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Thursday, 5 July 2018

Charlotte Castigated

From Blushes Supplement 15
‘What she needs is a man to take her in hand,’ said Sue Dawlish. ‘And fathers are no good, they’re always too soft with their daughters. You want someone else who can be firm and hard. This Mr Hanford. You want someone like him.’
They were in Sue Dawlish’s lounge, Sue and her old friend Diana Stanbridge. Old friends but they had not seen much of each other until very recently and so there was a lot to talk about. Daughters for one thing. Charlotte Stanbridge was very much into a ‘difficult’ age. Anna Dawlish, like Charlotte, was 18 and it seemed had also been through this difficult age, so Sue Dawlish could speak with some authority.
‘He’s a kind of tutor so he can help with any problems she’s having with her work, but he’s also very strict. He can really sort girls out.’
Sue took a sip of her coffee and laughed. ‘I had a little peek at Anna when she was getting ready for bed the day she got back. There were some lovely red cane marks across her backside.’
Diana Stanbridge’s eyes rounded. ‘Good Heavens! I…I can’t see Charlotte standing for anything like that.’
Sue laughed again. ‘Di, dear, this is a man and he’s about six foot five. He’ll just do it whether she’ll stand for it or not. My Anna was a bit of a handful before but after a week with Mr Hanford — well, I only had to threaten to send her back and she was eating out of my hand.’
‘A week? So he has them stay with him?’
‘Oh yes. He’s got a place down in Sussex. He’s quite well off I think and it seems to be as much a hobby as anything else, so he doesn’t charge the earth.’ Sue smiled. ‘I could imagine he rather enjoys caning girls.’
Diana said ‘Yes!’ She could well imagine a man could enjoy that.
‘Well there’s no harm in that, is there? But don’t worry, he’s quite reliable. I mean he won’t be… you know. None of that.’ Mr Hanford wouldn’t be screwing Charlotte, was what Sue Dawlish meant. ‘Is she… I mean has she started any of that business yet?’
Diane bit her lip. ‘I certainly hope not.’ It was a constant fear that Charlotte would start. She was a very pretty girl, her body filling out in all the right places. Her mother had seen boys — and men — giving her very admiring looks. Girls in that ‘difficult’ age frequently did decide to ‘experiment’. She said again, ‘I certainly hope she isn’t.’
‘Well, that’s another reason why you need to bring her to heel. She sounds as if she needs the fear of God putting into her — like my Anna did. And Charles Hanford is the man to do it.’
The spectre of illicit sex was enough to convince Diana Stanbridge. She could just about put up with the tantrums and awkward behaviour but not the thought of Charlotte secretly starting that — and it was easy enough to imagine Charlotte, with that sly smile she had, agreeing to slip her knickers down for some pressing youth. And with the summer coming up…
‘Maybe I should have a word with him,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘You don’t have… a phone number…?’
She sat at her dressing table gazing in the mirror and slowly brushing out her long golden-blonde tresses. A pretty face but with at present a somewhat sullen pout to the full lips. A slim but firm shape; a shape that was still filling out, for girls at 18 frequently do still have some filling out to do. Charlotte herself certainly thought her apple-sized boobs should be bigger and she had even tried exercises to further their development. Most boys, she was pretty sure, liked big ones. She pouted again.
The pout, though, was not because of her boobs but because of what her mother had said yesterday. A real bombshell, and Charlotte, when her mind had had time to register the shock, had simply told her mother to ‘bugger off’. A rather unfortunate expression she had picked up somewhere. Diana Stanbridge had gone red in the face and her resolve had almost faltered. But she had pulled herself together.
Don’t use that dreadful language with me, young lady. That’s a perfect example of why you need to go. And you are going. It’s all settled.’
Charlotte had replied ‘I bloody well won’t!’ in a very confident and assertive manner. Mrs Stanbridge had the feeling she simply couldn’t handle her anymore and she wondered if this Mr Hanford could either.
‘Well, he’s coming tomorrow,’ she replied as firmly as she could.
That was today. Charlotte brushed away at her hair, the action almost hypnotic. Right now in fact. Actually she was convinced her mother was joking, just trying to scare her. Send her away for a week with a man, a tutor; it was quite ridiculous. A joke. He was supposed to be coming this afternoon, to see her, for a chat. And then take her off on Friday afternoon, tomorrow; what a joke. Where was he anyway?
Just then Charlotte heard the doorbell ring downstairs. And shortly the front door opening. Voices. What sounded like her mother’s and a man’s. She felt a tremble of excitement. Well if her mother did have the nerve to bring someone round here she would pretty soon tell him what was what. She wasn’t going anywhere.
There was the sound of feet on the stairs.
A little knock at her door. Charlotte didn’t answer but it opened anyway. She felt her excitement and anger rising. In the mirror her mother and a man. A big, tall man. Her mother said quietly, ‘Charlotte, this is Mr Hanford.’
I’m bloody well not going anywhere,’ Charlotte spat. ‘And don’t just come into my room like this.’ She still sat facing the mirror. She saw her mother make a face, then exchange a glance with this Mr Hanford. He came forward and then…
An ear-splitting scream. Mr Hanford had simply taken hold of a handful of the silken tresses and yanked. Yanked upwards almost literally lifting Charlotte out of her seat by her hair. Hot tears of pain were suddenly filling her eyes.
‘That’s not very polite, Charlotte.’ A calm, mild voice as he maintained his excruciating hold on the handful of hair.
‘Let go!’ she gasped. Her hands were up vainly trying to release herself. ‘Let me go, you bastard!’
Perhaps Charlotte shouldn’t have said that. Mr Hanford didn’t speak, just acted. Backing over to Charlotte’s bed while still holding onto Charlotte’s hair. Sitting down on the bed and then pulling the yelping girl down over his lap. At last he let go of her hair, to grip round her waist with his left hand. While his right yanked up her dress, up round Charlotte’s waist. Brief nylon knickers tight over the squirming rump. Mr Hanford’s fingers in the top of the knickers. Yanking them unceremoniously down, until they were halfway down the slim thighs.
Charlotte gasping and squealing in anger and shock. Mostly shock. Her trim, now bare-bottomed body writhing like a netted fish. It was difficult to comprehend the sheer enormity of it. She was over this Mr Hanford’s lap and he had her bottom bare. She knew of course what had to be coming next, incredible though it might seem. Yes.
The hard hand juddering into the tender flesh of her bare nates.
Crack!… Crack!… Crack!…
Diana Stanbridge looked on in shocked fascination. It was as unbelievable for her as for Charlotte. Mr Hanford’s hand rhythmically rising and beating down, seemingly just as hard as he could. Charlotte’s poor bottom rapidly becoming red all over. Poor Charlotte. And yet… clearly it was what she needed.
Mr Hanford eventually stopped. By this time the yelps and gasps had become interspersed with sobs. Poor Charlotte, defiant, wilful Charlotte, was clearly in tears. And yes, as Mr Hanford pushed her to her feet, this could clearly be seen. Her pretty face red, blotchy, tear-stained. Diana Stanbridge, feeling a surge of sympathy, threw her arms round her distressed daughter. Charlotte was shivering. Shaking like a leaf. Gasping for breath.
Looking in a dressing-table mirror combing out her long blonde hair. Slanting morning light turning the silky tresses to spun gold. It is Charlotte again but a different mirror, a different room. It is Mr Hanford’s room, a bedroom in his house in Sussex. Yes, Charlotte is here, the same Charlotte, although not the same in all respects. She is not the same arrogant, defiant Charlotte who happily caused her mother all that trouble. She is the same Charlotte Stanbridge but now a rather scared little one.
It is Sunday morning. She has been here one whole day plus Friday evening. That has been more than enough to find out what Mr Hanford is like — if that first shock meeting at her own home was not enough. Charlotte looks apprehensively in the mirror. At the door. The door which will shortly open to admit Mr Hanford.
It is 9 o’clock. Charlotte has been up for a while, had a bath, cleaned her teeth etcetera, but she has not had her breakfast yet. No breakfast until after Mr Hanford has been in to see her. She still has an old schooldays dress on, as instructed, and also as instructed has put on a pair of knickers underneath. Although why exactly she has to have knickers on… Because if yesterday was anything to go on Mr Hanford will only straightaway take them down. Perhaps he likes taking knickers down. Also as instructed Charlotte has put on her knee socks and her old black school shoes.
This is how she has to be every morning, she has been told. Then sit at her dressing table and comb her hair until Mr Hanford comes in for her. Charlotte feels a little like crying, thinking of yesterday, not only before breakfast but all the rest as well. Thinking of today which presumably will be the same. In fact she feels a lot like crying. Mr Hanford clearly enjoys it all.
Suddenly he is there. Silently opening the door and coming quickly over while Charlotte’s mind is on her awful fate rather than watching in the mirror. She gives a start at his hand on her shoulder.
‘How are we this morning, Charlotte?’ For a man who can do such dreadful things to you, he has a very soft, mild voice. That in a way makes it worse.
‘I’m OK, Mr Hanford. Very well, thank you.’ Charlotte’s voice comes out in a frightened little squeak.
‘Very well eh? Is your bottom very well? Isn’t it a bit sore still?’
Charlotte swallows. ‘Yes Mr Hanford. It is.’
‘Well perhaps we should make it a bit sorer, eh? Sore bottoms are very good for girls. Especially ones who have behaved very badly in the past. Get up please.’
Charlotte puts down her comb and gets unhappily to her feet. Mr Hanford takes her place on the stool and pulls Charlotte over his lap. Yes it is the same as yesterday. The dress dragged up and then Charlotte’s tight pants dragged down. She gasps at being handled in this brusque, authoritarian manner: though it has happened quite a number of times now it is still a nasty shock.
Charles Hanford’s hand on her bottom. It is a chubby, firm-fleshed, girlish rear and a most appetising one. He strokes it with evident sensual pleasure. And then commences spanking. Hard heavy spanks with his experienced hand. Unhappy Charlotte, spun-gold tresses in some disorder about her lowered face, jerking and wriggling her lithe body. Shiny black shoes, white knee socks, kicking impotently in the air. Charles Hanford keeps going, his face in the mirror a picture of rapt concentration.
Some time later he stops — or rather pauses. Pulling Charlotte to her feet, he now bends her over the dressing table in front of him. She has to spread her arms wide and clasp the table’s edges. Her rump is thrust out and Mr Hanford resumes his assault. How long does this last? Charlotte doesn’t know except that it seems to go on and on. She is gasping and yelping but not quite crying. She will be crying soon, though. Charlotte knows that.
Mr Hanford at last, with a final juddering smack, getting to his feet.
‘I’ll only be a moment. Sit down and reflect on what a naughty girl you’ve been in the past.’
Gasping jerky breaths Charlotte sits down. Wincing. Her bottom is painfully sore but shortly it will be ten times worse. Her knickers still down because Mr Hanford is not finished, the worst part is still to come. Some tears do now appear, in anticipation of what she will soon be subjected to: Mr Hanford’s cane.
Charles Hanford caned Charlotte three times yesterday. Each time really having her howling. He plans to give her at least a similar number today. Girls of Charlotte’s age don’t gain tolerance to the cane, it is not a case of familiarity breeding contempt. If anything they get more frantic, more desperate. Generally speaking Charles Hanford canes and spanks for three days. After that… ah well…
After that Mr Hanford and his young guest will have a chat. It will be explained to her that they can continue with the caning and spanking and if they take this course it will not lessen in severity.
Mr Hanford comes back, cane in hand. Charlotte looks at it and starts sweating. As yet of course she had not been told about choices and options. All she knows is the cane.
Charles Hanford tells her to bend over the dressing table again.


  1. Let's hope that once Charlotte has had an opportunity to reflect on all the choices and options she'll be a sensible girl.

    1. Mothers can be a little silly about their daughters and the 's' word. But it's all part of the training really, with the right gentleman of course (and not some grubby fingered hobbledehoy).

  2. Excellent! I so like this narrative & two stern photos, Fleas.

    ‘What she needs is a man to take her in hand,’ said Sue Dawlish.

    No! I disagree. Two quality canes need to purchased, Fleas!

    Mrs Sue Dawlish & Mrs Diana Stanbridge need to immediately invest in a flexible, thin, rattan cane for their daughters bare backsides, for Anna & Charlotte!

    They must not rely on the strict, good nature of Charles Hanford.
    These mothers need an instant, harsh form of spanking for their girls!!

    Oh my! We know that it is never too late Fleas but these two naughty girls should have gotten tickle-tail with the cane from the get-go, many years' ago. If the two mothers had gotten the rod of correction back in yore, raised their daughters' pretty dresses, pulled down their cotton panties & tanned their bare botties good n sound with the cane...they would not be in this predicament with their daughters' brattitude right now.

    It was simply an error of judgement on the mothers' part, but corporal punishment is just part of good, normal, strict, traditional parenting. I sure grew up with it in my local community as a child. We all did back then.

    Born 1959, I gotten very strictly raised in the 1960s in a typical, loving, Christian household: if me & my sister were bad, our no-nonsense mom would take us to the living room, duly bare our chubby-tender, porcelain-white bottoms bent over the sofa, & soundly whoop us red-sore with the cane & then send us to our bedrooms. Period.
    Job done. It was harsh but harmless. And it sure worked, Fleas!!
    Brenda xx