Let us move forward a few years — to the dawning of a wider realisation that the explosive upsurge in crimes committed by young persons, rooted in the cancer of moral delinquency, cannot be tolerated any longer without imperilling civilisation itself. And to an Establishment response embracing many options that would be of interest to readers of this magazine — including, one could imagine, the introduction of a Moral Welfare Service with access to all computer records and comprehensive powers. Let us assume for instance that instead of being let off virtually scot-free after being adjudged guilty of some offence against established order, a lawbreaking girl would automatically receive a Supervision Order in addition to more stringent punishments awarded by the Court. So that her entire way of life could be thoroughly examined by Moral Welfare Officers duly authorised to sift and probe and scrutinize her every action and attitude, and to impose any ‘reasonable and appropriate’ remedies in the hope of arresting more serious misbehaviour in its germinal stages. For it stands to reason that a young lady who has committed one offence is likely to perpetrate other misdeeds in the future, and may well be living in a condition of complete sinfulness rendering crime an everyday commonplace. Certain immoral actions may not actually be illegal, but the Moral Welfare Officers are not so much concerned with legality as with morality, which they are at liberty to define in the light of their own judgement. With social malaises, as with bodily diseases, prevention is of course far preferable to belated attempts to cure. Even if this should sometimes result in punishment before an offence is committed, to prevent a complete breakdown in moral principles in the individual threatening the whole of society…
Part 1 – Patricia Scully
Demoniac influences have probably been at work in the young life of Patricia Scully, in the view of her Senior Probation Officer, a frosty spinster nearing the end of her service. A stretch in one of the tougher girls’ borstals for Patricia Scully — that would warm the heart of this embittered lady, who alas must remain frosty. Her case notes record this observation: ‘It is impossible to do anything for this wicked girl so long as she remains at liberty. Words just brush off her, and she expresses contempt for all my officers.’ Yes, it would have given this exasperated, long-suffering official the greatest pleasure to know that her totally unresponsive charge was being put through hell in a really strict reformatory, where she would have no option but to conform. No option whatever!
Yet maybe the opinion quoted above is about to be proved quite false. For in spite, of an infuriating temporary unavailability of suitable custodial vacancies during the present extensive reformatory building programme, Scully, P.J., will now have at least half a chance to develop a change of heart and mend her ways. Her latest conviction has ensured her participation in the controversial new Moral Welfare Scheme which, having been pioneered as a successful experiment in seven crime-hit cities, is currently being introduced nationwide. Once-a-week for the duration of her Moral Welfare Supervision Order, Patricia Jacqueline Scully will be required to attend at her Area Moral Welfare Office for sessions of disciplinary training, including unlimited use of corporal- punishment by the presiding Moral Welfare Officer. This gentleman is empowered to apply CP himself — and not by proxy — in response to the minutiae of his underlings’ reports and, of course, his own whims and intuitions. The regulations permit him to apply CP more or less as he wishes — ‘the punishment instrument, number of strokes and their severity, and whether inflicted over clothing or to bare skin, being the sole responsibility of the Duly Authorised Officer to determine in a spirit of justice and fairness.’ In this matter he may be overruled only by the attending Medical Officer, who must examine all culprits and pass them ‘fit for punishment’.
The doctor gets paid the usual fee for his work; the Moral Welfare Officer is normally an unpaid part-time official appointed rather like a lay magistrate and chosen, mainly from amongst the upper classes, for an abundance of those virtues which have absconded from their charges. They are upright, sober and successful citizens, men of stem judgement committed heart and soul to the salvation of a rapidly disintegrating society. It was only to be expected that the left-wing press would brand the Moral Welfare Scheme ‘a toffs’ charter’ and ‘a wholesale invitation to gratuitous sadism’. Such biased stupidity is typical of the gutter rags!
Now turn back to take a good look at Patricia Scully waiting on a hard bench for her examination by the doctor in readiness for her first-ever scheduled appointment with the Moral Welfare Officer. Can you not see that even now, after two hours of waiting to see the Medical Officer, this rude and utterly amoral miscreant, a credit card trickster and hardened sinner, still shows not the slightest sign of repentance? If anything, she’s angry at being kept waiting — long waits are stipulated in the regulations — and maliciously resentful that this should be happening to her. The probation officer’s hatred of this wicked girl was, we believe, thoroughly justified.
At last the doctor comes. She manages to call him ‘Sir’ — at least she’s not that stupid. The reformatory hangs as a real threat over her head, and Dr Matthew Handley is the kind of Medical Officer who has a knack of inspiring paranoia in girls.
Scully, Patricia Jacqueline, rises obediently when he tells her to, then he takes her pulse. Ah, a little accelerated — but not as fast as he would like to find. He lifts her vest to bare first one, then both her breasts. With his right hand he stethoscopes her heart and chest. With his left he cups her breast. As the cold instrument slides over her flesh his fingers squeeze her left breast. Her mouth opens to protest, but she’s a sensible girl now the chips are down and she stifles the sound. He likes it: it sounds like a croak of fear. He’s smugly confident he’ll raise her heartbeat yet.
And then she has to turn round and the vest goes over her shoulders while he sounds her back so very leisurely she’s probably assumed by now that she’s the only victim on the list today. That’s the policy: isolates her, make her feel ashamed, get her to think that only she has been this guilty. The doctor finds this back rather sexy to examine; there’s nothing wrong with her, of course, but all the same he’d better make sure… so sure. Patricia has already started to suspect him of being ‘a right old perv’ but she bites her lip: any cheek to an officer of the Moral Welfare Service and she’ll go straight to the clanger. She knows the doctor’s kinky when he orders her to bend forward and then feels her bottom through her tight knickers.
At last he whips them down. With a frown of doctorly concern he measures the circumference of her buttocks for his private records. He pinches her bare bottom too — at first quite softly, but then really hard! Patricia ouches and squirms; the doctor’s fingers move. ‘Don’t worry, my dear,’ he booms. ‘Merely testing the sensitivity of your bottom.’ What a way to pronounce the word! ‘I have to assess your punishment quotient Your buttocks are not very sensitive you know.’ His voice is a masterful luxurious drawl — or drool. Deeper than bass.
‘Now, my dear; knickers up, turn to face me, and I want that vest right up to your chin. I have to do some more soundings.’
This really is the worst part so far. Dr Matthew Handley has warmed to his task and is enjoying both the girl’s body and her discomfiture as she undergoes “special tests”. He’s using his gaspingly cold stethoscope as a pretext to have a good all-over grope, in the course of which he pays much attention to her breasts which are sensitive. He repeatedly pinches both her nipples really painfully. They naturally stiffen, against her strongest wishes, and as Dr Handley completes his vicious and lecherous examination, assuring her in that awful leery voice that he can pass her ‘A.1. fit for severe punishment’, Patricia Scully experiences the full shame of being stripped virtually naked and her sexual responses abused by an intensely dislikeable male stranger. She feels sickened but also insidiously aroused by his horrible interest in her body, and freaked out by the pleasure this awesome specialist shows in humiliating her. She feels all hot and bothered, as worms were crawling under her skin, when he finally ushers her into the Moral Welfare Officer’s punishment room.
Scully, P.J., immediately recognises that the dinner-jacketed Moral Welfare Officer — in actual fact a rather raffish property developer and high-level wheeler-dealer with friends in the right places and a lifetime worth of CP fantasies in his wake — is a markedly more obnoxious personage than the comparatively straightforward lecher of a doctor. She’s quite a nasty piece of work herself, although not on such an ambitious, socially-accepted scale, and as the saying goes, it takes one to know one. She’s cute enough to sense that she’s now face to face with an absolutely prize bastard, and trembling like she’s trying to lose weight — aware that one word out of place now, the faintest sign of disrespect or hesitation to obey his orders, and he would soon be looking forward to some gloating visits to her reformatory.
In his mind, the moral necessity to exorcise sin from her criminal mind with unbearable applications of a whippy cane to her attractive buttocks is now uppermost; but as with an iceberg, ninety percent of his feelings are hidden below the surface, and those feelings purely concern a very vicious wish to whip pretty girls’ bottoms for a supra-erotic purpose. These feelings are not hidden from her however…
‘I am a man of action, not of words,’ he grates at her — long, lithe bamboo cane in hand. ‘You are a totally immoral girl, and I sincerely hope that the pain you are about to suffer will begin to show you the consequences that your thoughts and actions have. TAKE DOWN YOUR JEANS! BEND FORWARD OVER THE STOOL! HANDS ON YOUR HIPS, GIRL!’
His loud voice frightens her and she instantly obeys him. She feels his hand on the top of her head, pressing it down, and the tip of his long schoolmaster’s cane hitching up her vest.
‘NOW, PALMS ON THE PUNISHMENT BENCH!’ the Moral Welfare Officer shouts, and Patricia for the first time ever wishes she had never embarked on her route to sin, never entertained a thought of law-breaking. It isn’t worth it if it leads to this, she thinks. No, I’ll never do wrong again, it’s just too awful if I’m caught… Oh I’m so frightened!…
She feels the hard, springy, smooth bamboo repeatedly tap her soft vulnerable bottom, bringing back awful memories from her secondary school where she used to get caned frequently by her Headmistress for various forms of delinquency — but she never dreamed it could happen to her again after leaving school. It’s like some recurring nightmare out of the past, but it’s no longer just a nightmare…
The cane continues to tap her defenceless naked buttocks, Making them judder, making her quiver all over from that ghastly familiar preliminary terror, and now she’s so conscious both of the aggressive hardness of the cane and the receptive powder-puff softness of her bottom, and of the feeling of suppressed tension in those insistent, accelerating whippy cane taps — the prelude to blazing, indescribable fire.
Oh God! Why won’t he get on with it? Her guts are quaking, the expectation is exquisite. The flicking cane tip licks her stark staring stitchless naked BARE BOTTOM like a sexual tongue, harder each time as desire mounts, and for the life of her Patricia Jacqueline Scully, whose immorality cries out for chastisement, strains to try to imagine that this is some kind of sexual act, that she’s just about to be lasciviously consumed in some new manner. Her head goes dizzy. Her eyes screw shut The only thing that helps her is the fact that the punishment is coming from a man…
‘Brace yourself, Patricia Scully!’ his shout rings out.
WHOOOOOSH! The first crack of the cane has contacted — below her bottom, on the tops of her legs where she never for one moment expected to be hit. The agony is shocking and unspeakable. Patricia, thanks to her school experiences, expected it to hurt — but not like this!
‘Aaaaahhh!’ she shrieks, and then her breath comes in pants. This sound of her voice enthrals the Moral Welfare Officer: its piercing tone vibrates in his marrow, stimulating him with a direct and physical tingling. He’d put all his strength into that stroke, and if the girl’s bottom wasn’t now smarting and throbbing and stinging way beyond bearability then for sure it was made of concrete.
CRACKKK! The second stroke swishes across the lower reaches of her bottom, through her flimsy knickers, and another star goes nova. What a joke to let her keep her panties on! It simply couldn’t. hurt any more than this, it’s like a living flame that burns and burns even ten seconds after application, when new shock waves are still fanning out of that one livid cane-welt, with the first one still hurting more than enough to force her to plead with him to stop.
CRACK! A third and lighter cane stroke across the very centre of her buttocks, and suddenly she knows the real abject humiliation of being caned by a man, for the cane across her bottom following hot on the doctor’s disturbing gropings has turned her into involuntary putty in the Moral Welfare Officer’s hands. He takes her knickers down now, and all her emotions fire at once; his hand’s on her back just above her bottom, the cane’s lining up for another thrash!, and Pauline Scully, obdurate wrongdoer through and through, is ready and willing to beg the Officer to do anything else to her — anything at all! She’d have no hesitation in performing any sexual service for him, performing it greedily, grateful to escape from the fire of Hades tormenting her as if she were on Ixion’s wheel, an eternity of suffering in each second of her punishment.
She’s thoroughly submissive now, knickers at her knees, her bottom utterly vulnerable, little noises coming out of her face; all of this is delightful to the Moral Welfare Officer, and a tonic to his manpower. As he raises the cane high for his first bare bottom stroke, he thinks of all the girls who have ever wound him up, led him up garden paths, caused him to feel frustrated. And his cane whips!!! like savage fire diagonally across her tempting buttocks, making them “pancake” dramatically. But then, almost at once, he repeats the stroke.
And gives her another one. For the sheer hellish pleasure of it.
Her choking melody of almost inhuman cries — guaranteed bottom-line sincerity — gives him an adrenalin rush at flash-point intensity.
He stares like a man transfixed at her swelling buttocks, loving what he sees. ‘Knees together, girl,’ he sighs. ‘Bottom up high.’ And CRACK!! That was a nice one. Nice enough to release a lot of his tension.
The Moral Welfare Officer stands beside her for a few seconds, the cane straight between his hands, letting her lesson sink in and listening to her sobbing. Allowing her the opportunity to fear the very worst…
Then, a cursory fondling of her seven or eight proud marks (he doesn’t count them) and he takes off for a cup of tea in the refectory, where he will study the next girl’s case notes, leaving Dr Handley to carry out his concluding examination.
Scully, P.J., has 19 more visits to make after this one. But the Moral Welfare Officer has already forgotten her, as he reads up on Jilly Waistrose, and peruses the photographs in her file.