the maximum number of strokes is not limited. I have today received:
There were then a number of columns, which had been filled in with the required information:
Date — 26/8/84
Number — 24
Implement — Brush
Carried out by — O/C Colonel Leyton
Witnessed by — Adj. Lt. Forbes
The neat hand writing she recognised as the colonel’s. She read the single sheet of paper through again, and her eyes fell to the blank columns under each of the headings. What had she got herself into?
It was some weeks before she was requested to pick up Colonel Leyton again, and she dreaded the occasion. But he was charm itself, chatting in a friendly fashion which caught her completely off-guard. And no mention of corporal punishment, thank goodness. One dose of his brush was quite enough, and the thought of some of the other implements mentioned in the document she had signed brought her out in a cold sweat.
She had only admitted to her closest friend, Lulu, what had happened, and when she had shown her the form Lulu had shook her head and wished her luck and a tough arse for the next time. ‘You’ll just have to be extra careful, Ros, that’s all. And don’t tell anyone else, ‘cos they might actually try to get you into trouble. I wouldn’t fancy being on the receiving end of some of that little lot. At least we get to keep our knicks on if we’re caned here… he’s a dirty old man, that’s all, who likes whacking girls’ bums. Unfortunately, he’s chosen yours.’ She smiled. ‘Well, it’s a juicy one, so he’s probably got the best of the bunch!’
‘Oh piss off, Lu. This is no joke,’ grinned Rosalyn.
Over in the colonel’s office, Lieutenant Forbes lay a plain brown paper package on the senior officer’s desk. The birch had arrived.
When Colonel Leyton stepped into his office, his eyes noticed the package immediately. ‘What’s this, Derek?’
‘It’s the birch rod the sergeant-major made up for me, sir, he’s very pleased with it.’
‘Is he indeed?’ replied the colonel, ripping the paper off and holding up a stick of a dozen or fifteen thin sticks — almost twigs, really — about two and a half feet long and bound tightly at one end with cord into a convenient handle. He swished it menacingly through the air, and it whooshed obligingly.
‘So this is what those convent lasses had to face, was it? I wonder how many of those rounded little bums were whacked a week?’ He looked enquiringly at his adjutant.
‘Well, you said Minter told you that the nuns only used the birch as a last resort. But she never got it,’ replied the lieutenant.
‘Well, we’ll have to put that right, eh, Derek? She’s got a peach of a bottom, and she must be due another thrashing, eh?’
‘Yes, sir, but to birch her she’s really going to have to commit a court-martial offence, isn’t she? I mean…’
‘Rubbish, man, now she’s signed that form, I decide what the punishment is. All we need is an offence.’
There were another two weeks to wait before the colonel got his wish. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the lieutenant, sticking his head round his superior’s door, ‘It’s about Minter… I thought you’d like to know.’
‘Yes, Derek, what is it?’ Colonel Leyton barked.
‘Well, I’ve just had this accident form in from the motor pool WRAC officer, and she’s told me on the telephone that they’re probably going to nail Minter for a blameworthy accident. I just happened to spot her name as driver in a little prang by the crossroads yesterday. Quite a bit of damage apparently.
‘Really? Well, well, you’d better give me all the paperwork, and ask her officer to get Minter over here sharpish.’
‘Right sir,’ said the lieutenant, almost rubbing his hands with glee.
When the order came to report to the adjutant, Rosalyn knew her time had come. She made sure she was wearing all the right items of uniform, and that it was all clean and pressed, before walking over the camp to the adjutant’s office.
‘Come in,’ came the command, and she faced Colonel Leyton standing by the chair over which she had so embarrassingly been required to bend for her spanking all those weeks ago.
‘I have here a report from your officer at the pool about an accident in which you were involved with a civilian vehicle. Are the facts correct?’ He read out extracts from the report, and Rosalyn could only nod in agreement.
‘Yes, sir, the facts are accurate,’ she said.
‘Well, if this is a blameworthy accident, which it would certainly appear to be, your record could be seriously affected, Minter. And that would be a pity…’ He let the sentence hang in the air for a moment.
Rosalyn felt compelled to fill the silence.
‘But if it is blameworthy, sir, would there be an opportunity for you to exercise your discretion…’ she paused.
‘For corporal punishment as an alternative?’ she finished.
‘With an offence such as this, Minter, I don’t think corporal punishment is an option. It’s too serious a charge. If it’s confirmed that it’s a blameworthy accident, of course, by the inquiry committee… then…’ Again the sentence hung.
‘But you head the committee, sir. Surely if I’d been punished then the committee would clear my record.’
‘But the committee would not know that you had been beaten, would they?’ he asked.
‘No sir, but I’d be willing to take anything if my record stays clean… I mean, an accident could hold me down for promotion next year if it’s decided I’m to blame.’
‘I see. So if I decide that you will be thrashed for this, and believe me, a thrashing is called for, you would not expect a blameworthy accident to appear on your record. Is that it?’ the colonel asked.
‘Well, I thought…’
‘You obviously didn’t think, for you could be thrashed, and have the accident on your record if I so decide,’ concluded the colonel.
‘Sorry, sir. Of course. You’re right. If you decide to beat me, then I’ll take it as a punishment in itself. And the committee will decide on the blameworthy aspect?’
‘That’s right. Well, I have decided that I am going to beat you. And it’ll be a great deal more severe than the spanking you received some time ago. In fact, I may decide to use the birch.’
‘The birch, sir. you have a birch rod?’ asked Rosalyn.
‘Yes, I do, and you certainly deserve it.’
‘Yes sir.’ Rosalyn could feel the sweat tingling, her crotch slightly damp as she contemplated a birching.
‘I have a couple of ‘phone calls to make, Minter. Wait in the outer office,’ ordered the colonel. Rosalyn turned smartly and left the room.
It didn’t take long to secure the agreement of the owner of the civilian car which had been damaged not to press a claim once he had explained the benefits of not doing so. The damage had been slight. A couple of paint scrapes. The principal damage had been to the army staff car, which had suffered a crumpled bumper and smashed headlight. The scene was nearly set.
Rosalyn was ordered in again. ‘Do you play netball, Minter?’ the colonel asked.
‘Yes, sir, I’m in the WRAC team.’
‘I’m going to see what I can do about the other car involved in the accident. No promises mind. And you will receive a…’
‘A birching, sir?’ interrupted Rosalyn.
‘That’s it. Report to my quarters at five this afternoon. Bring your netball kit, and this,’ he said, reaching into the cupboard and handing her the neatly bound birch rod, which she took gingerly between finger and thumb.
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
Colonel Leyton was sitting in his living room, curtains closed despite the early hour and the distance from any other houses on the camp, chatting to an elderly gentleman who was looking very animated as the discussion continued.
‘…and then you can administer the final two strokes if you wish, Mr Wentworth,’ the colonel concluded.
‘And this girl, this driver, is agreeable to all this, colonel?’ Wentworth asked.
There was a ring at the bell, and the colonel went to the door to admit Rosalyn, still in uniform, carrying a large sports bag. He introduced her.
‘This is Mr Wentworth, whose car you damaged yesterday. He has decided not to claim for the damage to his car, which would seem to let you off the hook, and I have agreed that he may witness your beating.’
Wentworth looked the girl up and down. She looked very efficient in her smart uniform, the cap sitting correctly on her head.
‘Do you have the birch, Minter?’ asked the colonel.
‘Oh, yes sir, here it is,’ she said, drawing it out of the sports bag and handing it to him, again handle first.
‘Change into your netball kit, Minter. You can use the dining room if you wish,’ he said, and added in a lower voice. ‘Just the shirt and knickers, socks and plimsolls, Minter, nothing else. Understood? Don’t need a skirt.’
‘Right, sir.’
The colonel moved one of the plump leather armchairs from its position near the television and pulled it into the middle of the room, making a couple of practice swings with the rod to ensure it didn’t hit anything else en route to its target. He got out his copy of the form Rosalyn had signed, and filled in the date, the number of strokes, the implement, and his own and Mr Wentworth’s names.
After two or three minutes, there was a knock at the door, and Rosalyn entered, clad only in a thin white top which did little to disguise the fact that she was — as ordered — wearing no bra, her breasts bobbing evenly up and down as she walked to the men. She stood at attention, the dark blue gym knickers looking slightly incongruous on her mature, tall form, the fresh white socks and white plimsolls completing the look of a girl competing in the senior girls PE team at school. The coltish legs were smoothly brown, the thighs firm and slender, pushed together, until given the order to ‘stand at ease’ she parted them and stood with her hands locked behind her back, her feet the regulation number of inches apart.
‘Come to the chair, and bend over,’ ordered Colonel Leyton.
‘Over the back, sir?’ she asked, bending forward so that her top pulled out of her knickers.
‘Get your head right down, Minter, and keep your legs straight.’
The bottom under the now taut blue cotton tensed as the girl pushed herself up a little higher, burying her head in the soft cushion on the seat of the armchair.
As she had bent over, she had noticed that Mr Wentworth was holding the birch, and she was relieved to hear him say, ‘Here’s the rod, colonel.’
‘Thank you, Mr Wentworth. Would you be so kind?’ He indicated the WRAC girl’s knickers, and Wentworth fitted his fingers into the top, pulling the waistband down to expose the crease between her cheeks. ‘Lift up, Minter, so I can get them down,’ ordered Mr Wentworth, entering into the drama of the occasion.
Rosalyn obligingly lifted her hips off the smooth leather, which allowed Wentworth, with a dramatic flourish as if he were unveiling a plaque, to pull her knickers clear of her bottom and push them down to mid-thigh. She felt a slight slap on her bottom, as Wentworth indulged himself. ‘Very nice, colonel,’ he commented.
Colonel Leyton measured the rod across the pale cheeks and began to thrash the girl methodically, starting at the top of her backside and working slowly down until the whole of both cheeks were covered in a tracery of small weals where the birch twigs were doing their work, the flesh blushing from their attention. He laid each stroke on with care, bringing it down in a swooshing arc to drive the bare flesh up before it, making Rosalyn squirm with pain and extracting a loud ‘Ahhh, it stings, sir’ and ‘Oowwwoooh, that hurts, sir’ as the beating continued.
There was a pause as the colonel handed the birch to Mr Wentworth, who rapped it impatiently against the bare target before letting rip two slashing strokes which landed across the lower part of the presented buttocks, some twigs even landing on her unmarked thighs, to drive a yelp of protest from the girl.
‘Twelve strokes,’ announced the colonel, putting the birch down on the table beside him. ‘Stay as you are, Minter.’
‘Is that it, sir? I’m not getting any more am I sir?’ came the worried response.
‘No, you’ve had your beating.’ The girl’s body visibly relaxed over the chair as Wentworth lifted up his Polaroid and let off two shots of the still bending WRAC girl, her bottom a pattern of pain, and her shoulders heaving with sobs of relief.
‘Stand to attention,’ ordered the colonel. Rosalyn stood, her buttocks full and soft, while Wentworth took another two shots from different angles. It was pointless to protest. At least it was over…