From Roué 22
It is late in the year, with Christmas just around the corner, and the bedroom up under the eaves which Millicent occupied during those never-ending weeks of the summer holidays looks much the same as it did then. The only addition to the furnishings, and it is not very much in itself, is a small brass hook screwed to the back of the bedroom door. Its significance rests in the purpose which it is meant to serve. It is on this hook that Uncle Simon’s cane now resides, when it is not in use that is. Presently unoccupied.
Plaintive little cries, issuing from the direction of a closed door at the top of a narrow stairway which would seem to lead up to the attic, provide a clue as to the whereabouts of the missing cane. Substance is lent to the proposition that the cane is at this moment, being employed in the way that canes are meant to be employed, by faintly audible Plupps! and Thwatts! which momentarily precede each of the girlish protestations.
A peep through the crack of the door would confirm the hypothesis. A neat, round-cheeked bottom, underscored by the elasticated white of a pair of knickers stretched across pressed-together thighs, these knickers snuggled close up under the lower curves of the bared buttocks. Faint warm-pink parallel lines reaching from one trembling cheek to the other across the cleft, and taut thigh muscles leading down to firm, full calves and pointed toes braced against the floorboards. A tousled blonde head which bobs up every now and then, and two frightened eyes which peep backwards between gasps and cries and panicky pleas for ‘No more —please — no more, Uncle Simon!’ Two squirmy, jerky bum-cheeks which tweak together with each Platt! of the busy cane. The cane itself, swooshy and slender and rhythmically applied; and Uncle Simon, saying little, smiling indulgently at the panting girl’s protests, enjoying himself immensely.
The girl is bent across a beam which runs across the attic room at approximately waist height and which supports the roof. The beam, while for the most part inconvenient, cutting the whole roof space into two as it does, is actually ideal when it conies to something solid over which to bend a girl when she has been asking for a caning.
The breathless young Miss across the beam has not, in fact, been asking for a caning at all. Indeed, she has been asking not to be caned, ‘not any more, Uncle Simon’, for the best part of twenty minutes, though to little effect. Uncle Simon himself would not insist that she actually ‘deserved’ to be caned either — what he would say is that it is her bottom which has been asking to be caned, which would mean simply that he hasn’t been able to resist the temptation of a sweet little derriere whose owner is in no position to argue if he wants to put a cane across it. The girl’s name is Cheryl, called Cherry by everyone except her mother. She is Millicent’s younger sister, and has been ‘lent’ to Uncle Simon to keep him amused until Millicent can be brought home from her College of Further Education in time to go to Uncle’s for Christmas. Cherry is ‘old enough’, according to the reckoning of these things in the public conscience, which makes her worth borrowing.
Cherry is desperately confused by everything that has happened thus far.
What she is doing across this beam, with knickers actually taken down she still hasn’t worked out. Until she got here, no man had ever seen her in her knickers, let alone without them, except the family doctor. Her mother’s instruction to her, to ‘be a good girl for your Uncle Simon,’ may or may not cover this eventuality — she really doesn’t know.
Put this way, it may seem that Cherry is taking it all very calmly. This is, in reality, far from being so. What she is actually thinking can perhaps be more accurately estimated by listening to the incoherent jumble of things she is trying to say in between gasps as the cane flicks across her squirming bottom.
‘Ooh — oooooh — Uncle — oogh — Oh, Christ! Ooogh! Please — no more — ooohoo — Oh! My Really — p-lease, please don’t — Ooh! — Ooh-mmugh! Oh — my bot — ooogh — b-bottom!’
Well, there you are. She seems to be thinking about two things only — her bottom, and her bottom, she is not thinking about the effect which her squirmy strugglings are having on Uncle Simon — which is just as well.
The cane continues to Swhitt! across her wriggling bum, both cheeks at once low down round the plumpest parts, warming these tender under-curves steadily and methodically so that poor, frantic Cherry can only think of her helpless, bumping bottom! She is unaware of the dip and jerk of her knees as the cane stings her yet again, or the scrabble of her toes against the floor as her legs push themselves straight after every third or fourth stroke. She is a welter of tears as, for the second or third or tenth time in however long she has been over the beam, she is persuaded to her feet and coaxed out of one more article of clothing. She is hardly aware, as she stretches herself back across that beam yet again, that apart from her knickers, which are now halfway to her knees, there is now only her bra left to lose. Teased and bullied and encouraged to ‘be a good girl’, Cherry points her toes and pushes out her bottom and immediately resumes her wriggling as the cane ‘perks her up’ again! She doesn’t care that her breasts are bobbing side to side as she jolts forward again and again, she is thinking only ‘Bottom — oogh! B-bum — oow! Oh — my poor — oooh! — b-bot-ow — bottom!’ There is nothing else in the world at this moment besides that cane and her bottom!
Uncle Simon, watching the fascinating jolt — wriggle — jerk of Cherry’s struggling bum, continues the teasing flock — flick — Flack! up under her bottom, stroking the quivery cheeks every now and then, feeling the heat of the concentrated cane-strokes flood instantly into his palm patting the firm resilience, then floating the cane across her bottom with just enough wrist at the end of the stroke to impart the mildest of stings, no one of which would have brought much more than a gasp from the girl twenty minutes before, yet which now fetch lusty sobs to her throat, and have the tears rolling down her cheeks unchecked. He knows perfectly well that Cherry’s frantic squirmings and panic-stricken blubbering has less to do with the pain in her bottom, which is hardly more than a dozen with a slipper would have induced, than with the emotional surrender which the last twenty minutes has forced her to concede. He relishes the last few flicks, keeping them close up underneath where the rest have gone.
Then he puts the cane down, and waits for the girl to realise that the caning has stopped. She subsides onto her knees at the beam, bottom aflame and twitching still. He coaxes her to her feet. Still she weeps no less than before. Blatantly he unhooks the strap of her bra. She seems unable to realise that she is now almost totally naked. He pushes her knickers down to her feet, and unbidden she steps out of them.He has the feeling that Cherry will be no less accommodating than her sister from now on.