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Monday, 30 April 2018

Sports College

The subject of Punishment PT reminds me of a fantastic pair of videos from Cheek-to-Cheek featuring three gorgeous girls. This is the first of them.
The review from
More pretty girls and eye candy from Metro/Cheek-to-Cheek. And some of the spankings are as good as you can expect from a company who wants their actresses to be able to work again tomorrow.
Three pretty girls strip and put on PT clothes, one of several nudie scenes, and always a highlight of these films for us, because we know we will see the girls spanked also. The girls go jogging in an exterior scene. They stop for cigarettes and are caught by a male school official.
After some discussion of this unauthorized behaviour, the girls agree to accept spankings on the spot, rather than be reported to ‘Mr. Marshall’ back at the school. Each of the girls, two brunettes and a blonde, must lean against a tree, drop her shorts, and take a hand spanking. The faceless male bunches the panties and smacks for a few minutes. This settles the matter, we thought.
The girls decide to take a shortcut back to school, which is trespassing. They are reported to Mr. Marshall, and their cigarette butts are found in dangerous dry grass. When the girls arrive at school, we are treated to a shower scene with one of the brunettes.
Marshall summons the girls, who report in full dress, school blazers. He is an ageplay actor we’ve seen at ROUE, BLUSHES, CALSTAR, and maybe at the bar in George Harrison Marks’ KANE films. He likes his girls. He explains the transgressions and the punishments – brunette Suzi will be caned because she is the oldest and should have been the leader; the blonde and the other brunette will be strapped. See him at 6:30 PM in the auditorium.
It is the room where we have seen other wonderful punishments. We remember ‘Sarah Jane Hamilton’ in ‘Naval Discipline.’ The blonde and brunette must bend over a trestle, which is simply a sawhorse with a towel for padding. Marshall straps both bottoms, panties bunched, with a big tawse.
Suzi is next. Marshall explains that the ‘Victorian’ position will be used. Bending over a tabletop, resting on elbows, palms in the air. Marshall bunches Suzi’s knickers and uses a whippy cane. Twelve strokes. She is shocked by how much it hurts, and actually breaks and jumps up cursing before she regains control. The twelve strokes are entertaining, and if this actress was just performing for us, we loved it.
I will post Sports Comeback, the follow-up video featuring the same girls, in due course...
Part 1:

Part 2:
Part 3:

Principles of Punishment PT

From Janus 17 (with additional pictures from Janus 33)
Punishment PT is unquestionably one of the most interesting variations on a theme of corporal punishment. It is, quite simply, PT carried out not simply as a healthful form of physical exercise but as punishment to be feared and respected. The punishment consists in the extremely lengthy and strenuous nature of the exercises which are at all times rigorously directed by a PT instructor firmly committed to making those under his charge suffer for their sins and infringements of the rules. Punishment PT is therefore by definition a form of CP (or Corporal, i.e. bodily, Punishment). It is doubly so by virtue of the fact that the person authorised to conduct a session of punishment PT maintains discipline — and spurs his convicted pupils on past their natural endurance — with liberal inflictions of his strap to any part of the body during the exercises.
Punishment PT combines many desirable elements in one comprehensive corrective process that can be expected to be effective even in difficult cases of persistent misbehaviour. Serious students of corporal punishment have no option but to regard it as a powerful, albeit esoteric remedy. For this reason it may be recommended only for obdurate wrongdoing and defiant resistance to reformation, when all lesser corrections — canings of ascending severity included — have proved inadequate to halt a pupil’s descent into error.
Alternatively, Punishment PT has valid applications — largely overlooked by practising CP enthusiasts — on a voluntary one-to-one (or even one-to-three!) basis between the partners in an expanding adult relationship. For there can be no disputing the many highly charged dominant and erotic overtones to this unique form of strictly directed physical training. As with other kinds of CP, the effectiveness of the punishment and its rewards to the administrator and any witnesses increase in steep ratio to the structuring of the punishment ritual and the elaboration of the punishment proper.
Punishment PT should be carried out in traditional formal gym wear: tight white cotton shorts and top, white ankle socks and plain white plimsolls. All PT kit should be carefully inspected for correctness, cleanliness and creases when the miscreants report to the gymnasium, and any lapses from perfect presentation severely dealt with at the outset. Two hours of continuous ferociously active exercise whilst being shouted at and perhaps frequently whacked with a strap is punishing enough, but having to undergo this with a just-caned bottom is excruciating indeed.
It is obviously imperative that the PT master be of iron constitution, his heart and mind safeguarded against the weakness of leniency or capitulation and instead firmly set on the one goal of reforming his pupils’ characters. He must have thoroughly imbibed the logic that it is sometimes necessary to be cruel in order to be kind. Certainly he should be sensitive to the levels of pain and exertion that he is creating in the offenders’ bodies, as well as the embarrassment and humiliation in their minds. He may well feel compassion for them, but this will assert itself in rigorous and exacting strictness, for their long-term benefit, rather than in a failure to prolong the discipline past the point where it begins to take effect and work. He will be prepared for, and thoroughly impervious to, Miss Disobedience’s plaintive protests and requests for clemency as he puts her through her paces with greater and greater exertions being demanded as the session unfolds. He must stress before its commencement that she — and she alone — is responsible for the punishment she must now go through, and of course it is not intended that she should enjoy the experience.
She must be made aware of her good fortune in being allowed to wear regulation gym kit. Under severe regimens of the past, schoolgirls sometimes had to be nude when drilled in this fashion, as we shall demonstrate. Even today it is possible that when two, three or more girls undergo punishment PT together, the master in charge may, at his discretion, order the girl showing the least effort to strip entirely, save for her socks and plimsolls. This may well improve her chances of feeling ashamed of her offences, and also of the lengths to which those responsible for her moral and ethical development are compelled to go in order to bring home to her the seriousness of her misbehaviour. Nudity would, additionally, render her senses more receptive to the physical chastisement meted out by the PT instructor, who must constantly exercise his judgment as to what is right, necessary and reasonable in her case. The presence of a second master, gowned and equipped with a cane, will serve to reinforce her awareness of the seriousness of her punishment, and to guarantee that the proper measure is attained, but not exceeded.
Further information is provided by the following authentic letters, the first two reprinted from Privilege 10 and the third from Privilege 11:
Whilst I am strongly of the opinion that the strap and the rod have their place in schools — and particularly so in Reform Schools — I am also a great believer in the corrective merits of Physical Training.
Prolonged and arduous PT (not just the easy-going stuff that is normally laid on) would I am sure have a most beneficial effect on recalcitrants. It would, I am sure, be even more beneficial if the instructor carried some kind of corrective instrument to stimulate pupils to greater efforts and to punish backsliders…
P.N., London W4
… I came across what purported to be a genuine account of conditions in what was euphemistically called a ‘Finishing School’ in the Harz Mountains region of Germany. I have no reason to doubt the authenticity of this document which was given to me by a friend who shares my interest in such matters. It refers, I think, to matters which occurred in pre-war days, but it does not actually state any time. For all I know, the school in question might still be in existence.
A feature of this establishment was regular, strenuous PT — and also corporal punishment. The whole place was run on very military lines — so typical of the Germans — and also, in many ways, seems to have been very ‘naturist’ which is also another of the traits of that race. It was certainly not an ordinary school and seems primarily to have been designed for erring daughters of stiff-necked military families who wanted to avoid any scandal or simply for parents who preferred their daughters to be brought up under conditions of the strictest discipline. Discipline is deep in the German soul, we know, so it is perhaps not so surprising that such a school should exist in that country — even though its existence was kept a pretty closely guarded secret.
The document is in the form of a journal, secretly kept by a girl who had been sent to the school and it must either have been smuggled out or she brought it out when she left. Her age was 19… pretty old for a schoolgirl one must admit. However she was by no means the oldest there, since there were a number of girls in their early twenties. The lowest age of acceptance at this school was 16. The reason that she had been despatched to this ‘Finishing School’ was that she had run away with her young man (of whom her family disapproved) and only just in time had been stopped from marrying him using false papers. Her family were anxious both to hush things up and to teach her a severe lesson. From a military colleague, her father heard of the Harz Mountains School, inspected it personally, and at once decided that it was the very place for any daughter of his who had thought fit to act as she did. Gerda, for that was the girl’s name, was sent there for a minimum period of one year, with a possible extension for another year held over her as a threat.
The journal gives considerable details of her early experiences at the school — which in reality was more like a prison than anything else. These were exceedingly painful and humiliating for a girl of her sensitive nature… and she was, for the first time in her life, introduced to corporal punishment. Corporal punishment beyond anything but a mild spanking from her governess, that is. She was, in fact, caned immediately on arrival and punishments for the slightest misdemeanour followed regularly. Quite naturally — as all the pupils did at one time or another — she considered escaping but not only would that have been exceedingly difficult but the punishment was a public birching and an extension of sentence. Thus Gerda gave up that idea — as most of the other girls had done.
It is clear from the journal that what Gerda hated most of all were the rigorous Physical Training sessions which were held daily, sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon. She writes: ‘PT is perhaps the worst thing of all here… and that, I think, is because the person in charge of the class is a young ex-army man who is a specialist in such matters. It is terribly embarrassing to have to perform the exercises before him, wearing only the thin tight-fitting black leotards that are provided. These are rendered terribly transparent and take on the feel and look of a kind of second skin after we all emerge from the freezing shower which we are all forced to take before exercises begin.
The exercises themselves are the normal ones… arms raising and stretching, knees bending, toe-touching, press-ups and so on but we are made to do this for far longer than is normally the case and often with the additional burden of heavy dumbbells. Oh God, how one’s arms, legs and back ache! One’s muscles simply seem to burn with fatigue… but one has to go on. Unless of course one wishes to feel the strap Heinrich always carries and frequently wields. It is a two-foot long one, two inches wide and although by no means the most painful instrument in the school it stings and burns quite adequately enough. Also he always dangles the threat of being reported to the Principal over us… and that could mean a caning or worse from her.
‘Come along young ladies, no flagging,’ he calls. ‘It’s only when you think you can’t go on a moment longer that you really begin to get real benefit from exercises.’ Then there would be that awful ‘thwacking’ sound, followed by a cry of pain, as one of my fellow-sufferers felt the leather on her flesh.
It was terrible to have him standing right before one, his eyes seeming to bore right through one as he watched the bounce of one’s breasts. It was equally terrible to know that he was standing behind one as one bent and stretched before him. For then the expectation of that strap falling across one was all the greater and one just cannot help flinching and quivering even if one doesn’t get it. Heinrich is a real sadist, and vile in other ways too. I hate him. And oh how I hate this awful place I have been sent to! Surely I do not deserve it, even if I was wicked and defied my parents. Surely what I did was not all that wrong, was it? I have now been here two months but it seems more like two years sometimes My heart fills with the bleakest despair and the most terrible fears when I remember that I still have at least ten months more to stay here. How much more suffering will I have to endure during that time?’…
Mme. Leclair, Rheims, France
… I can tell you from my own experience that it (punishment PT) is a real punishment. I am 62 years old and about 1930 I was sent to a ‘pensionate pour jeunes filles’ in Belgium. We got an extremely strict education and I can tell you a lot about CP. But now about PT. If a group of girls had been naughty or disobedient, punishment PT was the result. I stayed there several years so I did punishment PT many times.
I remember one time that I found it not fair because on that occasion I had done nothing wrong, just my friend Annelies. Now I must tell you that the PT dress was gym-shorts and a tiny shirt, nothing else, just bare legs and feet and arms. First we had to line up standing at attention without any movement. The gym teacher who was always extremely strict controlled everybody on the punishment list who was there. Then the exercises: press ups, knee bends, touching toes — every exercise endlessly. The teacher had a bamboo cane and she used it! ‘Legs higher!’ and thwack on your bare thighs. ‘Arms up!’ and the cane was landing on your arms. Bending — thwack on the top of your legs and buttocks. Again and again.
That time Annelies and I were very cross and found it unjust. We refused! We had to sit down on the floor while the other girls got their punishment PT. When it was finished and the girls were gone our teacher said: ‘And now you both take off your shorts and shirts — come on, hurry up!’ Thwack. So we stood completely nude! And so we had to exercise and the cane landed on our bare bottoms thighs and calves all the time. We were soon so tired and sweating and weeping but the session went on for a very long time regardless. I thought you would be interested to know that PT can be a very heavy punishment.
Petra, Holland

Sunday, 29 April 2018

2nd Movement — Pianissimo

From Blushes Uniform Girls 7
She is gone now, my blonde, slim-legged, English rose who turned out to be not at all the innocent I had first thought. Not innocent, in fact rather knowing and not at all unwilling. A true delight. Mr Bartingly, that next door neighbour, had done a very effective job. Yes, Miranda and her mother have returned to the dank shores of England, Miranda with, I fear, no great improvement in her skill on the flute.
Still I did my best, in musical terms as in other ways and I think I can say I taught that young Miss a thing or two. I would now be feeling her absence more and indeed for two whole days I was quite bereft but then, as can happen when the fortunes smile, a rapturous replacement appeared right out of the blue.
A Scottish lass. Not at all unlike Miranda as it happens, she could well be another English rose except for that decided burr in her speech. Fiona and her mother are from Edinburgh, the metropolis of the North, here for three weeks; but fortune has smiled even more than could reasonably be expected for Mrs Fraser has decided to go on to Cap d’Antibes for a week, and did not wish, as some mothers do not, to take her offspring with her. One can very well imagine what pleasures of the flesh the rather attractive Mrs Fraser is hoping to indulge in there.
So I have had Fiona since yesterday, her mother learning of me via the normal grapevine and arriving with her rather overwhelming request that if I could possibly put her fair child up for the required week she would be so grateful. It was indeed somewhat overwhelming, with the offered offspring standing shyly at her side and looking so reminiscent of Miranda. Recalling the so recent delights of that young lady and meeting the clear blue eyes of this new one I confess to getting an immediate erection, and was happy therefore to ask my guests to sit down and myself do likewise.
So I have her here for a whole week and possibly longer if dear mother finds the delights of the flesh extra compelling. What a marvellous prospect! Fiona incidentally is a student of the recorder though I fear, like Miranda before her, no great virtuoso. So we will have to work in the first instance on her concentration, on her control and discipline. Oh yes, it is a heady prospect all right.
I naturally raised the subject of discipline right away, soon after she was delivered with her cases yesterday afternoon. One does not wish to prevaricate on the essentials. I understood, I said, that in Scotland girls routinely received the tawse at school. Was that so? Flushing Fiona said it wasn’t. No? Had she not been tawsed? No. Not ever? No.
I smiled. We were sitting together on the sofa. ‘That is a surprise, Fiona. I was assuming I would have to go out in the morning and see if I could buy one, as that would be what you were used to.’
Fiona did her best to smile, possibly assuming this was my little joke.
‘And I don’t know how easy it would be to get a tawse. They aren’t used so frequently on girls in France. French girls usually get the martinet. Do you know what that is, my dear?’
My delightful young miss shook her blonde head. Possibly she was perspiring just a little now. She was in a flowery skirt and white blouse, this latter revealing a pair of good-sized, trembling, lightly-harnessed bulges. What she was sitting on was also good-sized. I was already experiencing a keen desire to get my hands on it.
I told her I did have a martinet and might have to use it. I put an arm round slim and delightful shoulders. I said I also had a cane and I might have to use that too. Her mother had said she wanted Fiona to be firmly disciplined in any way I chose.
That was not strictly true. What Mrs Fraser had said was that I was ‘not to take any nonsense.’ But we artistic souls allow ourselves a little artistic license now and then. Fiona didn’t seem about to dispute that her mother might have said that. She didn’t say anything, just gave a delicious little shiver.
I have not used the cane or martinet yet — it is after all still only her first day and we must always remember the golden rule: Proceed with deliberate speed. I have spanked her, though. Last night, just before bed. I am afraid the sight of Fiona in those tight-trousered pink pyjamas was simply too much to resist.
I didn’t take them down, remembering always that golden rule, but I did, once I had her over my lap, yank the pink cotton bottoms vigorously up so that they were stretched quite drum-tight over the trim cheeks and up between her legs. Certainly this produced a shocked yelp — to follow the alarmed little whimper that had come when I told Fiona to get over my lap. The reason I gave was that her first performance on her instrument had not been very good at all and I wanted to give her something to think about. (One falls back on what one can in getting at pupils’ bottoms and poor playing is a very reliable standby.)
I gave her a good dusting, making sure she felt it and from the squeals and yelps I am confident she did. Then to demonstrate to this sweet girl that she had not been left with some horrible ogre I did slip the tight trousers down, telling Fiona I wished to check on the state of the warmed rear-quarters. So in fact I have already had my hands on Fiona’s bare bottom, and within a few hours of her arrival. One could say that I have thus run very close to transgressing my rule; the truth is that I do have those heady memories of Miranda very much in the forefront of my mind.
This morning we are going to that little English shop in town. English and Scottish woollens etc. and it is the latter that particularly interests me. Last night I had the sudden marvellous idea, with Fiona being Scottish, of dressing her in a kilt. I have an intoxicating vision of Fiona arrayed as one of those girl pipers (is it the Dagenham Girl Pipers Band?) I am sure I can get her a kilt in that shop. I am afraid I know nothing of tartans and in any case they are unlikely to have Clan Fraser, but we will not be fussy. Fiona of course will have her recorder, not the pipes. And if she plays at all like yesterday she will certainly need her kilt turning up.
What colour knickers do the Dagenham Girl Pipers wear, I wonder?
I acquainted Fiona with my kilt idea at breakfast. She does not seem bowled over with enthusiasm but perhaps she is still thinking of last night. The spanking and then my taking her pyjama trousers down and applying a little soothing cold cream to the glowing globes.
There may in addition be a darting thought of the martinet, and the cane. I rather think that before lunch I will take them out and show them to her; but first it is into town.
The English shop did splendidly. We have a kilt and sash and I have also made some little stocking tabs. The manageress, an English lady, had no great knowledge of tartans, as I had feared, so I do not know what the items I have purchased actually are. But it is all extremely attractive. This rather ignorant, though quite amiable, English lady also could not enlighten me as to what knickers might be worn by members of a girls’ pipe band, but we need not worry about that; it could well be that they all wear what they like.
Yes I have the distinct impression that Fiona does not like being dressed as a girl piper, though why that is I cannot imagine, to me she is simply delightful. Thus arrayed she does a few scales and then one or two simple pieces. Her rhythm is really very poor and I give her a triangle to get back to basics. A certain amount of corrective disciplining is necessary, especially with Fiona looking so entrancing. Highly stimulating. So much so that I have to admit my head is filled with thoughts of further delights.
So after lunch I suggest Fiona goes up for a siesta. And after some ten minutes I find myself following her, in a state of keen excitement. Her room is pleasantly cool behind the closed shutters and she is lying on her back in the half-light gazing up at the ceiling. She is covered by a sheet and I wonder what else. I sit on the side of the bed. Her big eyes glimmer in the gloom, no doubt registering some slight alarm. I am thinking of course of that first time with Miranda, when I was expecting alarm but heard instead the young miss had come fully prepared. Could it conceivably be that Fiona has something hidden in her recorder case, or elsewhere?
I tell her, my voice a shade tremulato with excitement, that I think I will lie down with her and we can then have a little chat. I lift the sheet. Fiona is in knickers and bra. I myself am in my dressing gown with, as it is a hot day, nothing under. Fiona is trembling as I slide my hand onto a bare cool midriff.
Stroking the silky flesh I talk gently of corporal chastisement. Of my martinet and my cane. Thinking of those splendid instruments can concentrate a girl’s mind wonderfully especially if she has not, as Fiona had not, had previous acquaintance with them. My hand nudges down and encounters the edge of taut knickers. My fingers slide in under while Fiona breathes that she does not want the cane or ‘that other thing.’
‘Not many girls do,’ I tell her. Her body is taut, her breathing now somewhat agitated, as my fingers encounter crisp curls. ‘But something of that sort is necessary.’ Fiona does not attempt to prevent my hand which duly discovers that she is quite damp. Dampness. is of course indicative of receptiveness.
Is it possible that I have a second young lady who had known Mr Bartingly?
I take my hand away and suggest that we slip her knickers off. Then I can see how her bottom has taken the spankings. A tremulous voice says, ‘please, I don’t want the cane.’
Perhaps she thinks I have not understood. ‘I really don’t,’ Fiona repeats, this time turning towards me. And possibly to emphasise this statement her hand fumbles in the silk folds of my dressing gown. Reaching in where I must confess I am in a highly excited state. Her cool hand where I am quiveringly hot.
‘Please…’ Miss Fiona Fraser repeats.

1st Movement — Allegro

From Blushes Uniform Girls 7
Please stop that,’ she pleaded, and not for the first time. ‘I just can’t concentrate with your hand there.’
Naturally I made no attempt to comply with this request. I have long ago learnt to ignore the pleadings of adolescent girls. No, I kept my hand exactly where it was.
‘The point is you have to learn to concentrate, Miranda. Can you imagine yourself standing up in front of a concert hall full of people? That takes real self-control and discipline and that is precisely why I have my hand where it is: so that you can learn to play in the face of distraction. I should be very surprised if your tutor at home didn’t do something very similar.’
Where I had my hand of course was between Miranda’s legs. Between her upper thighs in fact, my hand gripping the silky inner surface of her delicious right limb just below her knickers. Miranda was standing close in front of me as I sat in an upright chair and was playing, or attempting to play, her flute. She was just 16, a lovely age for a girl I always think, and was a particularly fetching specimen of English girlhood, a blonde English rose smartly attired in the required white blouse with a black ribbon at her throat and a full black silk skirt.
I prescribe this outfit for my pupils because some sort of uniform does instil a sense of discipline. That full calf-length skirt of course is also ideal for getting access to a girl’s person when this is necessary for disciplinary reasons — such as for instance my present gripping of Miranda’s inner thigh.
In addition my young pupil is wearing white ankle socks and black strap-over shoes at the ends of long slim bare legs, a white-strapped wristwatch and a plain white bangle on her two slim wrists, a black silk ribbon tying her blonde tresses in a pony-tail. Under the skirt I don’t know yet. Yesterday it was rather marvellous semi-transparent pink nylon ones. Today as I say one doesn’t yet know but undoubtedly one will soon find out.
Yesterday was Miranda’s first actual day of tutoring. She and her mother had arrived here at the weekend and the latter had right away been put in touch with me. I can tutor most instruments and I will tutor most instruments for pretty teenage girls. I am English of course and that to English mothers is a very considerable plus. It means I am to be trusted with Charlotte or Susan — or of course Miranda. Unlike a Frenchman or an Italian I am not going to be surreptitiously fucking their tender offspring when I have her all to myself at my place here just outside Nice. That at least is what they think and tell each other.
As for the mothers themselves of course, getting fucked is going to be high on the list of priorities. Getting a good tan, topless quite possibly, even all over for the more adventurous ones; a visit to the casino in the evening for a thrilling little flutter; taking tea in the afternoon with a friend; and as I say getting fucked, by one of the local bronzed young men who are around in great numbers and are more than willing to provide this service. These are the inevitable priorities for a woman in her thirties or forties on holiday without her husband. But naturally if she is accompanied by her daughter, arrangements have to be made for that young person. Mother certainly doesn’t want her offspring around all the time hindering those priorities, but equally she does not want the girl left to her own devices — to quite possibly be fucked by those same bronzed young men who are energetically taking care of mother’s needs. So a tutor of some sort is an absolute Godsend. And if he is a nice reliable Englishman of mature years — I myself happen to be 35 — and a gentleman to boot, well, things could scarcely be more perfect.
‘Stand with your legs a little wider,’ I tell pretty rosebud-lipped Miranda. The rosebud lips produce a despairing wailing sound from the flute. Miranda is by no means expert and there is, I can assure you, no chance that she will ever be standing up as a soloist before a concert hall of people. But she does have the most exquisite silky thighs. Also a lovely bottom.
Yesterday, her first morning of tutoring, I smacked it. Her bottom. Told her she was playing atrociously and I didn’t think she was really trying and to show her I would not put up with this I took her over my lap. I think she was too shocked to really protest apart from a sort of squawk. Up came the slinky skirt and there, as I have already said, were those truly delightful knickers. Pink nylon with a little lace at the edges and stretched skin-tight over the most mouth-watering pair of quite slim bottom cheeks.
With some considerable pleasure I commenced to smack this delicious nylon-clad rear. Quite sharp smacks causing my Miranda to utter more squawks of shocked protest and also to kick those delightful long legs. I did not take her knickers down for this first spanking. At my age one has learned the correct way of proceeding with 16-year-old English schoolgirls; which is not everything at once.
So the first spanking is always with skirt up but knickers retained; with the second spanking of course one does take the knickers down. Proceed with deliberate speed is the motto. Today Miranda will get her second smacked bottom and today therefore I shall take her knickers down. It is a pleasure I naturally look forward to with keen anticipation.
Spanking Miranda’s bottom wasn’t all I did yesterday. As I say Proceed with deliberate speed and my new pupil’s bottom was not all I was interested in.
A little later after she had recovered somewhat from that unexpected assault on her rear and had been helped over the shock with jus d’orange with ice, I enquired if she had a boyfriend back in green but usually rather damp Angleterre. The big blue eyes looked at me queryingly. ‘A boyfriend, Miranda,’ I repeated. And then adding, ‘you know what boyfriends are,’ I slid my hand quickly up under the front of her demure black skirt. All the way up, to grasp the brief crotch of the pink nylon knickers, in the process, naturally, also grasping what the brief crotch contained.
‘You know,’ I repeated, helping myself to a quick but at the same time very intimate grope of Miranda’s very private part.
Perhaps not surprisingly the delectable girl gave another strangled yelp, this time bending abruptly forwards as her own hands grabbed desperately at where mine was. I slid my hand out, as smoothly and efficiently as it had entered that secret region between her thighs, the feel of her still on my fingertips.
‘You know what boyfriends are, surely, Miranda.’ I told her. ‘And isn’t this what they’re always trying to do to pretty girls?’
What I had done was I suppose equal in shock value to smacking her bottom. Pretty Miranda looked suitably shaken. I sat down again and pulled her onto my lap; in a sitting position this time naturally. An inexperienced girl does not want too many shocks on her first day. Proceed with deliberate speed. And I assumed that Miranda was inexperienced. I turned to the subject of her fluting. It was not at all good I told her, but I would nonetheless inform her mother that it was promising and that she had done her best. ‘That’s what she wants to hear, isn’t it?’ I asked.
It was, of course, and I also knew that 16-year-old girls like to keep on the right side of their mothers, perhaps especially on holiday. A favourable report means she is much more likely to leave her tender child free to do what she wants at other times. I could see I had made a telling point. While Miranda was considering this perhaps unexpected good news I had a quick feel of the pair of not large but deliciously pert bulges in the front of her white blouse. Then I lifted her off and set her on her feet, unable to resist, I must admit, another smack at her bottom.
True to my word I rang Mrs Fawcett yesterday evening with my cheering message. She was much gratified. I then asked if I could have a word with the budding flautist, and informed her of what I had just said. So everyone was happy.
And so here was Miranda delivered to my place again this morning, as delectable as before, while her mother was free to display herself on the beach for passing bronzed young men to admire. Topless? Perhaps; she is an attractive woman both in face and figure but not, for me, to compare with the more budding charms of her daughter.
My hand slides a further few millimetres up in its warm, snug nook. Another despairing wail from Miranda’s flute for I am now on decidedly intimate territory. I have the sensation that my first finger is only a hair’s breadth from the crotch of her knickers, the site of my fleeting foray of yesterday. Today things have been quite different; there has been a slow and deliberate build-up. Miranda has had plenty of time to think about it. I wonder if perhaps the, doubtless thin, material above my hand is also a trifle damp.
It is of course Miranda’s second day, the day when one builds on the first day’s bridge-heads. Proceed with deliberate speed. ‘If you’re a good girl, Miranda. I might be able to make another favourable report to your mother. In spite of the very inadequate sounds you produce. Yes?’
She takes the flute from her mouth and gives me that wide-eyed look. They really are very pretty eyes, violet-blue and large, set off by long fair lashes.
‘I expect if I say you’re doing well she’ll let you do all sorts of things for the rest of the day. Go on the beach, for instance. I expect there are lots of boys on the beach.’
Miranda flushes. She is also trembling a little. My hand is still there, that hair’s breadth away.
‘On the other hand if I were at all honest I expect she’d have you practising all day with no time off at all. Don’t you think?’
Miranda didn’t argue with my analysis of the possibilities. ‘Yes?’ I queried. She hesitated, no doubt seeing certain implications in my offer. Then she nodded.
I rather think it likely that we now understand one another. Proceed with deliberate speed. I slide my hand up that little distance. She gives a squawky gurgle. It is true, I was only a hair’s breadth away. And she is damp. Considerably damp; in fact, more accurately, sticky wet. She is also very hot right there. Clearly my hand has been doing things to her. Arousing her hormones. Hormones are a marvellous thing I always think and some girls, naturally, have more than others.
Miranda is now making gasping sounds and quivering, like a young forest creature which finds itself suddenly captured. When my hand made its final telling little advance she automatically closed her legs, but this only served to hold my hand firmly in place. Realising this she opens them again. I allow my fingers to slide backwards and forwards along that line of wetness. Miranda is breathing noisily through her nose and her hand has now shot over to grasp mine through her skirt, but she is not really trying to push the hand away. She knows that being ‘good’, which will get her that favourable report, means essentially being co-operative.
And also undoubtedly she is beset by mixed emotions. What is happening, we may be sure, is something her mother has instilled in her she must not ever let happen, but on the other hand there are those hormones. They are telling Miranda in no uncertain terms that it is really quite exquisite and don’t stop, they want more. Poor Miranda. She is trembling like a leaf, and moaning. I suggest, while continuing my ministrations, that she might like to sit down on the sofa. Big eyes darting, she shakes her head, probably seeing herself, once she is sitting, being persuaded to recline, and then… well, she doubtless had a vivid imagination; many young girls do.
But I do think it is time for the sofa what with all that trembling etc. She needs a rest, I tell her, it could be that the heat is affecting her. Girls just out from England’s chilly clime can indeed find our sun overpowering. Not that I actually think the sun is Miranda’s problem at the moment, but it is plausible enough. My hand removes itself from its snug nest. I sit her on the sofa and then as she may have suspected gently push her down and lift her legs up on the seat. A nice restful position. Then quietly I tell her that her knickers have to come off.
Now we do get alarmed-eyed looks. Is this what being ‘good’ means? I soothingly reassure her, my hand soothing by stroking various parts. Her knickers are coming off for a spanking, I tell her, nothing more alarming than that. She must have a spanking instead of me giving her mother an accurate report of her fluting accomplishments — or more strictly speaking, lack of the same. ‘That is only fair, isn’t it, Miranda?’ I ask. I am stroking her inner thighs again; my hand does seem to delight in their marvellously silky texture. Miranda’s big blue eyes, from her recumbent position, are saying all sorts of things.
One thing the eyes are saying is if I am going to smack her bottom why have I got her lying on the sofa on her back? The answer to this is simply that it is convenient to get them off while she is lying there having her rest. It saves valuable time. The big blue eyes may say that she doesn’t believe this and that I am going to do something else, or attempt it, when her knickers are off, but the eyes are wrong. That would not be proceeding with deliberate speed, that would be going at a headlong gallop for it is only Miranda’s second day. Oh no, pretty blue eyes, have no fear. I tell her to lift her skirt.
The eyes gazing up at me now give me a different look, a different message as with her face flushed quite pink she obediently reaches down. She pulls the full black silk skirt right up about her waist, exposing what I have not yet seen but have had my hand on — brief pants which are pale blue and gossamer thin. Miranda’s eyes as she displays them are conveying, I should say, mostly excitement. It could be that Miranda does not believe me about only spanking. It could be that Miranda is not as inexperienced as I had earlier thought.
The big eyes watch, and Miranda’s breath hisses out between clenched teeth, and she also obligingly lifts her hips, as I draw the skimpy briefs down. Down the long slim legs and off over the ankle socks and shoes. The eyes do express clear surprise when then, having inquired if she is now rested, I take Miranda’s hand and pull her up. So I am just going to be spanked after all, the eyes say.
Well, that is not quite all. I sit down and take Miranda over my lap and give her a good hard bare bottom spanking, one that brings forth gasps and squeals and energetically kicking legs from the recipient and at the same time results in considerable hormonal activity on my own part. With very great pleasure I spank for some time: to the tautly-fleshed curves of her buttocks, the backs of slim thighs, even, yes, those exquisitely silky inner thigh surfaces. It is a very thorough spanking, one to get any girl going, especially this Miranda who as I know I have managed to get considerably aroused before I even started.
And so I decide that I will not be transgressing the Proceed with deliberate speed code to any great extent if I now do something else. Something that anyway I would expect to do by, say, her third visit. Holding her still firmly round her slim waist with the upturned black skirt down around her ears and everything exposed now well reddened, holding her thus firmly I let my previously spanking hand slide in where it did a little reconnoitring earlier. Except that then there were knickers and now there are none. Miranda more or less explodes, and virtually immediately achieves a quite spectacular and noisy climax.
Such is her reaction that I again wonder just how inexperienced young Miranda is — although it may simply result from frequent practice of those solitary pleasures which English middle-class girls of her age are wont to indulge in whenever they can find a quiet and undisturbed little corner.
I help her off my lap. Her skirt falls back into place, hiding all those delights. She is still breathing hard and stands with a somewhat embarrassed expression. I helpfully assist with the replacement of her skimpy knickers and indeed it would seem she can do with some help for her legs appear to have difficulty supporting her. I sit her on the sofa again and ask if she will have a jus d’orange — or perhaps something stronger? She accepts the former. The rosebud mouth drains the glass thirstily. Her bangled arm reaches up to push back a strand of blonde hair which is sticking to her forehead. Miranda is perceptibly perspiring.
I observe that it is just about time for her to go. What will she do this afternoon? Go to the beach? Meet some of those boys?
Flushing, Miranda says she doesn’t know. She can’t go on the beach for long anyway or she’ll burn. It is true her skin is a lovely pale colour at present (I myself do not go for all this sun tan). A pause, and then she says she doesn’t want to meet boys anyway. Another pause; a further flush; and I am told that Miranda thinks she prefers men to boys. The big violet-blue eyes meet mine and then look away. Smiling, I ask how many men Miranda knows — and how well. She shakes her head, perhaps regretting her boldness.
I drive her back into town. En route my hand moves onto her near-side thigh, pushing back the skirt so that I can once more get at the springy smoothness. Miranda says, among other things, ‘Am I to come again tomorrow?’
It was of course an ambiguous remark and driving back I wonder how innocently it was made. If I had been able to look into those long-lashed eyes I am sure I would have known, but I was driving.
She came at 9 the next morning — by which I mean she was delivered to my house by her mother then. Mrs Fawcett, in a summery outfit, was looking very attractive — if you fancy women in their late thirties; also seeming somewhat excited. Could I have Miranda all day? She (Mrs Fawcett) had an important appointment.
One of the bronzed young men, I assume, but yes I certainly could have Miranda all day. Mrs Fawcett, seemingly unaware of the possible ambiguity of her query, went briskly off. I turned to Miranda who stands waiting, flute case in her hands. She is somewhat pink in the face. Also it seems to me there is today a little pink lipstick adorning the rosebud mouth.
‘So I’m to have you all day, Miranda dear,’ I observe taking hold of an appetizing elbow, bare below the short sleeve of her blouse. She turns a little pinker, aware perhaps of what her mother had missed. But then her mother was not privy, or I assumed not, to what had taken place yesterday.
I walked her in. ‘A whole day of practice?’ I say queryingly. Miranda, making a face, says she hopes not. ‘What then? Should I take you on the beach?’ (At times it seems that one cannot speak without ambiguities.)
Miranda says she can’t take the sun. ‘You could lie under my nice big beach umbrella,’ I tell her. ‘It would have to be in the nude though; that would be my condition.’ My hand is at her bottom through the silk skirt. She is trembling. ‘I’d be too shy,’ she says. ‘Oh no,’ I tell her, ‘it would be only me. I know a very private beach.’
We are now in the studio. I go to sit on the upright chair, the one next to the music stand. Miranda is unfastening her case. ‘What is it today?’ I ask. ‘The pink ones or the blue?’
She looks up, face pink again. ‘Not either of them.’
‘Show me.’
She straightens up. The big blue eyes are saying lots of things again. Her hands go simply down and lift her skirt, up to her waist. They are lilac and virtually transparent, her blonde bush clearly showing through.
‘Very pretty,’ I tell her. ‘You have some very pretty knickers, Miranda. I don’t suppose they’ve been given to you by any of those men you know? The ones you like better than boys.’
She shakes her head, still standing with her skirt held high. ‘No? Well you’ll have to tell me about them, but later. First we must do some work. We must work on that self-control and concentration. Yes?’
She chews her bottom rosebud lip.
‘Yes. So this morning I want you to practise with your knickers off. That is always a stern test of control for a girl. Come here, close, and I’ll slip them off for you.’
She comes forward. The eyes do not seem to be showing a lot of alarm. Excitement, yes. Perhaps I was mistaken and it was excitement rather than alarm they were showing before. I slide the brief nylon knickers down and she steps out of them. I place them on the stand: She is still holding her skirt high, boldly showing me what she’s got, what yesterday was getting so excited. I daresay…
But we must not be distracted. We must have some practice first. Miranda’s instrument. Her flute of course. She does practise, standing close before me, her skirt now down but with my hand up it, testing her concentration. Silky buttocks and thighs, including the inner sides. I have her standing with her feet some 10 or 12 inches apart and there is always the thought, the possibility, that my testing hand is going to go further and perform that final ultimate test. But I keep it as that: a threat, a possibility. In fact her playing is better today, though by no means what I would call good. She is perhaps getting used to my hand, enjoying it… perhaps even wishing for that ultimate test…
We practise for a while and then my housekeeper brings in some coffee and a lemonade for Miranda (I have, I should say, thought to remove Miranda’s knickers from the stand.) We sit on the sofa to drink. Miranda’s eyes are alert, expectant, as she no doubt wonders what is next. More practise… or something else? I must admit I am ready for something else myself and especially with those intriguing possibilities I think I now observe in my young pupil. I could explore them here of course, on the sofa. But on the other hand…
‘Shall we have a little break, Miranda dear? You haven’t seen the rest of the house. The bedrooms for instance.’ Her eyes seem bigger than ever. A pink tongue moistens the rosebuds.
We go upstairs, her slim flanks swaying the silk skirt. The motion is quite intoxicating. Following, I ask about what she said yesterday. ‘Oh that; it wasn’t anything. Just something to say.’
‘Just something to say?’ I say. We are now in my bedroom. So perhaps I am wrong and she hasn’t. ‘No one, then?’
She says looking at the bed, ‘Well, there was Mr Bartingly. He lived next door for a while.’
‘He took you up to his bedroom, perhaps?’
The pink tongue moistens the pink lips again. I can see they do have a slight sheen of lipstick that was absent yesterday. ‘No. It was my bedroom. When mummy was out.’
Naturally when mummy was out. My blood, I must admit, is now coursing round my body at a rate of knots.
‘In your bedroom, eh?’ We are now sitting on the bed. ‘On your bed? In your bed?’
She smiles. My innocent young flautist says, ‘Well both actually.’ She is now looking up at me because she has chosen to lie down, on her back. I am still sitting. Her face, the blue eyes, become more serious.
‘Look… please… if you… If you’re going to do something… you will… use something, won’t you? I mean… you know…’
Her wide-eyed gaze, meeting mine, really does seem innocent.
She adds. ‘If you haven’t got any… well, I brought some, just in case. They’re in my flute case. Under the lining where mummy won’t find them.’