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Friday, 31 August 2018

In the Heat of the Night

From Janus 95 by Marianne Hamilton
Claire lit another cigarette and stared out of the window. It was such a beautiful day, definitely too nice a day to be stuck in a stuffy office. The view was not a picturesque one, only city rooftops and scaffolding, but the sunshine and blue sky made it appear so inviting. Another hour to go and then it would be time for lunch. Claire could hardly wait to get some fresh air.
She turned back to her desk and tapped away at her keyboard. She really enjoyed her job at the insurance company but when summer came along she just longed to be out getting a tan. Not that it took much for Claire to get a tan: her dark complexion needed only a couple of days in the sun to look positively foreign, though she was a born and bred Londoner. Her long brown wavy hair, prominent Roman nose and bright green eyes often caused her to be mistaken for an Italian tourist, but Claire didn’t mind being noticed for whatever reason. She loved to get wolf-whistles from builders and winks from taxi drivers and compliments from saucy waiters. She feasted on male acknowledgement of her beauty, and it was hardly surpris­ing that such tributes came thick and fast considering the tiny clinging T-shirt dresses she squeezed on to her 5’8” frame. At 24 years of age she was not just an amazingly pretty face and sexy body but a girl who really had her head together and knew what she wanted from life.
‘Hi Michael, I’m leaving now and I’ll see you in a minute.’ Claire stood up from her typist’s swivel chair as she replaced the receiver. Michael was a sweet guy who worked at the newsagents just across the street from the insurance giant. She had been using the shop for nearly a year and they had become friendly enough to have lunch together occasionally. Claire liked Michael very much, although all she had managed to get from him so far was a kiss on the cheek. She was sure he was scared of her glamorous sophistication and lush, ripe sensuality. Still, Michael was a quiet guy of twenty and Claire appreciated his company probably far more than he knew.
Claire stood in the high-speed lift adjusting her dress a little. The doors parted and her long legs strode down the corridor, heels clicking assertively on the shiny tiled floor. Then finally she was out of the building. The brightness of the sun made her rummage in her handbag in search of her sunglasses, and she looked even more exotic when she put them on. She crossed the street just as Michael was coming out of the newsagents, his bright blue eyes gleaming at her in the sunshine.
‘Hello, usual place?’ Michael said, cocking his head towards the pub.
‘Yeah, we can sit in the garden,’ Claire answered.
They turned the corner and pushed their way through the crowd into the pub, then walked straight through to the garden. There were no seats free so Claire sat down on the grass in the sun. Michael returned to the bar to get the drinks and Claire watched him as he went, flicking her dark hair back off her face. She felt herself relax as her skin soaked up the sunshine, happy to be in her true element.
‘There you go,’ said Michael, awakening Claire from her tropical daydream and handing her a glass of white wine and soda. Michael was so young and fresh, it always excited Claire to be seen with him. His strong masculine physique turned girls’ heads wherever he went, but it was also his great sense of humour and caring personality that made him so attractive. Michael sat beside her on the grass and exchanged a few words and glances with people he knew. Claire’s eyes searched his body, hidden behind her opaque shades. Dressed in a tight white T-shirt, jeans and trainers, he oozed sex appeal. He was definitely the kind of guy you expected to find in a health club, not a newsagents.
After another couple of drinks and a cheese salad sandwich it was time to return to the dullness of the office. Claire stood outside the newsagents and watched as Michael walked back inside. She really didn’t want to go back in to the office, but trundled along anyway. Once inside she ploughed on with her work, trying to make the day go as fast as possible. Finally there was a buzz of flurried commotion as people started to put on their jackets and leave for the hustle and bustle of the rush-hour. Slowly Claire cleared her desk and prepared herself for the journey home.
Inside her small but cosy flat she kicked off her heels, poured herself a glass of wine and lounged on the sofa. She played with the TV controls, flicking from channel to channel and settling for the news. It was a Friday night and Claire felt like doing something exciting, but she had no inspiration and no energy even to move from her safe and comfortable sofa. As she stared at the television not really hearing a word, the telephone rang. With a sigh she rose and moved to the hall. ‘Hello,’ she murmured.
‘Hi, it’s Michael,’ she heard. ‘I haven’t disturbed you, have I?’
‘Oh no, of course not. I was trying to drum up enough energy to take a bath!’
‘Have you any plans for tonight? I’m at a bit of a loose end and wondered whether you fancy coming for a drink,’ said Michael in a bright and jolly voice. Claire thought for just a second and then agreed, arranging for him to pick her up at around nine.
Claire soaked in a hot bath, wallowing in the foamy bubbles. She almost fell asleep but at last managed to climb out, wrapped herself in a large towel and returned to the lounge. She poured herself some more wine and pondered on the thought of Michael actually asking her out. Never before had he asked her for more than a lunchtime drink or sandwich, and he had never made a pass at her. Was this the moment of truth? Had he finally noticed that she had been flirting with him all this time? Had the penny dropped that she wouldn’t mind being more than friends? Well, she thought, it’s taken him long enough.
While dressing, Claire flaunted herself to the mirror. She looked good and she knew it. The long black dress she had chosen was split up her thigh on one side. She threw on some pearls and black suede heels and was ready. She sat waiting in anticipation, flicking her fingertips over the tawse which lay ornamentally on a small black coffee table beside the sofa.
A car pulled up outside and Claire rushed to the window to see if it was Michael. It was. He was wearing a colourful cotton shirt and black trousers and shoes, his baby-fine blonde hair cropped short into the back of his neck. As she watched him walking up the path she realised he really did look only 20 years old. She waved after noticing he had seen her looking, and went to the door. ‘Hi,’ she said, smiling seductively as she ushered him inside. I’ll just get my bag and we’ll be off.’
They drove in Michael’s new dark blue Escort to a wine bar about twenty minutes away. It was quite full but they managed to get a table near the window looking out on to the main street. Claire could not help but cross her legs, with that split showing off one of her silken brown thighs. She kept noticing Michael’s eyes drop to her legs, and that brought out the tease in her. They made polite conversation about family and work, and time crept by. Then, all of a sudden, out of the blue Claire said, ‘Do you find me attractive enough to want to sleep with me?’ She could hardly believe her own ears when she heard what she was saying, but it was a combination of red wine and lust that made her say it. She felt hot to have put him on the spot.
Michael stared for a moment and the atmosphere grew slightly tense. Then, rather nervously, he answered, ‘I would certainly sleep with you, given the opportunity.’
Claire’s mind raced. Was this the right way to her heart’s desire or not? She excused herself from the table to use the bathroom and to clear her head and plan her next move.
Claire returned to the table seeing only Michael as she eased herself through the crowded wine bar. She knew from the butterflies deep in her stomach that the time was right. ‘I really do like you, Michael, but I have something to tell you,’ she said, placing her elbows on the table and resting her chin on her hands. Michael leaned forward all ears and Claire sensed an inner strength in him that she had not noticed before. Claire knew that the moment had come to be frank with him, and now the butterflies were whirling in her tummy. ‘I only like domineering men, Michael. Do you think you can accommodate my needs?’
That said, Claire relaxed back into her chair and waited expectantly for an answer or some kind of reaction.
‘Shall we go straight to your place or would you like another drink?’ Michael replied, smiling broadly as if he already knew the answer. He rose from his chair and made his way to the bar, bill and money in hand. There he stood patiently waiting for one of the busy bar staff to notice that he was not invisible. Claire very impatiently shouted across the bar, ‘Hey! Do you want to be paid or not?’ A young barmaid turned and glared at her and took the bill and money from Michael. After collecting his change Michael looked slightly embarrassed, but then laughed and headed for the door. Claire followed, giving a quick smirk at the bar as she left. Her bottom wiggled in the tight dress as they headed for his car. The journey was tense and exciting; the silence was deafening. Claire ran her fingers up and down the back of his neck and watched every move he made as he drove. Michael liked Claire, in fact he liked her a lot, but had always found her somewhat unapproachable. Now things were different. He had an opportunity and boy, was he going to make the most of it!
Once inside she escorted him into the lounge and sat him down beside the coffee table. She grabbed a bottle of wine and two glasses from the kitchen and swiftly returned, telling Michael to make himself at home while she made herself more comfortable.
Claire took a small bag from the bedroom and locked herself in the safety of her bathroom. She could hear her heart beating and could hardly breathe. She removed her dress, watching herself carefully in the mirror. She stood in only her high-heeled shoes, smoothing her hands over the inviting sight she saw. Had Michael noticed the tawse yet? Surely he had. She gasped at the thought. Was he planning to deal with her severely?
She felt her moistness and searched deeply with her delicate fingers. Her thoughts were racing far too fast for her to catch up with them. She tenderly touched the end of her tongue with her forefinger and traced an imaginary line around her lips. Her hand slid down the side of her neck nervously on to her breast. The nipple felt hard as she lightly fondled it as if it were made of porcelain. Then, as passion and anticipation tingled in her bottom, she cupped her hand and squeezed her breast firmly. She arched her back and caressed herself. Her skin had become clammy, her breathing hard and fast, her eyes closed, her mind a million miles away…
Realising that too much time had passed, Claire gazed at herself guiltily in the mirror and straightened from the slumped position she had assumed against the bathroom wall. She washed frantically and opened the bag, removing a cream suspender belt, stockings and a silk G-string. She started to put them on, watching herself as she dressed. Her nipples had swollen to the utmost and were feeling incredibly sensitive. The cream silk material made her skin look a beautiful, inviting colour. She knew Michael would not be able to resist her. She touched her full, curvy bottom and the flesh was smooth and firm.
She crept into the lounge where Michael had poured some wine for them both and now stood facing the curtained window. If he could only picture the scene behind him…
‘Michael, I’m ready said Claire in a meek voice. He turned to face her, holding the twin-tailed leather tawse he had taken from the coffee table. ‘Is this what you want?’ he asked in a tone that unnerved Claire. She walked towards him for some kind of affection, but he pushed her to one side.
‘Kneel on the chair!’ Michael said abruptly, pulling her towards it. Claire’s heart was pounding as she knelt on the seat of the armchair with her elbows on its back and her amazing bum pushed out towards him, the thin silk thong separating her bare cheeks. She knew that this was what she wanted but still had that same uneasy, almost queasy feeling she always got at this point.
Michael looked at the beauty that knelt before him, and gasped. This was the sight he had hoped for so long that he might see. He had had no idea that she enjoyed spanking. Himself, he had experienced it only once before, and more playfully than in earnest. Evidently, Claire’s need for the smarting leather was of a different order to that of the girl who once slapped his buttocks while they were making love, whose smacks he had happily returned. But for the prize that was to come — sex with his dream girl — he would give all he had to please her.
As he fumbled with the tawse, Michael thought of all those times he had un­dressed Claire with his eyes. He recalled how often he had indulged in erotic fan­tasies about her. He had always seen her as unattainable. Why hadn’t he asked her out before? Why did her domineering, upfront character put him off so?
Well, now that he had the whole thing under control, he knew what he wanted from her. He wanted her body. He wanted her mind to think of him and only him. Maybe it was just that old male ego, but Claire was a special catch, really special. His heart seemed to miss a beat, he wanted to reach out and touch her, feel her flesh, make contact. But catching himself tapping the tip of the tawse on the palm of his hand, he knew what must be done.
Michael placed his left hand firmly on the small of Claire’s back. She gave a small sigh of relief, feeling that he had made her wait for such a long time. No words, no actions, only her facing the wall behind the chair, waiting. Not daring to turn round to see what Michael was doing.
Michael lifted the tawse up, then it came swooping down.
A loud crack echoed through the room as leather met flesh. Claire felt every muscle in her body tighten. Then, without allowing her to absorb the sensations, another stroke came crashing down. Her bottom began to wriggle. She knew she had to slow him down, make him under­stand her need to come to terms with her pain and savour it. The sting was ferocious.
That’s for embarrassing you in the wine bar!’ Claire blurted out the words as she tried to catch her breath. She turned her head and looked at Michael’s face. He was smiling mischievously as he traced his finger over the red mark he had already imparted to her cheeks. The material she clung to on the back of the chair suddenly seemed to become damp and slippery and full of static electricity as her palms grew sticky from the muggy night air and the intensity of the moment. She turned to face the wall and threw her head back as the tawse came down for the third time, and then the fourth time! Michael paused again as if to admire his work and watch her reaction.
‘That’s for flirting with the guys in the pub…’ Claire said in a very girlish voice.
The next snaps of the leather tails biting her bottom sent pain shooting through her whole body. Underlying the hot smarting came waves of sensual throbbing that were very sexual for Claire, but still a sharp pain remained which made her clench her teeth and screw up her face with every stroke she took. As the tawse repeatedly cracked down on her supple cheeks, she seemed to be projected into another state where each minute was like an hour and each fiery moment lasted an age and a half. Gradually, as the strapping progressed, the burning fury in Claire’s bottom melted to a numbness beyond pain and her secondary feelings grew stronger. The sensation was so exhilarating and excitement overcame her.
She was ashamed. She felt that Michael could see her excitement glistening forth, drawn out of her by his corrective wrath. Even if he couldn’t, he surely must have sensed what was happening to her. She turned to look at him again and saw a bead of sweat roll down his forehead, making him blink as it ran into his eye. She was impressed by the look of intense concentration on his face as he dealt with her bottom. And… could it be so?… his own excitement from strapping her so determinedly.
‘Face the wall!’ he shouted in a stern voice, and Claire loved his power to command her. The tawse rose and fell twice more with great force and then Michael touched her, his fingers feeling sharp as he ran them over her hot marks. Claire gripped tightly on to the back of the chair, not daring to turn her head. She waited, wishing she could see what he was doing, then heard him take a sip of wine. She relaxed her body momentarily, and the next pain caught her unawares. It was burning.
‘That’s for teasing me all this time!’ Michael called out, as if this were now his game that he was playing. The tawse whipped down into Claire’s firm bottom. ‘And that’s for making me lust over you the way I do.’ For the very first time since Claire had met Michael, she realised what feelings he had for her. Turning to look over her shoulder, breaking his order, she searched deep into his stunning blue eyes, hoping not to find any real emotions within herself. Commitment just wasn’t her style.
Her thoughts were shattered as the tawse came smashing down on her now very tender buttocks. She squeezed her cheeks tight and then relaxed again, the harsh pain of the tawse now gone but the throbbing and heat more intense. Twice more the tawse came down with a loud crack, and Michael yelled, ‘And that’s for having such a beautiful body!’
He fell to his knees and kissed her bottom delicately. Claire felt hot all over and she closed her eyes as though to soak up every inch of the heat that spread through her limbs, welling up as an intense fire where her legs met. Claire needed his body desperately to complete the work that the tawse had done. She turned to look at him and said, ‘I’m yours, Michael. Please take me.’
Michael stood up and led Claire to the sweet-smelling bedroom. He laid her tenderly on the cool pink bedspread and gently removed her G-string, as if unwrapping a precious gift. He began to kiss her all over, and as her excitement mounted higher and higher Claire very much hoped that Michael would prove as virile a lover as he looked and felt. He would need the stamina of a stallion to do justice to all the cravings he had awakened in her with the biting leather, and she knew she couldn’t handle any disappointment now.
Claire felt great pride in achieving her youngest conquest yet. She had the ridiculous thought: He’s only 20, and he’s going to make me come again. But she had other thoughts as well. Maybe tomorrow she would have a new subject to think about. As Michael ravenously caressed and possessed her body and she greedily enjoyed him, Claire’s eyes stayed closed and her mind wandered. Jonathan worked in her office, he was slightly older than her but very sexy…

Thursday, 30 August 2018

Trials of a Parlourmaid

Story from Uniform Girls 32
It is dusk on a pleasant September evening. It has been one of those lovely Indian summer days, hot and golden, which autumn sometimes brings to England’s shires and it is still warm now as the mellow stone of Hartgrove Manor nestles in its rolling acres against a darkening sky. Light shows from various of its many windows, some with drapes drawn and others not, as the house and its occupants go about their business. The business of dinner mostly at this hour, preparing it or preparing for it; activity, some bustling and other more leisurely, above stairs and below. Not all is action, though. There is also waiting. Anticipation. There is waiting for dinner which is of course generally pleasant anticipation. But there can also be waiting for other things.
From the stable block at the rear of the house a young man glances up at a window on the first floor. The lights are on but the drapes are closed so that nothing can be seen of the inside. And in any case from his angle he wouldn’t be able to see much beyond the immediate vicinity of the window itself even if the drapes were drawn back. But… he can nonetheless see something in his mind. A young woman standing there. Waiting. She will still be waiting at this moment. He glances at his watch. Yes. The master is a man of strict routine… Sir George Hartgrove.
The young man (he is 22) with the keenly watching eyes is called Arthur Tradwell. He is tall and pleasant-looking, clean-shaven, but his clothing — corduroys and a cheap cloth jacket — indicate that he is not a member of the family but one of the outside staff on the estate. He lives in the village with his parents and does not need to be here at this hour of the evening except… for that young woman he knows, or believes, to be at present in that room opposite on the first floor. She is close to being his fiancée; certainly they are walking out as the expression is. Her name is Jane Linnet. She is 19 and a parlourmaid at the Manor.
Arthur knows Jane is in that room because she has told him. Most days before dinner she has to go there. He has known this now for a week. Does anyone else know? Arthur has desperately asked himself this question ever since Jane told him. Not willingly but somehow, a week ago, when they were out for a walk… it had somehow come out, partly forced out of Jane once she had begun. The dark secret that came haltingly out… to leave him devastated. ‘I didn’t want to tell you,’ she said, blinking tears afterwards. He had wanted to tell her she must leave, but of course he knew she couldn’t do that. Sir George wouldn’t let her.
Perhaps no one else did know? But he knew that wasn’t likely. They would know, the other inside servants. Cook (Mrs Hagley). Mr Jermyn, the butler. Also the other maids? Did the other girls have to go and see Sir George in that room? ‘S…Sarah does,’ Jane had whispered. Sarah was the other parlourmaid, a pretty girl but not in Arthur’s eyes half as pretty as Jane. Sarah had to go at lunchtime Jane muttered.
‘Does he do it? To Sarah?’ Arthur had asked. Jane wouldn’t answer — but he knew the answer was yes. But Arthur wasn’t concerned about Sarah. It was Jane. Every evening before dinner. Or almost every evening. Almost, so there was a chance it wasn’t tonight. Arthur tried to tell himself that. Yesterday and tomorrow but maybe not right now. That would be something, that it wasn’t happening, or about to happen now. Arthur’s eyes are intent, straining… as if somehow they could pierce the drapes… and see that Jane wasn’t there. He looks again at his watch. 7.45…
7.45. That is what the clock on the mantelpiece shows when Jane gives it a quick glance. Then a glance at the door. It will open without warning because the carpet outside will deaden the sound of footsteps. Unconsciously she smooths a nervous hand over her white pinafore. She should perhaps be used to it now, and not bother, not get agitated. But she isn’t.
The room is mostly empty except for a brocaded chair and a full-length bevel mirror. Jane is standing away from the bay window with its closed drapes that looks out over the rear of the house. Standing in front of the mirror. Its reflection shows a very pretty girl, her russet-brown hair piled-high on her head with a little lace cap pinned on the top. She is tallish and evidently shapely in her long black high-heeled pumps. In front the dress is almost completely covered by a full-length white pinafore, the bodice of which shows the swell of full, firm breasts. Behind, the black material of the dress is not tight about her flanks but its folds nonetheless indicate full, womanly hindquarters.
Yes, a pretty and voluptuously-bodied young woman. One of Sir George’s two parlourmaids. The one he likes to see in the evenings, before dinner. Sarah who is blonde but equally well-built is usually before lunch. Sir George Hartgrove is a man of habit. A man who likes routine in his pleasures as in other areas of his life. And now…
The door opens. Without warning, but then you do not need warning with Sir George, if you know his routine. It is 7.47. You could almost set a clock by Sir George Hartgrove. He is in his fifties, a biggish man with ruddy complexion and thick black moustache though his hair is greying. He is dressed for dinner because he will go straight down when he has finished here with Jane. When he has had his aperitif as it were…
He closes the door after him. Jane, heart all at once thudding as it always does, does a quick curtsy. Her hands grip the material of the pinafore at her sides. He is coming close, with those gleaming eyes. A word of greeting. Jane stands still, though shaking, as his two large hands take hold of her large, firm breasts through the layers of clothing.
‘A lovely day, Jane.’
‘Yes sir.’ The hands are squeezing, mounding.
‘A hot day for September. Gets a girl hot, does it, weather like this?’
The remark is ambiguous, no doubt by intention. Jane colours slightly but tells herself to keep calm. ‘It… it was a lovely day, sir.’
‘I know that, Jane, but I asked you something else. Does this weather get you hot? Hot down here I mean.’ As Sir George speaks one hand has slid down. Through the pinafore and dress and what is underneath it takes hold of the mound of Jane’s sex. ‘This. Does it get this hot?’
A little whinnying sound pops from her soft mouth as the hand takes hold. Jane is trembling… but she must stand meekly still. ‘No… no… sir.’
‘No? Not hot for that Arthur? Eh?’
‘N…No sir.’ Sir George’s other hand has left Jane’s boobs now. It is yanking up the various layers: pinafore and skirt and petticoat. So that his right hand can dip in underneath. To her thighs in the flimsy white drawers… And not only her thighs. His hand sliding up to where it was before. Jane’s pussy. She makes a little sobbing sound.
‘I hope not, my girl. I don’t want you giving it to him. Whatever the weather. And no one else either. Not Jermyn. Nor to anyone who comes to the house. Is that understood?’
Jane stutters a desperate ‘Yes sir.’ The hand is there with just the single layer of her drawers now protecting her. Sir George’s hand that has pushed her thighs apart and is right there. Holding Jane’s pussy.
‘You and Arthur Tradwell, Jane. Nothing planned yet?’ Frantic-eyed Jane shakes her head.
‘Good. Well, see that you discuss it with me before you make any plans. I won’t necessarily object. Perhaps you’re getting to the age when you need to be wed. Eh? A big, ripe girl. Maybe you need a young man in bed at night giving it to you. Tupping you. We’ll see, eh? But until then… I want you still a virgin, my girl. Is that understood?’
Sir George is not always as bad as this. There is not infrequently the hand up her skirt; and of course what is shortly to follow, there is always that. But these things he is saying… Jane desperately nods her head.
Sir George grunts. He is finally taking his hand away. ‘As long as that’s clear. Now then. Let’s have something that a girl certainly needs, eh? Get your skirts up.’
Sir George turns to sit down on the chair. Jane’s skirts have fallen back into position but she now has to lift them again. Right up this time, round her waist, and get down over Sir George’s lap. For what she somehow found herself telling Arthur about a week ago. Telling him what Sir George did virtually every day before dinner here in this room overlooking the stables. Jane hadn’t meant to tell him. She hadn’t told him before although Sir George has been doing it ever since she came here as parlourmaid. In a way it was a relief to have told him, to no longer have that secret from him. But at the same time it is dreadful that he knows…
Jane hoists up her skirts. Naturally there is no thought of refusal, of argument. Jane is a parlourmaid. Sir George Hartgrove’s parlourmaid. He is her master and as such can do virtually what he wants with her. And if he wants to spank her bare bottom every day before dinner…
Jane’s skirts are up. There are white stockings and white cotton knee-length drawers which are tight over her bottom to reveal the voluptuous swell of the cheeks. She would not choose to wear drawers as tight as this but they are what Sir George insists on. Jane is now lowering herself over Sir George’s lap. Right over so that the ripe curves of her bottom-cheeks in the tight cotton are squarely across his thighs. Jane’s head is down close to the carpet. She grimaces. Sir George’s hand is playing with her bottom. Squeezing and patting, rolling the ripe flesh under his palm. And then the hands are tugging down the tight trousers…
Outside… the silent watcher waits. He has no means of knowing if anything is happening behind those closed curtains. But from what Jane has reluctantly told him the chances are very high. Most days, she said. And when pressed further that apparently meant whenever Sir George had no more urgent duties at this hour — and he usually doesn’t. So… it probably is. It is ten to eight. The probability is very high that Jane at this moment is over Sir George’s lap. With her skirt and petticoats up and her drawers down. And for the next 10 minutes — or maybe longer because Sir George, master in his own house, can delay the dinner hour if he so wishes — for the next 10, 15, 20 minutes or however long he wants, Sir George’s large hand will be cracking down onto Jane’s bared bottom.
Arthur turns away as a figure crosses the courtyard. It is Jack Slaper, head groom, a man of 50 or so. Arthur doesn’t want to be seen gazing desperately up at the window. Does Jack Slaper know? Arthur has no way of knowing but it is quite possible. He tries to push that possibility out of his mind as Jack greets him.
‘Not home yet then, young Arthur? Waiting for that Jane? I reckon you’ll have to wait a bit yet. She won’t be through till after dinner.’
Does Jack know? Is there perhaps a slight grin on his face? It is dark now apart from the light coming from the house, it is probably Arthur’s imagination. But grin or not Jack Slaper may be picturing what Arthur Tradwell himself is unhappily picturing: Jane over Sir George’s lap. Her ripe bottom red from the repeated impact of her master’s hand.
‘Stand up then.’
Sir George is red in the face now. Jane’s face is red and tearful as well. Having your bare bottom spanked really hard for 10 or 12 minutes is a shaking experience. Even if it is something you routinely get most days. Jane’s bottom of course is even redder than her face. She has struggled to her feet, to stand with her skirts still held high round her waist. The drawers remain lowered round her white-stockinged legs. The stockings are fastened by a white suspender belt and its taut straps frame the quivering flesh of haunches and thighs. Her red-hot bottom is away from Sir George’s view now as she has to stand facing him. Making herself stand straight like this, showing everything, in particular the thick brown bush of her pussy…
It is that that Sir George’s hot eyes are on. His eyes… and then his hand…
‘You’ll remember what I said, my girl? A bit earlier. About this. Eh?’
Jane makes a gasping sound of assent. The hand is cupping the hot, moist bush. The dreadful spanking… and now this. She feels sick.
‘You’re serious, eh. You and young Tradwell?’
‘Y…Y…Yes sir…’
Two fingers between Jane’s legs push apart the moist lips of her quim. ‘We’ll have a chat then, when you’re thinking about something. I don’t expect I’ll have any objections, as I say. Alright?’
More gasping sounds from Jane. Her legs are like rubber. This is worse than usual, a lot worse than usual. The fierce spanking… and now this. One of the fingers has found her tight entrance. It pushes up inside her.
‘But nothing until then, my girl. Not young Arthur Tradwell or anyone else. Jermyn: I have the idea he’s sniffing after it. Is that right…?’
Arthur’s lonely vigil is finally rewarded later in the evening when after dinner Jane is able to slip outside for a moment. ‘You’re still here,’ she says softly, her hand taking his, her bright eyes shining in the dark. ‘I thought you would have gone home.’
Arthur gives her a quick, fierce hug. He wants to ask but at the same time he doesn’t. His mind demands details but at the same time it would be made sick by them. ‘I can’t be out long,’ she tells him. ‘Mr Jermyn wants me back.’
Ronald Jermyn, the butler. As such he has as much authority over Jane as Sir George. More in a way because Jermyn is in day-to-day charge of Jane’s duties. He is the one she is answerable to throughout the day. ‘I need you in the house,’ he told her a few minutes ago. ‘I can’t have you mooning around outside with that Arthur Tradwell.’
Jane hasn’t told Arthur about Jermyn. Arthur has asked about him, suspecting that the butler might fancy Jane, but she has denied there is anything. Sir George and Jermyn would be too much to tell him. But the truth is that Jermyn does fancy her. He is always trying to get her into little corners about the house, to press up against her, grabbing her body, while he makes his hot suggestions. Sir George knows this, or some of it at least. And others in the house know it as well. Jermyn also fancies Sarah, but Jane is the one he is really after. And as with Sir George there is not a lot she can do about it. Mr Jermyn is in charge of Jane. She has to obey. So when he says he wants her back in the house shortly she will have to comply.
In the dark Jane kisses Arthur, then breaks her mouth away. ‘I’ve got to go in. Go home now. I can see you tomorrow.’ Tomorrow, Saturday, is a half day for Jane and Arthur has Saturday afternoons off too. They can perhaps take a bus trip to the town. ‘Are you sure?’ Arthur asks. Because sometimes Mr Jermyn can be awkward. Telling Jane he needs her on Saturday afternoon, she can have another afternoon off. Mr Jermyn is not concerned that this may wreck all Jane’s plans — in fact this may well be the reason if he suspects she has something arranged with Arthur. Jane is aware that this is sometimes the reason Mr Jermyn does it, though she hasn’t said so specifically to Arthur. ‘Yes. It’ll be alright,’ she tells him now. ‘And now I’ve got to go.’
Neither of them has mentioned Jane’s pre-dinner session with Sir George. It is of course in Arthur’s mind: he would desperately like to ask and be told that this at least is one evening she hasn’t had it — but on the other hand to have it confirmed that Jane has would make things much worse. It is very much in Jane’s mind still too — it was worse this evening, one of the worst she has had. Arthur doesn’t know that. He also doesn’t know about Mr Jermyn — who will probably be waiting for her when she gets back inside…
Yes. The butler is there, hovering, as soon as Jane is in the house. ‘I want to see you,’ he tells her, and heads for his room. Jane has to follow. In his room with the door closed Jermyn pushes the pretty parlourmaid up against the wall. ‘Been out canoodling then, young Jane? That Arthur been getting you all hot and excited?’
Mr Jermyn is grabbing her, grabbing at Jane’s boobs. She makes little sounds of protest but there is not a lot she can do about it. Mr Jermyn is her boss, he can make life pretty dreadful for her if he wishes. He could arrange things so that she couldn’t see Arthur at all. So Jane can’t do anything other than accept these hands. Which are not only at her boobs but at her pussy, and reaching round at her bottom as well.
‘What were you two at? Did you let him get your drawers down?’
Jane gaspingly denies that they did anything at all. ‘I don’t believe it, young woman. You’re hot, I can tell. What about the master? Did he give you a good going over earlier?’
Mr Jermyn is still all over Jane. One hand has gone up the front of her skirts. ‘Yes!’ she hisses, while making some sort of effort to stop the hand.
‘Ah. At least the master knows what you need then. A girl who’s hot needs her bottom hotting up regularly. And as you’ve been out again now, getting all hot and steamy between these thighs… I reckon you could do with another dose. Come on. Get your drawers down.’
Mr Jermyn lets go of Jane. To stride over to the door and lock it. She gives a despairing look but there is nothing she can do. If Mr Jermyn wants to spank her bottom, like Sir George, there is nothing Jane can do about it. In theory there is something of course. If she let the butler have something else, something that he desires much more than spanking her bottom… doubtless then he wouldn’t insist on a spanking. But as Jane is certainly not going to agree to that and it is something Mr Jermyn cannot insist on (indeed Sir George has specifically instructed Jane today and on earlier occasions not to allow it) then… there remains Mr Jermyn’s next best pleasure. Which Jane cannot refuse. Sir George has no objection to his butler spanking his parlourmaid’s bare bottom, as he does himself.
So Jane has no choice and she knows there is no point in pleading. If Mr Jermyn is in the mood for spanking her bottom then he is going to do it. Just like Sir George. What is happening is not a particularly rare occurrence. It doesn’t happen every day as it virtually does with the master, but it is not infrequent. Sometimes she can keep out of Mr Jermyn’s way, or he may have other things occupying him (including getting at Sarah). But… it is not infrequent. Arthur doesn’t know…
Arthur Tradwell, walking home on this starlit September evening, is picturing Jane doing her final duties of the evening before retiring to the little room she shares with Sarah. The fact that they share a room is reassuring. With the two of them together Arthur doesn’t have to imagine Sir George going in there at night and getting at Jane in bed. If a gentleman is randy and inclined that way then there is nothing a girl, a helpless parlourmaid, can do about it. But Sir George at least does not have the urge in that direction — otherwise he would have the two girls in separate rooms. In a way, perhaps, Arthur thinks he should be thankful he doesn’t have that worse thing to worry, about: Sir George getting in Jane’s bed, on top of her, when the fancy takes him. No, there is not that… but nonetheless he is not able to view the spanking she gets virtually every day without a sick feeling in his stomach. But at least it is now over, she will be in there with Sarah…
As Arthur strides along the road from the Manor, though, the steel of his heels ringing in the still night, Jane in fact is not yet in the little room with Sarah. She is in Jermyn’s room. Over his lap. Her skirts up round her waist, her drawers down around her knees. Her magnificent bare bottom, the ripe flesh spanned by the taut white suspender straps, in the same position it was when earlier Arthur was gazing up at the window. The splendid cheeks bared across a man’s thighs. And a man’s hand splatting hard down. And then pausing to do a spot of fondling. Sliding in between the squirming thighs. (‘You’re hot there, aren’t you, young woman?’) And then splatting hard down again…
Today, Saturday, has been another of those glorious Indian Summer days; and today Jane and Arthur, it being their half day off, have been able to get out and enjoy it. A bus ride into the nearby town where they have done some shopping, had tea in the tea shop, etc: a very pleasant break. But Jane was able to get away only after the problems with Mr Jermyn.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have told him, when he asked, that she planned to go out with Arthur; Jane could have lied, said she was seeing her mother or something like that. But there was always the chance of the lie being detected, because other people in the house would probably know. So Jane had told him, hoping against hope… Mr Jermyn of course had been awkward. He couldn’t let her go, he said, he needed Jane for some extra work. Sir George’s nephew was visiting. However… he could perhaps let her go as a favour… if Jane would stop being silly about a certain matter. She was a big girl and didn’t need to continue being silly about that particular thing.
Jane was in no doubt what this thing was. Red-faced she said she couldn’t. For one thing Sir George had expressly forbidden it. Mr Jermyn, hands groping, as they usually were when he had Jane in the privacy of his room, said hotly in her ear that Sir George didn’t have to know. No one needed to know.
Hot and flustered from the hands, Jane shook her head. She wasn’t going to let him. She would never be able to face Arthur again if she did — or even for that matter face Sir George. Jermyn wouldn’t at first accept her refusal. He kept on, and his hands kept on. But eventually he did seem to accept that he wasn’t going to get it — or not on this occasion at least.
‘All right. If you insist on being a silly girl, Jane. But silly girls need their bottoms dealt with, don’t they? I’ll let you have the afternoon off — but if I do I’m going to give you something else first. I’m going to give you the cane, my girl. If you agree to that you can get your skirts up and your drawers down. And if you don’t agree you’ll stay here.’
So Jane on her afternoon off had four red stripes across that sumptuous bottom. It was the first time she has been caned. The pain… as the cane impacted onto her bare nates, bent over Mr Jermyn’s chair… had been quite unbelievable. And there was the thought as well now, on this otherwise lovely afternoon out: that Mr Jermyn could be planning to do it again. Waiting for her with the cane when she got back. This thought certainly took away a little of the pleasure from her outing. Thinking back to that cane, Jane had the feeling that she wouldn’t be able to take it again. It had been too awful, so much worse than a spanking. And perhaps that is why Mr Jermyn has got the cane: to give her something she wouldn’t want to contemplate again. And therefore… that was a pretty sickening thought.
When Jane got back Jermyn was there — and so was someone else. Sir George’s nephew, Mr Oliver Hartgrove. Mr Jermyn did not seem in a very good mood. It turned out that Sir George had gone off and would not be back until tomorrow. Jane, Mr Jermyn said and clearly not in a good mood, was to go and see Mr Oliver.
Perhaps Mr Jermyn had thought that with Sir George away it would be his big chance: to get to work on Jane. Suggest she have another dose of that cane… and if she didn’t want the cane… but instead here was Mr Oliver asking to see Jane. Is this why Jermyn is in a bad mood? Has Mr Oliver been told that Jane is not to be left in the butler’s care during Sir George’s absence?
Arthur at least hears of the overnight absence of the master with relief and heartfelt thankfulness. Sir George away means that Jane will not be suffering her nightly penance and Arthur himself will not be suffering his nightly penance of knowing Jane is once again bare-bottomed over Sir George’s lap. But in fact Arthur’s feelings are not well founded…
Because Jane, shortly before the hour of dinner, though she may not be over Sir George’s lap, is, once again, over a man’s lap. With her skirts up and her drawers down. Not Sir George and not Mr Jermyn either of course. It is Oliver Hartgrove, the moustachioed young relative of the master. For some reason, Arthur would see, if his eyes could penetrate the heavy drapes of that room opposite the stables — although tonight Arthur is not in fact keeping his usual melancholy vigil outside — but if Arthur could somehow look into that room it would be to see that Oliver Hartgrove was doing it and for some reason has put on his straw boater. With a feeling of jocularity perhaps? A feeling of great well-being, could it be, that he is here in his uncle’s house and master for the evening and master as well of his uncle’s delightful parlourmaid. Because Oliver Hartgrove with his boater on has summoned Jane to that little room where, he knows, Sir George is in the habit of nightly spanking her bare bottom.
What Mr Oliver wants to do — ‘Take your drawers down, Jane,’ — comes as a nasty shock to the pretty parlourmaid. But naturally Jane cannot refuse; it has to be, after a moment’s hot-faced hesitation, a meek ‘Yes Mr Oliver.’ It is pretty awful being over Mr Oliver’s lap like this. With Mr Oliver spanking her bare bottom… and doing other things to it as well. But awful as it is it is not nearly as awful as later, when Jane is getting ready for bed. When Mr Oliver comes quietly in. A little smirk to Sarah… and then tells Jane that she won’t be sleeping in her own little bed tonight. No, Oliver Hartgrove, nephew of the master and with the master away, has other plans for this delicious young woman.

Wednesday, 29 August 2018

College Classics 1

Another Vida Garman video, supposedly her first adult film.
M/2f; time:  36 minutes; early 1990’s.
British porn actress Vida Garman’s first spanking appearance, they tell us; if it was, she polished her impish ingénue persona in later performances. There is no dispute about, and no changes are needed, for her glorious bottom, though. In fact, we have no dispute at all about much of anything.
College Classics is a schoolgirl series, this one the most simple of plots. Two girls, ‘French’ (Vida) and ‘Barnes,’ have earned corporal punishment for school offenses.
The dashing French is first for OTK. She wears a spiffy white blouse and wrap-around skirt. The schoolmaster disciplinarian has her skirt up and white pants down in short order. He seems surprised by the spectacular sight. The handspanking is mild and French is amused. Barnes, a lovely redhead, goes OTK next. Her blue skirt and pants are removed for the same warmup.
The Master is not satisfied and orders the girls to strip completely for some nude PT. “Do we have to? Everything?” Yes, of course, girls. This is show business. These reluctant undressing scenes are an important part in all the College Classics. Both girls have beautiful bodies, and the extraordinary Vida shows why her assets were so much noted in years to come. She appears to have a full body tan, versus the pale Barnes, and she is comfortably playful in the nude–and oh, so spankable. The camera circles 360 degrees as we watch–running in place, jumping jacks, and toe touching.
The Master urges them on with a short strap. Then they form the ‘lunge’ position bridge, on fingers and toes, bottoms arched, for a long session, including a dose of the strap, from which they wiggle and twist, most appealingly. All lovely, and revealing, especially the perky and giddy Vida. The camera loves Barnes’ nipples, which are as excited as we are. Barnes’ Irish bottom is blotchy red; French is still all tan. Both girls are directed to dress and report back tomorrow for the cane.
Next day, before the time of their appointment, French is caught with something in her locker. She conceals it on her person (and some person it is!). When the girls are marched in for their caning, the Master jostles French in search of the contraband and must put his hand down the front of her pantyhose, and Voila! cigarettes.
Barnes is first for the cane, while smirky French looks on. He takes her skirt and pants down himself this time and, perfectly positioned and filmed over a table, he first paddles her with a round leather studded affair. Next, it’s the five-fingered tawse. Barnes does some cute suffering, twitching, and bending. Then she gets twelve nice cane strokes on that pale Irish skin.
French is next for the table. She takes down her own skirt and pantyhose, always a joy to see this actress defiantly undress in preparation for her medicine. Seven from the paddle, at least 20 from the tawse, then the 12 cane strokes, interspersed with a nice little struggle to keep her hands from shielding her bottom—one of the best in the industry, highlighted by a saucy demeanor. And there’s one of her trademark facial closeups of startlingly green eyes. A long review, to be sure, but it’s Vida’s first spanking.
Part 1:
Part 2:
Part 3:
Part 4:

Tuesday, 28 August 2018

Cheerleader Crisis

Story from Blushes 23
The golden-skinned bare legs kicked high, the short blue skirts flicking up at the back to reveal young thighs tensed with the effort of their enthusiastic contortions. Pom-poms rustled as they whirled round in team-inspiring arcs, the chanting breathless in its excitement: ‘Royal Blues, Royal Blues, rah rah rah!’
The heat had produced a sheen of dampness across the girls’ foreheads and temples, the physical activity vigorous enough to build up an even greater sweat in the appreciative onlookers. The occasional glimpse of taut white cotton under the tantalisingly brief skirts served only to heighten the atmosphere close to the cheerleader line.
Six youngsters, none out of their teens, all presenting that aura of well-washed innocence coupled with simmering sexuality. Three blondes, one redhead, one brunette, and one dark-haired beauty with liquid green eyes. As their team scored, an ecstatic leap for the sky, legs akimbo, gave a simultaneous glimpse of six pairs of cotton-clad lower cheeks as wind resistance briefly overcame gravity.
The match whistle went, the game was over, and the line went into the victory routine with more energy than ever, caught up in the fervour of their team’s success. As one, the girls turned and trotted briskly towards the changing rooms. A member of the college staff walked purposefully over and handed a folded piece of paper to the leading blonde, Sammie, and the stunning dark-haired girl at the other end of the line, Victoria.
Both girls looked at one another as they tripped into the locker room, simultaneously pulling open the folded notes, on Principal’s note-paper.
There was no time to shower and change. The note stated an emphatic ‘4pm prompt’. The two hearts beat faster in nervous anticipation. The others, noticing the looks exchanged between the two, smiled knowingly. A summons by note did not bode well.
The clock on the wall showed 4.10. Still they stood waiting, the whirr of the fan on the wall the only sound now the secretary had gone. Victoria fidgeted, snapping the elastic at the waist of her knickers and idly tugging them lower on her bottom to cover the thick crease of flesh which had escaped. Sammie sighed. No word was exchanged. The whirr of the fan was joined briefly by a buzzing insect, which flew in a lazy arc round the room before settling on a silver trophy on the mantelpiece.
Both girls started simultaneously as the low rumble of voices behind the Principal’s door stopped and there was a scraping of furniture on the polished wood floor.
Their eyes widened as the first, instantly recognisable muffled impact came through the door, followed immediately by a strangled cry. A second blow, and a third. They looked at one another and mouthed silently ‘strap!’. Victoria gulped.
The fourth impact raised a louder yelp from the unfortunate recipient, the sound indicating that the implement was perhaps being used with the target area bare. Two more solid slaps resounded, and the door was flung open by a flushed and rather plump girl, clasping her hands to her blazing rear. Sammie recognised her from the chess club. The door swung shut with a hiss.
‘Christ that hurt!’
‘Sounded like you were getting it bare bum,’ said Sammie, half statement, half query.
The other girl nodded confirmation: ‘Bloody sod. No right.’
The buzzer by the door sounded, and the light came on: ‘Enter.’
‘Good luck,’ she whispered.
The conversation in the study was more than a little one-sided, the girls confining their responses to confirmations or denials. The Principal admired the athletic litheness of the pair, the smooth legs tapering into the blue training shoes, the white socks contrasting against the tan. But it was the other end of those limbs which promised greater delights, the hidden apex with its secrets, and the rounded protuberances of their teenage buttocks.
The bright sun slanted through the shutters, broken into thin strips of light which seemed to burn through the thin t-shirts covering the girls’ chests. Victoria’s nipples pushed defiantly against the insubstantial brassiere, her breasts almost struggling to burst their bonds. Sammie’s chest, though less impressive in proportions, provided two pert appendages to her slim frame.
The Principal noticed Victoria’s eyes drifting as he talked, to light on the twin implements of chastisement lying on the back of the settee. The three-tailed leather tawse with its embossed handle, and the wicked length of gleaming Malacca cane with its curved handle and black grip formed from heavy tape and covered with a terry-towel wristband.
The pain and disgrace of corporal punishment would be considerably less embarrassing than removal from the cheerleader squad. Sammie in particular, its leader, would suffer a crushing humiliation in the eyes of her contemporaries and juniors. Victoria, much admired by the teaching staff for her physical qualities, was no academic whizz-kid and relied on squad membership for holding her own.
Both girls nodded their acquiescence, Victoria following Sammie’s lead. Best to get it over with. There was hardly a flicker of surprise as they were ordered to remove their skirts. Standing there incongruously clad in t-shirt, white briefs and trainers, they watched as the Principal walked to the settee.
‘Face the window, a yard apart, and bend over.’ Their backs turned, the teenagers bent reluctantly down and looked back past their legs to see what fate awaited them. At least it was not to be bare. ‘Grip your ankles.’
The steps on the polished wood seemed unnaturally loud as the Principal approached and stood beside them. Sammie felt her t-shirt being pulled up her back until it rested somewhere around her shoulder blades, gathered below her breasts which resisted its further progress. Moving to stand in front of Victoria, he reached over and pulled the t-shirt up in one firm movement, holding both sides, until it rested on her shoulders, her breasts bouncing as they leapt free in their slim cups.
The crunch of a car on the gravel outside caused him to turn and look through the shutters, and Sammie shot a quick grimace at her friend, mouthing ‘How many?’ An imperceptible shrug was her only response. The cold fingers brushing against her waist made Victoria flinch as they fitted into the waistband of her briefs and pulled them slowly, inexorably down over her bottom to rest at mid-thigh. She squeezed her eyes tightly as if to shut out the humiliation of her position, conscious of the cool air on her now exposed rear-end. The telephone jangled.
‘Digby,’ the Principal announced. The conversation seemed interminable as the girls held their positions. The tautness of the thin cotton over Sammie’s stretched backside enhanced the shape of that area delightfully, the Principal noted approvingly.
A curve of bare cheek was visible below the white fabric, though the flesh was still suntanned, evidence of a high-cut swimsuit. The division between the cheeks dark and inviting, plunging deep and long to the discreet folds at the top of her thighs where, due no doubt to the dampness induced by her earlier physical exertions, the material seemed glued to her most tantalising region.
Victoria’s bent posterior provided a different perspective, the flesh smooth, pale and bare, the crotch revealing a tangle of dark curls, and beyond that her breasts straining at the leash of her insubstantial bra.
The sun danced patterns of dust through the air as the girls fought to control their panic at the delay; the waiting was worst of all, not knowing what they were to receive as retribution. Victoria could feel the sweat on the palms of her hands.
The telephone clattered back onto its rest and the footsteps approached again, the fingers hitched into Sammie’s tightly contoured knickers as they rustled down her legs to expose her nether region to his appreciative gaze. An approving pat on her bare left cheek.
The upside-down form walked away from them again as he fetched the cane and strap, hooking the crook handle of the cane over the back of an upright chair and lying the strap over its seat. He stood there a moment, admiring the two upthrust pairs of buttocks. Reaching a decision, he picked up the tawse and ran it through his fingers, letting the tails fall from his palm onto Sammie’s bare back. The youngster winced. He smiled slightly.
‘How old, young lady?’
‘Seventeen, sir,’ Sammie replied.
‘And you?’
‘Sixteen, sir,’ came the response from Victoria.
‘Good, good. Right you are. Ready?’
‘Y-yes, sir,’ they chorused.
The strap stroked Sammie’s bare rump almost affectionately as he measured the swing, letting it smack gently onto the flesh to produce a small quiver on its surface. Her buttocks tensed involuntarily. A loud knock on the door.
Both girls taut with anxiety, the prospect of being exposed in front of the person on the other side of that barrier the understandable reason for their fear, the humiliation of being seen bent over bare-arsed for the strap.
‘Pull your knickers up and wait in the sitting room, girls. Take your skirts too, please.’ They hurried to comply. The door swung open as their scuttling forms passed through the archway into the adjoining sitting room. The low rumble of voices: it sounded as if two people had arrived. The solid clunk of the outer door closing, and the command to return.
‘Two of our Governors, girls,’ he smiled grimly. ‘They expressed an interest in witnessing our punishment procedure, and I acceded. However, I have no wish to embarrass you both by revealing who you are to them.’ He paused.
The knowledge that Sammie’s guardian was one of the gentlemen waiting outside lent a particular irony to the statement. Her parents lived in the Far East, and had appointed a Governor as her legal guardian during her period at the school. Sammie spent half-terms at his large house on the outskirts of town.
‘Surely it won’t still be bare, sir?’ asked Sammie anxiously.
‘I see no reason why not…’
‘Oh.’ Sammie’s shoulders slumped.
‘Come over here, lift your t-shirts right up onto your shoulders, and then pull the back up to cover your head. Tuck your hair up, and that way you won’t be recognised.’
The teenagers busied themselves with the disguise, the potential for exposure making them particularly careful with the job. The sun had moved round, the slits crossing the floor to lie over the back of the settee. The Principal prodded them into the right positions, about four feet apart, standing facing the back of the settee, which he had turned round to face the centre of the room for the purpose. The girls dared not turn round as he crossed to the outer door and opened it, allowing the two other men to enter in silence. A series of squeaks and creaks betrayed them getting comfortable in the two armchairs.
The men drank in the sight of the two young, honey-brown bodies standing in front of the settee, their hands clasped behind their heads, the straps of their brassieres crossing the expanse of bare flesh which led down to the taut rounded globes of their buttocks, sheathed in crisp white cotton, and the bare legs below them. The blue trainers and uniform t-shirts betrayed their membership of the cheerleader squad, but no other clue was visible.
‘Bend over.’ Two bodies inclined, the hands coming off the backs of their heads to support their bodies’ downward descent into the softness of their soon-to-be reddened bottoms.
The Principal reached over and forced the heads lower with an encouraging hand, the briefs straining to contain their fleshy contents. The fingers hitched into Victoria’s waistband and she lifted her hips up slightly to allow the downward passage of the protecting layer. A murmur of appreciation from the two guests, which increased as Sammie’s well-rounded posterior was also exposed, the knickers resting just above her knees.
Sammie’s guardian leant forward expectantly, marvelling at the smooth unmarked globes. He tensed as he noticed a slight blemish on her upper thigh, a small birthmark which he immediately recognised from seeing her sunbathing at his home as belonging to his ward. He gestured to the Principal.
‘Is that Samantha Collinson?’ he hissed.
‘We agreed you should not know the girls’ identities,’ the Principal whispered.
‘I know it is Samantha, Mr Digby. She has a distinctive mark on her upper thigh. Look.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid it is her,’ the Principal agreed.
‘Then I must ask you to let me deal with her myself. In the manner you would approve of, of course.’
The Principal sighed. ‘If you wish.’
Victoria’s bare buttocks became the focal point of the room as the strap rose and fell almost monotonously over a full minute, the eight strokes resounding round the room and causing the young recipient to heave about over the back of the settee as if struggling to dodge the punishing onslaught. The cheeks were aflame with the tawse’s ministrations, the flesh livid in protest.
Victoria’s bottom was patted with a restraining: ‘Stay there,’ as she almost stood up. The tawse was passed in silence to the Governor, who slapped it experimentally across his palm, and immediately wished that he hadn’t.
The Principal held up all ten fingers, then added a further two, to indicate Sammie’s sentence. The Governor smiled grimly and turned to his task, placing his hand in the small of the teenager’s back, which was warm to his touch.
Sammie shuffled her feet a few inches apart to brace herself, and her bottom tensed momentarily as the length of leather travelled up to the top of its punishing arc and descended to explode across her unprotected cheeks, forcing the flesh into a quivering contortion. She gasped at the pain, as the second slapping, smarting, burning lash arrived, driving the breath from her with the shock of its impact.
The Principal and second Governor were leaning forward in their chairs as Sammie’s legs gave way and one leg kicked up in reflex, catching her tormentor on the shin; ‘Sorry, sir,’ she gasped automatically.
Her legs parted even further as the punishment progressed, the privacy of those folds breached for the onlookers’ satisfaction, the buttocks bouncing rhythmically on the settee with each blow of the tawse. Sammie was crying now, the sobs quite loud, but her guardian ignored them as he completed the allotted dozen strokes, the last catching her just above the crease between thigh and bottom and eliciting a high-pitched yelp of pain and surprise.
Sammie lay limply over the settee, and when ordered to stand, struggled to get up for a moment or two remembering to ensure that her head was covered. Finally, the two girls stood, red raw bottoms heavily striped, while the Principal showed the two Governors out.
‘Get your clothes back on, you two, and don’t let’s hear any more about it.’
By the pool at her guardian’s house the following day, Sammie relaxed on her tummy in a light summer dress, having checked in a mirror the still impressive welts across her bottom.
‘Not sunbathing today, Samantha?’ he asked innocently.
‘No, not today. I got a bit burnt yesterday at the match,’ she smiled at him.
He smiled back.