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Monday, 16 April 2018

The Fitting Ceremony

Photo-story from Blushes Supplement 25
Young Janet McCloud sat up in her bed, her arms tightly folded, a determined and somewhat insolent expression on her face. Her mother, a look of grave concern in her tired eyes, sat down beside her daughter on the edge of the small bed. ‘Please, dear. It really is time you were getting up.’ She glanced at the clock on the bedside table ‘You mustn’t be late this morning of all mornings.’
The girl replied with a nonchalant, almost sneering laugh as she searched the table with one free hand, first for her glasses and then for her cigarettes. ‘I’ll get up when I want to, mother dear.’ The words were uttered sweetly enough, but there was more than a hint of anger in her voice.
The woman sighed, shaking her head. Sometimes she really feared for her daughter. Not that she would come to any real harm as the responsibility for Sir James. But she knew how her Master dealt with intransigence. After today, young Janet’s life would never be the same again, and life could be very difficult for the young madam if she remained intent on not toeing the line. Janet had been on a collision course with Sir James for many months now and the old man had been biding his time. Waiting for the girl’s next birthday, when she could graduate to become a fully-fledged member of his household. Just like her mother had graduated, over twenty-five years earlier. For a second, Mrs McCloud felt guilty. Concerned that it was perhaps her fault that her daughter couldn’t appreciate the gravity of the situation. Perhaps she should have talked to her more. Told her about those days, so many years ago, when she too, learnt her lessons the hard way.
She stood up, her movements weary, and walked to the bedroom door. Turning round, she took one last look at her daughter. Nineteen years of age. Healthy. Reasonably intelligent. An independent turn of mind. She noticed that the top few buttons of Janet’s pyjama jacket were undone. Beneath the pink floral cotton there was a nicely developing young body. Poor innocent young Janet!
Mrs McCloud’s hand felt hot and clammy as she clutched the round brass door-handle. She spoke to her daughter one final time. ‘On your own head be it, young lady. On your own head.’ She waited, but there was little or no response from the recumbent girl. Mrs McCloud, feeling a rare emotion of anger at her daughter’s attitude, slammed the door. She knew it would not be her daughter’s head which would be the object of Sir James’ attentions. Not after today. She shivered a little as she remembered her early experiences. Perhaps she really ought to feel sympathy for her nineteen-year-old offspring. Knowing what Janet didn’t know, or didn’t care to know. Janet was a sturdy lass. Brought up on the estate with plenty of fresh air and good food. She would need to be sturdy, when Sir James finally began the long task of sorting the young minx out.
The McCloud family had served on the estates of the Faulkner dynasty for hundreds of years. It was a tradition of service. And in return, successive heads of the Faulkner clan ensured that each generation of McClouds lived well and were well cared for. For the first eighteen years of her life, each female member of the McCloud family enjoyed the freedom of the Faulkner estates. But on the day after her nineteenth birthday, each McCloud girl finally graduated to become a full-time member of the household. Emily McCloud could still remember her mother talking about it. The mention of barbaric punishments at the hands of the Lords of the estates. It seemed so long ago. A faded memory like an old sepia print. But her own graduation was etched clearly in her mind. That dreadful day when she attended the Fitting Ceremony. The awful embarrassment which numbed her body and her mind. And the punishments… Never once did a Faulkner take a member of the McCloud family to task… until the time of her Fitting Ceremony. Thereafter, the head of the Faulkner family assumed the role of legal guardian. And woe betide any young female who still entertained flights of fancy.
Each generation of McCloud had produced an upstart. The sort of child who refused to bow to authority or to even recognise it. Each arrogant young girl had finally learnt the error of her ways. For most, it had been a painful experience. For young Janet, the latest, and probably the most arrogant and self-assured product of the family for many years, it would be a traumatic experience.
Mr Bryan Robinson, sole principal of the exclusive bespoke tailoring business inherited from his deceased uncle, checked the Faulkner file, looking for a telephone number. He dialled. ‘Ah. Is that the London residence of Sir James Faulkner?’ He waited for confirmation. ‘Ah. Well, Sir James advised me that his young… er… protégée… would be attending this morning for a fitting… I would be grateful to know whether the young lady will still be coming?’ There was a moment of silence at the distant end of the telephone line. Robinson was then informed that the young lady would be attending, and would be arriving within the hour. The tailor smiled into the telephone receiver, nodded his head as he heard the butler’s assurances, and returned to his labours.
At the Faulkner residence, the butler marched straight into young Janet’s bedroom. Startled, she grabbed the bed-covers about her, and demanded an explanation. The butler was an elderly well-spoken gentleman who had dealt with many young women far more impertinent than Miss Janet. ‘As you were advised last night, young lady, a taxi is now waiting to transport you to the city. I will allow you just five minutes to get yourself up, dressed and into the vehicle. Otherwise, I will carry you down there myself, dressed as you are, and you will be marched through the centre of the City of London dressed only in your pyjamas.’ Not waiting for a response, the man turned and left. Just under five minutes later, the taxi, with young Janet aboard, sped along the gravel drive away from the house, towards the London road.
Down in the basement workshop, Robinson gave one final pressing to the crisp blouse he had tailored for the Faulkner’s girl. Miss McCloud was the fifth girl he had fitted. In his small office he maintained copious notes on all his clients, and their charges. Sometimes of an evening, he would scan through them, reading them like some rediscovered diary, reliving some of the most memorable confrontations in his fitting rooms. Each meeting with a girl from the Faulkner estates was a true confrontation. They were spirited girls, and they took some taming. It was all part of the Ceremony for which Robinson the tailor was commissioned to design a very smart and special outfit. He paused in his work, staring blankly at the wall, his mind’s eye picturing again the past few girls to pass through his hands. He wondered what Miss Janet would be like and considered if her late arrival could be indicative of her general attitude.
The telephone rang. The precise tones of his receptionist, upstairs in the shop, nudged him back to the present. ‘Miss McCloud from the Faulkner residence has arrived, Mr Robinson.’ He told his receptionist to send the girl down to him. There was just time to make the final checks on the girl’s outfit while she descended the steep stone steps into the basement rooms. He slipped the blouse and kilt onto a hanger, feeling well-pleased with his work, and knowing that any nubile young woman would look a picture in the outfit he had designed.
He heard the girl slam the outer door. Robinson peered round the doorway, wondering why the girl had taken so long to appear.
‘I’m here.’ She was standing there, with that look of youthful arrogance of her face that Robinson just couldn’t abide.
‘I beg your pardon…’ He was about to ask her where she had left her manners, and why she was just standing there, in that impertinent way. And no excuse or apology for her late arrival. Robinson took a deep breath. ‘Good morning, Miss McCloud. Your new outfit, as commissioned by Sir James, is quite ready for your final fitting. Would you please be so good as to get undressed so we can slip it on.’
The tailor returned to his small workshop. Sir James’ instructions had been very precise. Not just the cut of the kilt and the style of the blouse; but also the knee-length socks, and even the cut of the girl’s panties. Sir James referred to them as ‘knickers’. Robinson preferred the term ‘panties’. Based on Sir James’ ample and colourful description, the flimsy few inches of garment hardly passed as body covering at all. Hardly the dimensions of a woman’s handkerchief. Nevertheless, these ‘panties’ had been carefully shaped, cut and made up, and would soon be fitted around the curves of Miss Janet’s young bottom.
‘Er. ‘Scuse me.’ Robinson was interrupted by the girl’s voice, belligerent and demanding. ‘Where’s the woman’s dressing rooms, then?’
The man slammed down his tailoring pencil. ‘Why aren’t you undressed, young lady? I told you to undress. That was an order.’ He took hold of her arm, pushing her across the room. ‘You will get undressed right now, young lady. Right here.’ He pulled up the back of her dress and landed a firm slap across the very top of her right thigh. ‘Get up on that stool.’ A further slap stung the girl’s other thigh. ‘I’ll teach you to be insolent to me, young lady.’
Two more stinging smacks encouraged the girl to climb precariously onto the small wooden stool drawn quickly into the centre of the room. ‘Get up on it. Right up. And remove your dress… now…’
Janet stood up upon the stool and fought to maintain her balance. Unwisely, she shook her head. ‘No. I won’t. You… you dirty old man…’
Robinson appeared unmoved by the girl’s disobedience, and her insults. He simply folded his arms and spoke quietly to the insolent girl upon her wooden stool. ‘Tell me, Miss McCloud. How many men are employed by Sir James at his London residence?’ Janet, surprised and confused by the question, failed totally to realise its significance.
‘Er… well… ten or so… maybe more…’
Robinson nodded in agreement. ‘Fifteen men, so Sir James told me when we spoke yesterday.’ He leaned back against the worktable. ‘Now hear this, young lady. You have just five minutes to remove your dress and the rest of your clothes. Or I shall request Sir James’ assistance in bringing over to this office his entire team of men, who will then make sure, very swiftly, that your clothes are removed.’
He leaned forwards and tapped the girl’s bottom through her dress. ‘And then, believe me, young lady, each and every member of Sir James’ male staff will then witness your first real punishment as a graduated member of the Faulkner household.’
Frightened by the very real and possible threat, Janet fumbled with her dress. ‘Right off, young lady. Right over your head.’ She slowly tugged the material upwards. The swell of her firm thighs was revealed, and then the faint red marks created by Mr Robinson’s earlier slaps to her thighs.
Already, the girl was blushing, not only because of the trauma of the conflict with the tailor, but because Janet had suddenly remembered one consequence of dressing in haste. In order to get to the taxi, she had just slipped into her knickers and dress. No bra. Robinson already knew. His seasoned eyes had confirmed his initial suspicion.
She hesitated, her dress at half-mast. ‘Yes, I know, Miss McCloud. Young ladies of nineteen don’t like showing their bare tits to all and sundry. Or at least they shouldn’t like it.’ He repeated his threat about Sir James and his men. ‘Believe me, young lady. I’ve seen more bare tits than you’ve had hot dinners. I’m sure yours are quite up to standard for a girl of your age.’
With a little whimper, Janet hoisted her dress up above her shoulders. As she lifted the dress over her head, the dreadful Mr Robinson was hidden from view. But somehow she could virtually feel his gaze. Her breasts felt the chill air of the cold basement rooms, but her face was burning with the awful embarrassment of the situation.
The man leaned back and smiled. ‘Good. Obedience at last.’ He took a long calculating look at the girl’s bared breasts, not too large, but well-shaped, and firm, with little dark pink nipples which had a slightly upwards tilt. In some girls, that was an indication of fear, or cold, or some other unexpected emotion. He held out his hand and took the dress from her. ‘And now your knickers, Miss McCloud. We cannot begin your fitting until you are totally undressed.’
Slowly, very slowly, the girl lifted her hands and slipped trembling fingers under the elasticated waistband of her little knickers. She tugged reluctantly, first at one leg and then the other, easing the tight band of material down over the swell of her hips. She needed to bend down as the knickers continued on their downwards path.
Janet bent her knees in order to maintain her balance, fully realising that the full curves of her bottom were available for Mr Robinson’s consideration. He was watching every movement. Telling her to hurry up. Applying the occasional broad palm to her vulnerable bottom as a means of encouraging her. ‘Take them right off. Immediately.’
She stooped right down, her knees bent, desperately trying to keep her balance as she tried to lift one foot and then the other. ‘Quite a big bottom for your age, haven’t you.’ It was a well-timed remark, with Janet bent forward, knowing she was all bare and exposed. Wondering just how much the dreadful man could see. She slowly straightened her legs, knickers in her hand, and looked across the room.
‘Turn this way and face me.’ She shuffled round, holding the little tangle of knickers in front of her as a way of preserving perhaps a little modesty. He held out the same hand that had so recently slapped her bottom. ‘Your knickers, please.’ She tried to plead with him, politely. Surely it wasn’t right that she should be standing there in front of this stranger. Nineteen years of age and, save for her shoes, as naked as the day she was born.
With the greatest reluctance and another quiet whimper of embarrassment, Janet parted with her little white tangle of knickers. She tried crossing her legs but the stool wasn’t wide enough and she nearly fell over. In any case, Mr Robinson was telling her to keep her hands by her side. ‘Stand up straight, young lady. Absolutely straight. We have work to do.’
And so she stood there. A woman of nineteen years, feeling the chill air of the basement rooms upon her bare skin, reminding her that she was indeed quite bare. He was just standing there, his arms still folded, assessing her. Looking at her breasts, and then turning to stare at her bottom still bearing the occasional pink rash. And then he was in front of her again, his nose just inches away from her little dark bush.
Robinson turned away for a moment and looked at the figures written on a clipboard, hanging on a nail on the wall. He was looking worried. ‘Tell me, young lady. The measurements which were phoned to me. Who took them?’
A guilty look appeared on the girl’s face. She bit her lower lip.
‘Well? I’m waiting for an answer, girl?’
Janet looked down at her toes, trying to look contrite. ‘Um, I did, sir. I sort of… well I guessed them, really…’
Robinson threw the clipboard against the work-top. The noise made the naked girl jump. ‘In fact you made them up? You invented them?’
Slowly, Janet nodded. ‘I’m… I’m sorry, sir…’
She had been in the presence of Mr Bryan Robinson for little more than forty minutes, and the Fitting Ceremony was underway. There was a long way to go, of course, but the experience was already having a profound effect on the young woman’s behaviour. An hour ago, she wouldn’t have called any man ‘sir’. And it was very seldom that she ever apologised voluntarily for any of her misdeeds.
‘You’re sorry, are you?’ Again, she nodded, trying to look the part. The naughty little girl, sorry for her misbehaviour. ‘You will be, young lady. You will be.’
Robinson had seen such girls before. He and Sir James went back a long way and shared a common interest in the cultivation of young ladies. It was an art which was dying out in all but the most cultivated and well-organised households. Of course, that also meant that when a girl was taken to task, it could be a long process. In the olden days, when girls had been well brought up, a sharp hand-spanking, or perhaps a quick strapping was all that was needed to keep a growing female on the straight and narrow. But now? In the past few years, standards of education upbringing and etiquette had all taken a dive. Sir James still welcomed young women into his household and paid them well. Mostly they were the daughters or nieces of older members of his staff, girls he had known for years, since their cradle days. But until the Fitting Ceremony, like his ancestors, Sir James had kept his hands to himself. Only after the Fitting Ceremony would a girl become his property. Then the real training would begin.
He remembered Martine, one of the first girls to join the present Sir James’ household. Of French extraction, Martine had been very slim and her bottom so petite. A cane would have caused real damage. An old-fashioned hairbrush had been used on Martine, to good effect. He could remember it clearly. The sharp slapping impact of the ivory curved hairbrush against young Martine’s little bottom. Her behaviour changed overnight! Not that Sir James didn’t have the occasional need to apply a further dose of punishment during the months that followed.
And then there had been Eva. She had come for her fitting just over a year ago and was working up at the Faulkner’s Scottish estate. Well-endowed in the bottom region was young Eva. At every slap, her ample buttocks would wobble and gyrate. Eventually, Sir James had set her on a special diet. If she didn’t lose so many pounds of excess fat each week, she was caned. One stroke across her big fat bottom for each pound by which she fell short of her target. Young Eva soon slimmed down! Not that she would ever be sylph-like. But hers was a bottom that could really be caned. Long firm strokes which really whacked in to her bottom. Long thin tramlines across every inch of her large wobbling bottom-cheeks.
He reached for his tape measure. ‘Because you have fabricated your measurements, we must start again.’ He ordered her to raise her arms. He wrapped the measuring tape around the girl’s breasts.
‘Keep still, girl.’ His fingers felt cold, and they were touching her breasts, pressing the tape against the very firm tips of her nipples. ‘There is only one way to achieve an accurate bust measurement,’ he commented, partly to himself. He reached behind her and gave her bottom a sharp slap. ‘For goodness sake, girl. Keep still. Breathe in, stick your tits out, and don’t move.’
The man seemed to take an eternity to take the measurement, constantly readjusting the tape, slipping his fingers between the tape and her breasts to ensure the tape was tight but not too tight. Her arms were beginning to ache, but eventually he let the tape drop, and turned away to scribble notes on his clipboard.
‘And now your waist measurement, young lady.’ He wrapped the tape around her waist and took the reading. And then, despite her protests, the tape slipped down around her hips. ‘We take this measurement across the fullness of your bottom, young lady.’ He placed his arm around her lower waist to support her, as he ensured the tape was positioned exactly, right across the crown of her buttocks.
‘Get that hand out of the way.’ The man’s proximity had prompted Janet to again place her left hand, fingers spread, over her triangle of short dark curls.
Worse was to come. The man’s tape measure and his fingers explored every angle of her body. ‘Open your legs, young lady. Stand with your legs apart. And hurry up about it.’ His palm slapped against her thigh as encouragement. It was difficult to do as he said, standing there, perched up on such a small stool. But she tried. And she closed her eyes and flinched as the man ran the measure along her inside leg. Not just one bare leg, but both. The measure and his fingers probing higher and higher.
‘Sir!’ The fingers with the tape probed a little too intimately for Janet’s liking. ‘Sir… is this really…?’ Her question was ignored as the measure was placed around her upper thigh, right up where her most feminine secrets lay hidden.
She sighed with genuine relief when at last, Robinson told her to step down from the stool.
In the distance, a clock struck eleven. Janet did not notice its chimes. Standing in front of this nasty evil man, she was oblivious of all the other sounds of the city.
Some miles away, in the quiet of the countryside, Janet’s mother heard another clock chime, and looked up at the dial on the kitchen wall for confirmation. Poor Janet. She knew what would be happening to her daughter. Not the specific details, of course. Sir James and his tailor treated each girl quite differently. But Mrs McCloud knew that her young disobedient minx of a daughter was in for a few nasty surprises on this the day of her Fitting Ceremony.
She rolled out the pastry for the evening’s dinner and allowed her memories to roll back through the years. Back to when Janet had been born. The promise to Sir James and his ageing father that the new child would be brought up to respect and honour all the virtues of civilised behaviour. That was very difficult in modern England. There was no discipline at school, and there were so many bad influences. She had tried. But young Janet was really a chip off her father’s block. He had been a shirker. Finally packed his bags and left, refusing to bow to the authority of the Faulkners. That was alright for a middle-aged man. But for a teenage girl? It spelt trouble with a capital ‘T’.
Mrs McCloud tried to picture her daughter, down in the basement rooms in the heart of the city. She had been down there herself, so many years ago. Things didn’t change. Estates and businesses were both passed down from father to son, and the traditions and loyalties too. She wondered if her little upstart of a daughter was still wearing any clothes. She doubted it, somehow. She was certain Janet would come into direct conflict with the young Mr Robinson. At least he wasn’t as strict in his ways as the old man had been. The woman closed her eyes as she conjured up the images of the past. How she had vowed that day never to fall into the same trap twice! Never to get herself into a position where she would be disciplined by such an old man as Robinson! At least her darling young daughter only had the young Mr Robinson to contend with. He had but ten years’ experience or so, of dealing with Sir James’s girls and their Fitting Ceremonies.
‘Now that took an inordinate length of time, didn’t it, young lady?’ Janet felt inclined to agree. The probing of the tape and the man’s firm cold fingers against her warm sensitive flesh. It had seemed like an eternity or more. She wished she was home in Scotland, with her mother. She was wondering now just how much her mother knew about this Fitting Ceremony business, and remembered her weary concerned face.
Robinson repositioned the stool slightly and sat down. ‘It took so long, young lady, because you refused to co-operate; and furthermore, if your first measurements had been accurate, it wouldn’t have been necessary at all.’ He was patting his knee. ‘Have you ever had your bottom tanned, Miss Janet? Really soundly tanned?’ She was shaking her head and backing away from him.
He caught her by her bare arm and held her tightly. ‘Well I have the perfect remedy for the sort of intransigence and insolence I have witnessed here this morning!’ She struggled, but he was too strong for her. Young Janet suddenly found herself sprawled face down across the man’s lap, her pretty breasts pressed down against his knee, her bottom perched uppermost. Robinson lifted his right foot and rested it against the cross-member of the stool. The effect was to raise Janet’s bottom until it was the highest point of her body, perched right up, supported by the man’s knee.
‘Young ladies with such smackable backsides really shouldn’t misbehave, you know.’ The words were whispered, as Robinson took a firm hold of the naked nineteen-year-old lying across his lap. A cheeky upturned round female bottom was awaiting his attentions. He knew Sir James would approve. It was all part of the Fitting Ceremony. All Sir James’ girls had found themselves in such a position. Robinson remembered Martine, and her little compact bottom; and Eva, fully-rounded, her buttocks wobbling with each impact of his palm. He enjoyed each girl. Each experience. And he would similarly enjoy bringing young Janet to heel.
He applied the first smack. The girl’s bottom responded delightfully. It was firm, resilient, and yet so vulnerable as well. The second smack landed. Janet offered a little squeal and threw her hand back in an attempt to protect her bottom-cheeks. Robinson calmly lifted her hand away. After the third and fourth smacks, Robinson was set in his rhythm.
And as Janet wriggled and bucked, and kicked and yelled, smack after stinging smack rained down, turning her bared bottom from opal cream to pink, to a deeper and deeper hue of red.
‘Stand up!’ Janet nearly fell off his knee. She grabbed at her glasses with one hand as they almost slipped from her nose and clutched her punished bottom with her other.
‘Turn round. Show me your bottom.’ She turned, her eyes closed, her glasses smeared with misty tears. Robinson nodded to himself. A job well done. The girl was displaying a well-tanned bottom. A rosy red glow across the curves of both ample bottom-cheeks. A glow which descended to the soft flabby creases at the very top of her thighs. ‘Now you know what a smacked bottom feels like, young lady. Let that be a lesson to you.’
Persuaded by the bottom tanning to co-operate, however unwillingly, the fitting continued. Janet was at least relieved to have some clothes once again, after having stood naked for the best part of an hour.
‘These are your new panties, young lady.’ A very brief garment was handed to her, even briefer than the girl’s own discarded knickers. She stepped into them. ‘Careful now. If you damage anything, you’ll be across my knee again…’
She pulled them up to her hips. Robinson was shaking his head. ‘No, girl. No. You’re meant to wear them higher.’ He took hold of her, and tugged the brief knickers higher and higher, his hands adjusting the thin flimsy material until they rested against her slim waist and covered only a minimal part of her bottom. ‘Now the blouse and skirt, young lady. And hurry up. I’m calling Sir James.’
With trembling hands, Janet tried to button up the new blouse. After the awful experiences of the immediate past minutes Janet’s pulse rate was beginning to settle down again. She had to admit that the blouse felt lovely. A beautiful fit. Soft expensive material which gently caressed her breasts in a soothing enjoyable sort of way. The sooner she was dressed, the better. Then that dreadful man couldn’t stare at her now. Wouldn’t have the chance to ogle at her breasts and her bottom, and those other secret parts of a girl’s anatomy. The tartan kilt felt lovely too. She wrapped it around her trim waist and pinned it into place.
Robinson returned from his office. ‘Sir James will grace us with his presence in a very short while.’ He cast a long critical eye over the girl and the cut of her new outfit. ‘Stand up, girl! Don’t slouch!’
He walked around her, tugging occasionally at a pleat or fold in the blouse or kilt, making small adjustments to the way she was wearing his latest creation. ‘Sit down.’ He pointed to the stool.
From his pocket he drew two tartan chevrons. ‘The Faulkner tartan, Miss McCloud. A finishing touch to please Sir James.’ He took hold of her ankle and lifted her leg, clipping the tartan to the top of her knee socks.
‘Are the panties comfortable, Miss McCloud?’ Sitting there, with her leg so elevated, the short kilt had slipped up, affording Robinson a view of her bare thighs. She blushed, trying to deny him a further glimpse of her knickers. ‘Yes. Yes thank you, Mr Robinson…’ The man smiled to himself. Young Janet was learning fast.
The tailor left the room to await the arrival of Sir James. Such a distinguished visitor was always met by Robinson at street level and then ushered down personally to the basement rooms. ‘Sit there and prepare yourself for Sir James’.
She was relieved to be on her own, away from that nasty domineering man who seemed to assume the right or authority to tell her to do almost anything. Even took all her clothes off. Even smacked her bottom. Soundly.
She wriggled a little on the hard wooden stool, remembering the bottom-tanning, still feeling its salutary effects beneath her new and so tightly-fitting knickers. What was it her mother had said to her that morning? While Janet had lain there in bed, refusing to get up? On your own head be it? Such a strange phrase. So out of character for her mother. What did she know of the Fitting Ceremony? Was this the start of a new regime? What would it be like being a ‘fully-fledged’ member of the Faulkner Household? Janet was beginning to harbour the suspicion that life was not going to be too pleasant. Unless she changed the pattern of her behaviour. She certainly hoped she would never see the awful Mr Robinson again, after what he had just said and done to her.
Lost in her thoughts and her feelings of self-pity, Janet was unaware of Sir James’ arrival in the adjacent office. The old distinguished gentleman was standing in the doorway between the two small rooms. Robinson came up behind him. ‘Miss McCloud! Stand up, Miss McCloud! How dare you sit there! Sir James is here!’
The girl leapt to her feet, almost knocking the stool off its legs. ‘Up! Up! Get back up on your stool, young lady!’ Sadly, realising she was in the wrong yet again, Janet stumbled, knees first onto the stool.
In silence, the two men contemplated her, and her little tartan outfit. Sir James was frowning. ‘Has Miss McCloud been cooperative, Robinson?’ Anxiously, Janet stared at the tailor, hoping and praying he would not mention their earlier confrontations; and then her eyes darted to her master, standing there, waiting for an answer.
‘I’m afraid, Sir James, that Miss McCloud has been extremely uncooperative.’ The nasty man even emphasised the words. ‘Try as I might, she has attempted to obstruct me at every turn. It has been a very tiring hour.’
He looked at the girl, whose complexion had suddenly turned very pale. ‘And of course, there is the matter of her measurements. All totally wrong. Made them up herself to impede my work…’
Sir James rubbed his hands together. ‘Is that so, young lady. Is that so.’ His voice was angry. He turned to Robinson. ‘And pray, how did you deal with this… this girl’s… behaviour?’
The tailor shook his head in a gesture of concern. ‘I’m afraid I had to smack her bottom, Sir James. There was no other way of dealing with her. I fear though that I have been too lenient with the girl, as she obviously isn’t sorry for the trouble she’s caused.’
Sir James looked even more annoyed. ‘Show me!’ he barked.
Without any hesitation, Janet was bent forward upon her stool and her little tartan kilt pushed up above her waist. Sir James paused only long enough to take in the shape and cut of the knickers before wrenching them right down to the girl’s ankles. ‘Hmmm. That is hardly what I call a sound punishment.’ Sir James ran his fingers over the faint pinkish hues on Janet’s bared bottom. ‘Give her another dose. Now!’
It had been a long morning, and it was going to become even longer. With the old man holding her arms, bending her forward, ensuring her bottom was jutting out at the desired angle, Janet was tanned again. Solid stinging smacks which echoed off the curved stone walls of the old basement rooms. She danced a little dance upon the square wooden top of the stool, desperately trying to disperse the stinging furnace which Robinson was re-creating across her bottom-cheeks.
‘No sir. Please. No… Ow! Ow!… Ow!’ She squealed as each fresh smack arrived with renewed vigour. ‘No! Please! Oh! Sir!’
The spanking continued, Robinson warming to his task as he carefully warmed up anew the gyrating bottom in front of him.
He stopped the punishment, suddenly. ‘I’m sorry, Sir James. I really think this would be more effective across your knee or mine.’
The old man agreed. Janet was ordered to bend across the tailor’s knee again. He locked her feet against his right foot, and wrapped his left arm firmly about her waist, making sure she was powerless to wriggle free. ‘Good. Now we can really get down to business.’ The spanking continued, except that this time. Janet was unable to move her bottom, unable to avoid each stinging slap as it fell exactly where Robinson aimed his outstretched palm.
As he slapped away, Robinson suddenly realised that he had adopted the initiative. He stopped, his palm hovering in mid-air. ‘I’m sorry, Sir James. I should have thought… would you prefer to discipline this insolent young female?’
Sir James was delighted with his tailor’s unselfish gesture. ‘By all means, Robinson. By all means.’
There was much to be said for getting into practice as far as Miss Janet McCloud was concerned. All the girls in his employ were different. Each had her own unique character and personality. And each possessed an eminently smackable bottom of particular shape and size. Sir James knew them all and knew exactly how to treat each one in order to achieve the best result. Now it was time to get acquainted with a bottom which had flaunted itself around his home for many a year. Until now it was untouchable. But not any more. Now it was time to get to the very bottom, quite literally, of young Janet McCloud!
She was turned to face Sir James, and then hauled across his knee. ‘Right my girl. We’ll soon teach you about manners and etiquette.’ He applied the first exploratory smack across the girl’s already smarting bottom. ‘And I’m going to show you what I mean by a good sound hiding, you little minx!’ Even the threat made Janet squeal in protest, but the cry was pointless. Sir James slapped long and hard, with the benefit of many years of experience of applying his palm to feminine bottoms, large and small, and always bared. For the next five minutes, he concentrated on his task, and made the most of his first introduction to Janet’s bottom-cheeks.
Sir James released his grip on her wrists. The girl stood upright and clasped her well-spanked bottom with her hands. She blinked the fresh tears from her eyes. ‘Right, my girl! Now that is a sample of the days to come.’ Sir James was talking. ‘From now on, young lady, you are a full member of the Faulkner household. And you cross me and my staff at your peril!’
Robinson told her to stand straight, her arms by her side. Sir James was shaking his head. ‘No. That will not do, Robinson. For a girl as wilful as this one, I shall require caning access.’
Janet glanced around and saw the tailor nodding. ‘Quite, Sir James. Quite.’
Robinson reached up and began hitching the little kilt up, rolling the material at the level of the girl’s waist. Sir James saw the puzzled expression on the girl’s face and decided to explain. ‘You see, my girl. In future, you will have to moderate your behaviour in my house. Now you have come of age. And when you fail to moderate your behaviour, I shall do it for you. With a cane.’
Janet could hardly believe her ears. ‘With a…’ She blurted out the words.
‘Yes, my dear. With a cane. A particularly thin and whippy specimen, I assure you. It means that your kilt must expose at least enough of that bottom of yours for me to reach with my stick.’ He squeezed the very lowest curves of her bottom, now revealed by the shortened skirt. ‘This will do nicely. You’ll remember a stroke or two applied just there!’
It was perhaps the thought of the cane which caused young Janet to forget herself. After the indignities of the past two hours she should really have learnt her lesson. Impetuous as ever, she tugged firmly at her skirt, trying to pull it down to its more modest position. ‘It’s… it’s… obscene!’
Sir James had heard many descriptions and definitions of a caning, but ‘obscene’ was a new idea! ‘Get your hands on your head!’
Robinson quickly hitched her kilt back up. ‘I can think of few things more attractive in one’s household than a pretty young wench attired as you are, my dear!’ His voice then changed. ‘But I will not stand insubordination at any time, for any reason! You will be caned, now!’ He turned to Robinson, expecting him to produce a suitable cane from thin air. ‘And this won’t be a few warning taps across your lower cheeks, young lady. This is going to be a proper caning… all over your bare bottom!’
Janet nearly died as she heard the words. But Sir James had spoken. She was beginning to learn that, in future, life was going to be very tough unless she changed her ways. She was going to be caned. It was going to hurt. Far more than the two bottom-smackings she had already endured. But there was nothing at all she could do about it.
She was up-ended over the stool. She wondered how many other girls had cause to remember that stool. Such an innocent piece of furniture until you realised how that Robinson man employed it!
‘Bend right over, Janet. Keep your legs straight… absolutely straight.’ Sir James folded back her short kilt. ‘Later, I shall want this very short, Robinson. Very short indeed.’ In fact, the old man could already see the day when Miss Janet McCloud would be going about her new duties in the household wearing no kilt or knickers at all.
Janet felt Sir James holding her wrists, pinning them together in the small of her back, rendering her totally helpless and unable to prevent the downward impact of the cane. ‘Good. Ten strokes, please, Robinson.’
The ever-resourceful tailor did own a cane. And used it, quite often. ‘Certainly, Sir James. My pleasure.’
Down in the cold yet intimate surroundings of the tailor’s basement rooms, young Janet McCloud experienced her first caning. Ten wicked penetrating strokes of thin bamboo. The sting of the first stroke forced her to emit a shrill yell. The second left her almost without enough breath for a further squeal of protest. There was nothing she could do after the third stroke seared her body than to kick out, stubbing her toes against the floor. ‘Please, please, please. No more!’
She struggled to break free from Sir James’ grasp and almost succeeded. For a moment, he released his grip, but only in order to explore the thin red tramlines now scored across her bottom-cheeks. ‘Hmmm. Harder, I think, Robinson. Much harder. We must teach this minx a real lesson.’
This time, the old man took hold of the girl’s hands and held them out in front of her, holding her taut across the stool. ‘The remainder of the strokes, please, Robinson. And make her feel them.’
Robinson did exactly as he was told. Sir James was an old and respected client. If he said cane a girl soundly, then he would. And this one certainly deserved it.
He gripped the cane, reminding himself of its whippy qualities, and raised it high above his shoulder. It quivered in the cool air for a second and then descended with the usual sibilant whisper. First the sharp crack came as the stick met Janet’s bottom. Then the merest micro-second of silence before the pain reached the girl’s awareness. And then the yell of pained response. ‘Jesus Bloody Christ!’
The blasphemy would have shocked many, but Sir James had heard similar remarks from other young menaces in near similar circumstances. He would cane it out of her in the end. He nodded to Robinson who was waiting to apply the next stroke. ‘Lower down, Robinson. Along there…’ He indicated the very lowest curves of Janet’s backside, close to the crease at the top of her thighs.
The other man obliged. The cane arced down, and Janet yelled again. This time there were no swear words. ‘That really sank in, didn’t it?’ The sixth stroke visited Janet’s cheeks in almost the same place. She squealed an ear-splitting protest.
‘Stand up.’ She struggled to her feet. ‘You will receive the remainder of the strokes in a minute.’ She shook her head and sobbed loudly. ‘Six strokes, Miss McCloud, and six more to come. Because we are determined to beat your insolence and cheek right out of you, no matter how long it takes.’
Janet was trying to listen, but she was dancing up and down, an urgent painful dance, and she just couldn’t drag her senses away from the awful searing stinging bands of fire which were scorching at her bottom.
‘It hurts, doesn’t it?’ Sir James was speaking. She tried to nod at him. ‘This could happen to you every day from now on, young lady. Unless you make a determined effort to mend your ways.’ He waited, intending that the statement should sink in. ‘Every day, I will apply this cane, or one just as long and thin and hard, to your bared bottom…’
She shook her head vigorously. ‘No… no…’
Robinson was still holding his cane, flexing it between his hands. There was a task to complete.
‘Get back over the stool.’ Janet hesitated for one moment, wondering whether she could take another six strokes of that evil stick. Was there any alternative? None whatsoever. She sobbed as she bent forward again, and felt the old man take hold of her hands in his firm grasp. ‘Six more strokes to teach you a first lesson, young lady. Six more sound strokes…’
Many sobs and squeals later, Miss Janet McCloud was left lying across the stool, her bottom still bare and on view. The reward for her continual insubordination was written across her ample bottom-flesh in long thin pairs of red lines. Twelve sets. Long after the two men had left her, her bottom still twitched and wriggled, attempting to come to terms with the awful stinging pain.
‘I have a new idea for a very special uniform.’ Sir James was searching in his coat for his diary. ‘I drew the basic idea out in here, some days ago.’
Robinson nodded. ‘Yes, sir. And while Miss McCloud is here. I could take the opportunity to obtain the exact measurements —’
It was agreed. But it was almost time for lunch. Sir James invited Robinson to dine at his club, and the two men left in Sir James’ chauffeur-driven car. ‘While we are away, young lady, you will tidy this room and sweep the floor. And when we return, we shall expect to see you standing, dressed smartly in your new outfit, standing politely to attention. Is that understood?’
She whispered her reply as politely as she could. Sir James gave her bottom one final passing slap as he left the room and Janet squealed again.
For the next hour she busied herself, afraid that the men might come back too soon, before she had tidied up. Afraid that they might cane her again. She sobbed quietly as she worked, occasionally lifting her glasses from her nose to wipe away a small tear. And just once or twice she allowed her hands to explore her punished bottom, fingering carefully the long inflamed cane marks.
When Sir James and his tailor returned. Janet was standing, dressed in her tartan outfit. But the clothes were soon removed from her again. ‘A full and detailed measuring session, Miss McCloud. Ready for some extra-special outfits which Sir James has outlined to me during lunch.’
Robinson unpinned her kilt and pulled the girl’s knickers down yet again. Ignoring the cane-marks, he pushed Janet forward, telling her to bend right over. ‘Your bottom, first, Miss McCloud. We must measure your bottom.’
Sir James was ready with his notebook and pencil as Robinson stretched the tape measure across Janet’s upturned rump. First across her hips, and then across the full fleshy width of her bottom.
And then some very intimate measurements all of which Robinson called out in a loud clear voice for Sir James to write down.
‘It is worth noting, perhaps, Sir James, that the longest cane mark is fourteen inches.’ It felt much longer to Janet, that particular stroke had snaked right across both buttocks from bottom right to top left. A long diagonal stripe of searing pain. She had traced its path, gingerly, with her finger.
‘How large do you think your bottom is, young lady? From a mid-point on one buttock to the opposite point?’
Janet didn’t understand what Mr Robinson was talking about. And in any case it was so dreadfully embarrassing, just lying there, as these two men discussed her bottom, its shape, and its size.
‘Twelve full inches from summit to summit!’ Sir James scribbled down the details. ‘How many inches did I say, young lady?’
Janet whispered her reply. ‘Yes. Twelve inches, from there…’ He prodded his finger against her fleshy buttock. ‘…to there.’ Another prod on the opposite bottom-cheek. ‘I think we ought to count them aloud, Miss McCloud. After each slap…’
He smacked her quivering cane-marked rump, and Janet squealed. Soon after, she called out ‘One’ having been informed that she would be smacked again and again until she succeeded in counting twelve smacks in succession, without omission, without mistake.
She was gasping by the time the count had ended. Some of the cane marks were paling now, beneath a general smarting red blush caused by the spanking.
She was allowed to stand up. She attempted to massage her bottom but Sir James made her place her hands on her head. ‘Now listen to me, Janet.’ He paused, demanding her full attention. ‘Mr Robinson now has to make some rather… special measurements… in order for him to prepare this very special outfit for you. He will now place you on your back, with your feet raised… I shall expect you to cooperate to the fullest…’
Janet whimpered, and then turned back. First she placed her bare bottom on the stool, very carefully, knowing it would sting as her burning flesh came into contact with the cold hard wood. And then she was made to lie back, so that her legs were elevated right up, and she was exposed, all her curves, her thighs, her bottom.
‘Place your feet on the floor to begin with, Miss McCloud.’ She obeyed, knowing the men could see absolutely everything.
‘Now legs up, young lady. Right up!’ She lay back, her arms reaching back to grasp the rungs of the stool for support. She was lying on her back now, with her bottom available for the men’s attentions.
Robinson measured her again and again, across the swell of her thighs, from her thighs to the crease in the backs of her legs. And with her legs so rudely parted, some very intimate measurements which made her blush deep crimson at the realisation of the view she was providing.
Then her feet back down on the floor again, checking on some previous dimensions before being ordered to stand up once more upon the stool.
‘Stand with your legs apart.’ She really wanted to keep her thighs and knees clamped closely together. ‘Come on. Hurry up.’ She edged her feet apart just enough to satisfy Mr Robinson and the sharp-eyed old man.
The tape measure was held up against the flat downy stomach-flesh, the cold brass end of the measure pressed right up against her pretty navel. The tape dangled down, riding over her pubic mound, and then back right between her legs, the man’s fingers helping it along its journey, right between her upper thighs and further, along the dark long cleft of her bottom between her red cheeks, until the man reached the dimple in the small of her back.
And then he tightened the tape, ensuring that the measure fitted snugly into all the girlish secret places on its route. She breathed in deeply as she felt the cold shiny tape impress itself right inside her bottom-cheeks.
The awful embarrassment was beginning to numb her mind. It was almost as bad as the pain of the caning, and the spankings. At least there was the possibility of bearing such punishments with a sort of mental or physical dignity, even if your legs were waving about in mid-air with the pain of each cane stroke. But this probing and measuring was just too awful for words.
Sir James picked up a tailor’s crayon. ‘I think we should mark your reference marks, Robinson.’
The tailor willingly agreed. ‘Most certainly, sir.’
He addressed the girl. ‘Lift up your blouse, young lady.’ The two men waited impatiently as Janet tugged at her blouse, lifting it up so that she was completely bare from her socks to her shoulders. And as the two men continued to measure her varied physical attributes and girlish secrets, they talked, about her and about the other girls who had passed through their hands.
‘A good firm bottom,’ murmured Robinson, patting one bare cheek. ‘And a good sturdy pair of thighs.’
Sir James moved forwards for a closer inspection. ‘Yes. Not so well-endowed in the tit department, though.’ He stood and stared. Janet averted her own eyes, her cheeks burning. ‘Still, they’re good and firm. Perhaps she’ll grow as time goes by.’
The marker crayon reached the gentle lower curves of her tummy where the soft downy texture of her skin merged with the little modest forest of dark pubic curls.
‘Thought she’d have more, somehow.’ Sir James pointed, precisely. More hair, I mean.’
The two men studied the little shaded triangle more closely. ‘Thought she’d have quite a lot more. A girl of her age.’
They asked her whether she had shaved down there, sometime in the past. She denied the insinuation immediately, shaking her head fervently.
Gradually, the measurements took shape, Sir James continuing to make careful and detailed notes in his pocket-book as the crayon lines appeared at various points on Janet’s soft skin. They turned her this way and that, bending her forwards so that her bottom-curves were available; leaning her right back so that her breasts were stretched taut; they told her to touch her toes, stretch her arms high above her head; push out her chest…
At last the process was completed. Both the tailor and his distinguished client were satisfied. And Janet was still standing there, exhausted, and undressed again, devoid of all her clothes save her socks and shoes.
The notebook and marker were put away. Perhaps the Fitting Ceremony was over.
Sir James drew up his chair and sat down, with Robinson beside him. ‘Today, young lady, has been the day of your Fitting Ceremony. It marks the day when you become a full member of my household.’
Janet stood still, her head bowed slightly, listening to Sir James’ lecture. ‘You are a disobedient, insolent, unreliable and mischievous young woman. Despite the best attempts of your mother and others close to you, you still need taking to task. From now on, I will be assuming that responsibility. Each morning after breakfast, you will attend my study dressed in your uniform. You will wear the tartan outfit until Mr Robinson supplies your brand new costume. And we will discuss your behaviour. Each morning. And any misbehaviour will be dealt with. Firmly.’ He stood up. ‘Do you understand, young lady?’
Demurely, a sweet contrite expression on her face, Janet replied. ‘Yes sir. I understand.’
Sir James was pleased. ‘Good. Then we can assume that the Ceremony is over. No need to prolong things further.’ He searched for his fob watch. ‘Afternoon tea at my club?’ The invitation was extended to Robinson. ‘Well… I was going to start work on Miss McCloud’s outfit…’
The old man wouldn’t hear of it. ‘It can wait. She can wear the tartan for a day or two. Providing that kilt is shortened. Well shortened. Remember what I said about caning access…’
The words faded away slightly as both men walked into the adjacent office, and towards the incline of steep stone steps which led up to the street level. Janet relaxed a little when she heard a door slam shut.
She looked down at her breasts and the soft skin of her tummy, and at the crayon marks. How dare they do this to her? They didn’t own her. Not really. She still had a mind of her own. No bottom tanning or caning would ever make her bow to the authority of that stupid pompous old fool. Never. ‘Sod Sir James bloody Faulkner.’ she whispered to herself. She liked the sound of the words and the gesture of defiance. And she liked the echo of the room. She repeated the words, more clearly and more defiantly. ‘Sod Sir James. Sod Sir James bloody Faulkner…’
The last words died a death. He was standing there, listening to her. With that Robinson man behind him. ‘Wha…?’ A ripple of near panic, shivered right down her spine. Her throat went dry and tight. ‘I… I thought…’
Sir James was nodding his head slowly. ‘Yes, Miss McCloud? You thought we had left your presence?’ He pointed behind him. ‘That was Miss Procter at the top door. She took the trouble to tell us that the Rolls hasn’t arrived as yet. Saved us the bother of climbing the steps.’
Poor Janet tried to offer an explanation. ‘Look… if you thought you heard me saying something… well… it wasn’t anything to do with you… honest it wasn’t…’
The two men were standing beside her now, leading her across the room towards the row of hangers on which Robinson’s new outfits were hung. ‘Sheer wilful defiance,’ muttered Sir James. ‘After all the warnings I have given you. Sheer wilful defiance.’
They placed her against the wall, facing the plaster.
‘Put your hands up, young lady. Get hold of those pegs.’ Sir James pointed up to a pair of coat hangers a useful distance apart.
Knowing there was no chance of escape and no point in further defiance, Janet reached upwards, and gripped the pegs.
‘Legs apart.’ A firm slap landed on her left bottom-cheek. ‘Come on. Further apart.’ A second slap arrived. Two new patches of pinkness spread across her bottom.
Janet stared at the wall, fearing the next moments, thinking that Mr Robinson’s awful cane would once again be brought into use. But Sir James maintained one or two simple rules when it came to punishing his female staff: they were always punished on the bare, either with pants pulled well up to give him the ‘access’ he required; or pants taken right down so that a girl’s entire bottom was bared for his attentions. And another simple house rule was never to repeat the use of an instrument of discipline within the space of twenty-four hours.
To some girls, the rule gave a glimmer of comfort. At least he would only cane them once a day, or slipper them, or smack them with his hairbrush. One of each punishment, perhaps, but never more than one such punishment each day. Of course, the occasional mild hand-smacking could be repeated. That hardly counted as real punishment.
‘The strap, Mr Robinson. Fetch the strap!’ Young Janet shivered as she heard his words and clutched the coat pegs even more tightly. Could she plead with him? Ask him to overlook her behaviour? She knew it wouldn’t happen. Not now, after all the warnings and lectures of the day. And of course she had meant every word. She had let the words echo right round the cold damp musty room. ‘Sod Sir James. Sir James bloody Faulkner.’ And Sir James had heard her and heard the fervent forthright defiant tone of her voice. She was going to be strapped. A naked nineteen-year-old. Her bottom was going to be strapped, and she was going to start crying again, and her bottom was going to sting. She closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable. It was her own fault. She knew it. Sir James knew it. And she was going to pay the price of her errant and extremely unwise behaviour.
Robinson had returned from his office. He was carrying the strap, just one more item from the arsenal of punishment weapons kept for this sort of occasion. The tailor prided himself on being prepared for virtually all eventualities, and if one of his distinguished clients demanded a strap, he would find one. He offered it to Sir James. ‘After you, Mr Robinson. This girl has wasted your time today as well as insulting her master and guardian. After you…’
Robinson flipped the broad strap across the girl’s bottom, letting the end curl up and around the underneath of her left bottom-cheek. She yelled, kicked out in Robinson’s direction, and released her grip on the coat hangers.
‘Oh do behave yourself, you tiresome young lady.’ Sir James took her hand and placed it back upon the pegs. ‘You will take your punishment, young lady, even if we have to stay here all night…’
They waited until she had struggled back into position and then the strap arrived again with a loud smack right across a wide band of her bottom. Again she released her grip and turned to protest, massaging the band of pink which had been written across her bottom flesh.
‘Janet! I am warning you!’ She was allowed no more than a few seconds to return to the required position, her body pressed flat against the cold plaster wall, her legs apart, her hands clutching the pegs. As she closed her eyes, the next smack of the strap was heard, followed by her yell.
‘This is going to be a long day.’ thought Bryan Robinson. ‘This is going to be a memorable Fitting Ceremony’ thought Sir James Faulkner. Miss Janet McCloud just prayed that it would all be over very quickly.
Much later, back at the Faulkner London residence, a quiet sobbing could be heard in the servant’s quarters. Janet was back in her bedroom, lying on the bed which she had been so reluctant to leave, so many hours earlier. She was lying face down, her head resting on her folded arms. The bedclothes had been folded back. Her pyjama trousers were at half-mast. Angry red marks were still very obvious across her bottom. A dozen bands of pain if one cared to count, criss-crossing her bottom in all directions.
She had knelt up in the back seat of the limousine all the way home, all the way through London’s rush hour traffic. After the strapping they had made her put her tartan outfit on again. She still couldn’t remember how she managed to ease those tight knickers up over her burning bottom. Somehow she had succeeded, and had then climbed the steep stone steps back up to the daylight and the bustle of the busy City of London.
Her mother had been waiting for her. ‘Have you learned your lesson?’ was all she asked. Her daughter had nodded. ‘Yes mum.’
Sir James Faulkner was in the library, reading his notes. He would get to bed early. It had been a tiring day. Life was very busy and demanding at the present time. He looked at another file on his desk. Tomorrow, young Jane McKintock was to celebrate her nineteenth birthday. And that meant another Fitting Ceremony the following day. The outfit was already prepared. Sir James’ imagination knew no bounds.
And at breakfast time tomorrow, he would expect young Janet in her new role. In her special tartan outfit, her bottom just accessible, should he have to cane her. Judging by her performance today, he would probably have to cane her. And strap her. Some girls never seemed to learn their lessons. He remembered little Martine and that cute little bottie which he enjoyed tanning so much; and fat little Eva, whose bottom wobbled so delightfully whenever a cane kissed her ample curves; and now young Janet, whose petulance seemed to know no bounds.
He closed his eyes and began to doze. It was a heavy responsibility, being Lord of the Manor, the head of the Faulkner estates. So many bottoms to tan, to smack, to cane…

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