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Sunday, 30 September 2018

A Hard Act to Follow – The Final Showdown

By Richard Manton from Janus 31
‘You know,’ said Max confidentially, ‘I sometimes feel I’m losing my touch. Take last week, for instance. Twice I had to cane Helena’s bare bottom, a beautiful blonde Swedish nymph like that. And that young trollop Elke with the lovely ripe young bottom in tight jeans. Birched with her pants down on Saturday — and the strap as a warm-up. You know what it did for me?’
Alec, the schoolteacher turned antiquarian bookseller, shook his head.
‘Nothing.’ said Max sadly. ‘I can’t seem to find the sense of challenge any more.’
Alec was a mere visitor at the Moral Leadership Centre which Max and his partner ran for European girls. Never before had he heard his friend talk about his triumphs of corporal punishment in this despondent manner.
‘Another holiday,’ said Alec brightly. ‘That’s what you need. Get away from all these English girls who fill up the course during the winter.’
‘I’ve tried,’ said Max listlessly. ‘It didn’t work.’
Alec’s unease grew deeper. It troubled him to hear Max talk like this. Max was an original, an enthusiast for his work. There were those who thought him eccentric and some who found him kinky. One mutual friend had described Max confidentially as downright pervy. But no one ever doubted his disciplinary zeal.
As they talked Alec remembered the collection of secretly taken photographs, girls on the beach whom Max later thrashed for their indecorous behaviour. There were some gems of blonde Katharine from Cologne and young Claudia with the ringlets from Dusseldorf. Blonde Helena stooping to write with her finger on wet sand. Knees bent a little and trim young rump in tight white jeans thrust back in innocent lewdness. Elke, high on coke, lying on her side in a boy’s arms, his hand in the front of her pants, Elke’s soft sixteen-year-old bottom-cheeks tensing and slackening with rhythmic pleasure in her tight faded jeans. A rear view of Claudia on all fours spreading a towel to lie upon. Her cropped curls bowed, the taut wet seat of emerald green bikini pants shaping a pair of lithe adolescent bum-cheeks. Alec could not even begin to imagine the sight of Max taking that picture. He was surely no more than two or three feet from the subject…
‘The sense of challenge,’ said Max again, more wistfully.
Alec had a sudden and rare inspiration.
‘You’re right,’ he said gently. ‘Even I could probably make a better job of it now than you.’
Deep in Max’s eyes there grew a glimmer of pride and a wakening of curiosity.
‘Never,’ he said firmly. ‘You are the amateur — I the professional. It is — what do you call it in cricket? — gentlemen and players!’
Yet as he spoke Max remembered that Alec, before despairing of the educational system, had been a professional in his way. Two little madams, sly blonde Linda and pert gamine Valerie had tasted several helpings of bamboo on their charming bare bottoms. In the case of Sandra, a well-behaved fifth-former, the disciplinary relationship had blossomed for some time after Alec’s departure from the world of teaching.
‘You mean a competition — between us?’ Max inquired. For the first time that evening his voice seemed truly animated. ‘With the girls here? A contest between two disciplinarians?’
‘Yes,’ said Alec quietly. ‘Something of the sort.’
‘You think you could put a delinquent girl through her paces more strictly than I?’ Max’s eyes were gleaming with defiance. ‘You would make it hotter for her than I? More memorable?’
‘I’m sure I could,’ said Alec casually, though he doubted it Max thought about this for a moment The idea was so preposterous that even he doubted its feasibility.
‘How should we judge the winner?’
‘By the conduct of the girls,’ said Alec simply.
Max thought about this for a moment as well. At last he made his decision. ‘I don’t suppose, Alec, my dear friend — I don’t suppose you would care to have a small wager on the outcome of this battle of the giants?’
Alec considered the possibility.
‘One case of Haut Brion 1959 — premiere cru,’ he said at last ‘I know where it can still be bought.’
‘Done,’ said Max. He refilled both their glasses.
----//----
Two days passed before either of the friends was able to prove his worth. They had spun a coin to see which of them should be given the first opportunity. Alec called and lost. Max, as he phrased it, put his friend in to bat.
But when the time came, Max seemed to regret his decision.
‘Tracey,’ he said quietly, ‘seventeen years old. I have made things easier for you than I intended. There has been a complaint about her conduct with her steady boyfriend. Kissing and so forth at the bus stop, in a manner calculated to bring our centre into disrepute.’
‘I don’t even know which one she is.’
So Max led him aside and pointed her out. Alec looked at Tracey and his heart almost stopped.
She was a stunner, no doubt of that. Tracey was one of those seventeen-year-olds whose figure in tight jeans and short denim jacket would reduce Miss World to despair. She was quite tall with a silken sweep of yellow-gold hair aslant her firm and fair-skinned face. The lustrous hair was brushed back to lie upon her shoulder-blades and the slight roundness of her face was illuminated steadily by her deep-set blue eyes. But all this beauty was nothing compared with the willowy grace of her young body.
The pale blue denim of her jeans was smooth as a second skin, showing the long slim movement of her thighs as she walked. Yet, graceful though her young legs were in their lithe elegance, Tracey’s bottom had an unmistakably feminine roundness which her jeans-seat emphasised. As they watched her, Tracey was ironing several pairs of her recently laundered stretch-briefs in the room provided for this. The tall crown of her golden hair was charmingly bowed in a gesture of intrinsic submissiveness. Just then, a pair of the panties slipped from the top of the pile to the floor. The girl bent unselfconsciously to pick them up. From behind her, Alec stiffened with exhilaration at the rear view which she presented in her tight jeans. Tracey’s backside broadened in a very feminine spread and her trim young buttocks were widely and deeply separated.
Alec made his decision and whispered it to Max. They walked across to Tracey who now looked round with a startled expression in her blue eyes, guessing that her fate had been decided.
‘Your chastiser will deal with you this evening, Tracey,’ said Max softly. ‘In the gymnasium!’
The graceful nymph looked uncomprehending, though the alarm in her wide blue eyes grew more intense.
‘Ah, the fluttering in your tummy begins, does it not my sweet?’
She nodded, unable to say the word. Max smiled.
‘Bend over the ironing-board, Tracey. Show my colleague what a delightful prospect he has in store.’
She hesitated for only a moment before going forward, the silken gold hair spilling about her face. Max circled her waist with his left arm, holding her and gazing down at the tightly rounded jeans-cheeks. His hand smoothed in a circular motion over the lithe young globes of Tracey’s bottom as if to calm her.
‘Tracey has never been thrashed before,’ he said softly, as much for the girl’s benefit as for Alec’s. ‘I imagine she’ll spend a frantic few hours this afternoon in her room, thinking about the riding-crop across her bare bottom. Dreading it and yet wanting to get it over! By the time six o’clock comes, she’ll be almost dancing!’
Alec was a little put out by the way in which Max seemed to be taking over his punishment! However, it was a competition. If Max chose to increase the odds against himself, that was his funeral. At last Tracey, carrying the neatly ironed panties in one hand, was led to her room. Max left her alone with Alec, the key ready in the door to lock it when Tracey was on her own. As he turned to go, Max said, ‘Lie bottom-upwards over the bed, Tracey. Your chastiser will want to spend part of the time with you. He’ll need to familiarise himself with your backside and legs, I imagine. Don’t be surprised if you have to take down your jeans and knickers.’
He came back and stroked the veil of her golden hair clear of her face. Then his hand covered her left breast softly.
‘I thought so, Tracey! How that young heart of yours is pounding now. I could almost hear it from the doorway!’
And so he left them. Alec began to understand why some of Max’s critics found him just the slightest bit odd.
----//----
But it was Alec who sprang the surprises that evening. When Max entered the gymnasium he could scarcely believe his eyes. It had been arranged as if for some lunatic steeplechase. A long rope barrier, about two feet high divided the course down the middle, describing a circuit round the room. The obstacles had been arranged at intervals.
Max saw at once that the runner was bound to have the dividing rope high between her legs, running astride it. It would not touch the legs necessarily but it would make it difficult to escape the precise route. There were bars to bend under and barrels on their sides to crawl through. There were hurdles to cock a leg over and gaps to negotiate. For the first time, Max began to doubt the wisdom of his challenge to Alec. He had not even bothered to check the list price of Haut Brion ‘59.
Tracey, her golden hair bowed, her appealing young face very downcast, answered the summons. She wore only a short black sweater above her jeans. Alec ordered her to get ready and Tracey began to undo her jeans. She eased them down, stepped out of them, and stood revealed in her panties. The grace of her long lithe thighs raised Max’s temperature by a couple of points. Tracey’s knickers, a pair of white stretch-briefs, were peeled down next. The pale taut ovals of her buttocks were carried high and trim yet with a womanly fullness.
Alec picked up the fine, supple leather of the tawse, divided at its end into three tails. Examining them, he felt certain that these would sting like hellfire.
‘Let’s see you on your marks, Tracey!’
With a last minute appeal to Max, a soulful look which got no response, Tracey went down on one knee, just in front of the beginning of the course.
‘Get set!’ said Alec sharply, standing behind her. Tracey, her fingers touching the floor, lifted her hips and showed a most revealing view of her rear anatomy.
Alec’s lips tightened.
‘Quite still, Tracey!’ Up went the strap and flashed down in a wicked smack across the broadened bare cheeks of Tracey’s arse. She gave a cry and pitched forward on hands and knees.
‘False start!’ said Alec quickly. ‘Back to your marks, Tracey!’
Tracey shook back her silken blonde hair and looked round at him in dismay but he demanded obedience at once. Reluctantly, the girl knelt and went up on fingers and toes at the command. Alec detained her in this posture until he saw her begin to quiver at the knees. Taking a yellow sash worn for team games, he used it as a makeshift belt to prevent Tracey’s black sweater working down over her hips as she ran. He tied it round her waist to hold the sweater well up. Knotting it at the back, he allowed the final length of the yellow sash to dangle as a saucy little tail which just touched the first inch or two of Tracey’s bottom-cleft.
‘Wait for the strap, Tracey!’ he said gently. Down it came with a savage in-curling smack and Tracey sprang forward with a shrill cry. She ran astride the stout stretched rope which came to mid-thigh, her golden hair streaming out and her womanly young hips swaying. The first obstacle was a screen across the course at a height of several feet. There was no means of getting past it but by ducking down and through the space between it and the rope between her thighs which let her bend her knees only a little.
Tracey hesitated and was rewarded by a smack of the thin leather strap across her charming buttocks. She cried out in dismay, guessing easily what would happen when she bent down to squeeze under the bar. Smack went the strap again, tails curling round her smooth pale flank. Squirming in anguish at the savage smart, Tracey reached back and clasped her burning buttocks to frustrate Alec as she bent. His arm across the partition in front of her barred her progress. Gently his lips touched her ear.
‘Hands away from your bottom, Tracey. In fact hands in front of you all the time from now on, unless you want to go right back to the beginning. You’re here to be punished, Tracey. Just remember that.’
With eyes brimming and legs trembling, she bent down to pass under the wooden screen. Tracey’s arse! What a full view, Alec thought. Smack went the strap and smack again.
Tracey yelled and, despite the warning, covered her strap-marked bottom with her hands. Then terrified at the thought of being punished for that she took them away. Alec reached round the screen and held her by the collar as she bent under it. The little yellow tail of the sash lay aslant Tracey’s bottom and he lifted it clear. Then with the strap he gave her six punishing strokes. With Tracey’s buttocks so hard-stretched by her posture, the searing leather of the strap searched her intimately.
In a storm of sobs she dashed onward. At the hurdle, she was obliged to lie over it lifting one leg widely and revealingly, then drawing the other after her. Like a living demon, the strap seized the opportunity of Tracey positioned in such a predicament. The crack-smack of leather rang out four times before, with wild soprano cries, she stumbled on.
There was a mutiny at the half barrel which lay on its side, a tunnel to be crawled through on all fours. But Alec had anticipated this. Tracey’s round young bottom-cheeks were blushing deeply with a frantic smart as she approached. Tossing back her sweep of golden hair, she cried out her refusal to offer her backside so invitingly.
‘No!’ she wailed, ‘Oh, no!
The last syllable rose to a wild shriek of panic as she saw Alec flexing a slim riding-crop.
‘Through the tunnel, Tracey!’
‘I can’t!’ she cried, ‘I won’t!’
Crack! High across the back of her long lithe thighs. Whip! Low across those demure nymph-cheeks of Tracey’s bottom. She sank to her knees, almost as if they would support her no longer. On all fours, engulfed to the waist in the barrel, Tracey’s cowering young bottom pressed its cheeks desperately together clenching and squirming. Caring nothing for weals or bruises, Alec thrashed the gracefully curved globes of Tracey’s backside with the crop.
There was a shrill cry of despair, for Tracey now discovered that the barrel was a cul de sac with a bar across it to prevent her getting through. Her arse squirmed and surged as Alec disciplined her with the sharp crack and smack of the crop.
‘Keep your behind still while you’re punished, Tracey! You won’t? Very well. Ah, you don’t like it on your legs, do you? In that case round your bottom out properly! Yes, I’m sure you’d like it to stop but it won’t. No, Tracey! Not even for just a minute! We’re getting you nicely worked up now. That’s when the tanning really starts!’
By the time that Alec removed the bar and allowed Tracey to wriggle through the barrel, the impact of discipline was plain to see. As she scrambled up with a wail of trepidation, her trim teenage thighs bore several fiery tramline prints of the crop across their backs. A dozen similar prints, spaced out horizontally upon Tracey’s pale bottom-cheeks were wickedly crossed by three or four diagonals. She stumbled on and came to the last and most intriguing feature of the obstacle course, a padded leather rocking-horse.
Alec had given Tracey her instructions that afternoon. Desperate not to increase her punishment by disobedience, the shapely nymph scrambled astride the lovingly shaped saddle. Her graceful young thighs and knees pressed the padded flanks with an instinctive riding rhythm. As ordered, she lay tightly forward, arms hugging the horse’s neck and rear cheeks fully presented.
‘Lie still a moment, Tracey!’ said Alec sharply, ‘we shall want to see your face clearly during discipline!’
He drew back the silky sweep of her golden hair which would otherwise have spilt about her face. Dividing the strands, he made them into one long plait, tied with a ribbon, which lay down her back. The yellow sash with its saucy little tail aslant her rump was now something of a nuisance. Alec undid the rear length which formed that tail. Where it dangled from the small of her back, he tucked it snugly between the cheeks of Tracey’s seventeen-year-old bottom, drew it under her, and fixed it to the front of the waist.
At the command, Tracey began to urge the rocker with hips and thighs. Her head was twisted round, her fair-skinned beauty now open-mouthed and her blue eyes wide with apprehension. Each time she went forward, she turned up her delectably-shaped bottom for Alec’s attention. Without fail the switch smacked across her young backside, causing a frantic tightening of her thighs and a desperate jigging of her hips astride the saddle. Alec thrashed hard and remorselessly — yet Max’s heart sank. He heard Tracey’s cries grow softer until, at last, they fell to soft questioning sighs. It was time to put away the clever little camera he had smuggled in for the occasion and to leave Alec to his triumph. As he closed the door behind him, Alec’s voice was still audible and Max knew that he had vastly underestimated his friend.
‘Now a little rest, Tracey! So breathless? And such bright eyes! Do I sense a certain unhealthy excitement? Lift your hips a little, Tracey! Ah, I don’t think that yellow sash will ever be much use again, will it? You wicked girl! I’d say that means a lesson with the bamboo! I’m amazed that none of your teachers found an opportunity to initiate you with it. Your boyfriend? No? Wait till he sees your bruises, Tracey. I think you’ll find him quite turned on…’
Max shook his head and walked away. No doubt about it Alec was going to be a very hard act to follow.
----//----
Two days later Max knew the worst. A note from his partner, who left disciplinary matters to Max, informed him that he must deal with Julia in the most exemplary manner. Julia! Max sighed with despair.
She was the worst type. A girl of affluent family who had chosen to keep company with the youth of punk and dope. He was not the least surprised that Julia had come his way. Staring at her morosely Max saw a potentially pretty sixteen-year-old. But the narrow high-boned face had its blue eyes darkly made-up. The brown hair was cropped and tapered down her neck at the back, parted aside on her forehead and standing in a brief cockscomb down the front of her parting. In her tight faded jeans and singlet, she looked like a hard case.
Her crime was to be caught by his partner, Bernard, with a substance which Max preferred not to know about.
‘I’m not concerned to hear excuses, Julia,’ he said as she stood before his desk.
‘That’s good,’ she said casually, ‘because you won’t get any.’
‘Turn around!’ said Max savagely. Not understanding, Julia turned her back. Max considered the view offered by the pale blue skin-tight jeans. Julia was quite tall but she still had something of the goose not quite become a swan. Her thighs were a little fleshier than Tracey’s graceful limbs. Julia’s bottom had the last traces of adolescent puppy fat.
‘In a week or so, Julia, I imagine you’ll come to me and beg to be put back into navy blue uniform skirt and white socks.’
‘That’s what you think,’ said Julia laughing at the absurdity.
‘I think you will, Julia. You see, one week from today those jeans, and the briefs I see you wear underneath, are going to be taken down. Your bare bottom is going to be thrashed hard and long. You’ve never been beaten before, have you, Julia? I don’t think you’ll fancy tight jeans on those swollen weals!’
‘We’ll see what my parents have to say about that!’
‘You can see here and now, Julia! Their letter asking for you to be punished as necessary is in the file.’
The hard young face looked back at him, the eyes seeming narrowed by the dark make-up.
‘I’m going to the disco that night!’ she said, her last statement of defiance.
‘No, Julia,’ said Max softly, ‘you’ll be dancing here. In fact, I can promise you that your young bottom will be gyrating like a go-go girl on heat.’
Now it was Alec’s turn to watch ‘Super-Smack’, as the girls called Max, in action. His first order was that Julia should be given the duty of servant in the room where he and his colleagues dined. On the first evening, as they sat down to eat, Julia appeared transformed. There was nothing to be done about the punk coiffure but her costume was one of uniform blouse, tie, and skirt.
‘Oh no, Julia!’ said Max teasingly, ‘we must see you as you like to be. Off you go. Come back in the tight jeans and singlet!’
Julia hesitated but Max repeated the words as a command to be obeyed. She returned, dressed in her required outfit and stood before them with such a sullen self-pitying young face.
Max had arranged the dining-table close to the hatchway. Each time that Julia went to fetch or return dishes, she was obliged to turn her back to the diners and bend over through the hatchway, reluctantly and self-consciously presenting a most unladylike rear view in her tight faded jeans. Max positioned his own chair so that he could detain the girl easily in this pose. His hand demonstrated to the others the comparative softness of her thighs in the smooth denim, the slight fatness of Julia’s bottom, the tell-tale ridge which showed her preference for rather brief panties. As Max hastily added, when her big moment came, Julia would be wearing no panties of any kind.
Resentful yet scared, Julia found herself at a distinct disadvantage. But Max had scarcely begun his preliminary conditioning of her. A few days later there was occasion to cane Elke once again. This feat of arms was not part of the competition between Max and Alec, though Max turned it to advantage. That afternoon, Julia had been ordered to her room and was kept there. Max chose the adjoining sitting-room as the scene of Elke’s caning. He carefully left doors and windows open.
Julia had never even heard a punishment before. Now, confined in the next room, she was obliged to listen to every stroke of the bamboo, every sob and reprimand. This time she heard everything. From Max’s murmured appreciation of Elke’s ripe young derriere in tight jeans, to the last of many ringing cane-strokes across the girl’s bare bottom. Elke’s bare belly slithering on the sofa leather, the springs creaking as she writhed. Max reprimanding her screams, assuring her in his projected voice that she was getting off lightly by comparison with the thrashing which Julia would get next week.
Max had arranged for Bernard to be his spy upon the next room. From Bernard he heard with satisfaction of Julia crouching at the wall listening desperately. Julia at the keyhole of the communicating door, frantically trying to see what was being done to Elke, gnawing her lip and clenching her hands in dismay.
To enforce the lesson, it was Julia whom Max ordered to clear up the room as soon as Elke’s punishment was over. He watched as she performed the task with dismay in her blue eyes. To see Julia pick up the cane from the floor, to collect Elke’s panties — discarded on a chair — was an object-lesson. She stared at these things with the horror of anticipation. The little cushion on which Elke’s head had reposed was wet with weeping, the sofa leather still warm from the squirming adolescent girl.
Julia approached the chair in which Max was sitting, watching her. Her mouth moved as if she might speak but she seemed unable to do so. Indeed, her legs would scarcely support her in her panic. As Max watched, Julia the hardened princess of punk sank to her knees before him.
----//----
For the first time, Max began to feel that he had the matter well under control. That night he heard Julia’s bedsprings creak as she turned sleeplessly this way and that sometimes with little cries of despair. She tried to impose calmness by caressing herself to sleep, only to return to the torment of apprehension.
It was evident next morning that Julia had not been able to sleep at all. The next night brought an even more intriguing incident. The matron of the establishment was privileged to use a spy-hole when it was thought desirable for the girl under observation. Such cases were rare but Julia was undoubtedly one of them. As the older woman watched, Julia was seen to divest herself of jeans and panties, displaying a pale bikini-shape on her bottom between the suntan of back and thighs. With her back to the mirror, Julia ruefully contemplated her own behind. Then she took a trouser-belt from a drawer and began, experimentally, to try and spank herself with it. So desperate was she to know what lay in store for her. Presently the belt caught her with such effect that Julia dropped it and gave the gasp of a girl stung hard and long.
It was time to intervene. Julia looked up, startled, as the matron, followed by Max, entered the room.
‘Over the bed, Julia,’ said Max sharply, ‘we’ll have no more of this nonsense.’
Julia hesitated but the other woman put her briskly in her place. Max produced from behind his back the thin leather strap of a three-tailed tawse. Smack! across the fatter paleness of Julia’s bottom-cheeks. Whack! across her sun-browned thighs. Smack! across her squirming, quivering buttocks. Stung beyond endurance this time, Julia tried to push herself up with a wild yell. Whip! The strap tails curled in, catching her young bottom in the most intimate manner.
‘Over the bed, Julia! Believe me, this is nothing to what you’ve got waiting for you in a day or two!’
‘Give her a taste low down on her bottom,’ said matron calmly. ‘That should teach her a lesson.’
Whack! Smack! Whack! Three times the strap caught the soft lower curve of Julia’s arse-cheeks. The punk crop of dark hair twisted on the pillow, her body writhing like a swimmer doing the crawl. Plied with gathering desire, the strap caught her legs, her flank, her bottom, her legs again, her bottom, her bottom, her bottom…
Next day, Julia’s rebellion was visibly overcome. She appeared before Max in the uniform skirt and blouse so long despised.
‘No, Julia!’ he said softly. ‘Away you go and put on your jeans and singlet again.’
It was extraordinary, he thought, what a change had been wrought in Julia by a fifteen-smack spanking with the punishment-strap.
That night was the last before her day of retribution. Julia waited at the dinner table in her most chastened manner, hurrying to obey every demand, hardly speaking above a whisper, scarcely daring to raise her eyes. Afterwards, when Max sat in his chair and lit a cigar, Julia took the ashtray and knelt before him, holding it in her hands for his use, like a carved suppliant figure.
Next day she made no attempt to leave her room, refusing all food. As Max moved some furniture in the next room, Julia was glimpsed curled and quivering on her bed, gnawing the corner of the pillow which she hugged to her. The dark eye make-up was reduced to damp tell-tale streaks down her face. The long day passed. Dinner came and went. Afterwards as Max sat in his room, there was a timid knock at the door. It was Julia — but how changed from her appearance and manner a week before.
‘Yes?’ said Max. ‘What do you want?’
For some moments Julia gulped and could not speak.
‘The cane!’ she said at last in a constricted whisper.
‘Oh that,’ said Max. ‘I decided on a postponement. The next time you step out of line — if ever — you get the strap, and the caning postponed from now.’
Julia almost staggered at the news, hardly able to comprehend. Then she tottered forward, knelt and took Max’s hand, over which she cried copiously as she kissed it.
----//----
‘Game, set, and match to you, old man,’ said Alec generously. ‘I don’t know what you did to Julia but I couldn’t equal it. The effect you had on her! She looked absolutely shattered when I saw her come out! And the change in her behaviour!’
‘I know,’ said Max sympathetically, ‘I warned you about amateurs taking on professionals. Not that you were a complete flop with Tracey — but nothing came of it after that first passionate encounter, did it?’
‘No,’ said Alec philosophically. Through the open doorway he saw Julia lovingly ironing one of Max’s shirts. She pressed it gently to her face and then kissed the collar button. Max affected not to notice this obeisance by his young punk mistress.
‘By the way,’ he said presently, ‘I’ve got something which might interest you.’
He went into the next room and came back with a cardboard box. It was a case of Haut Brion ‘59.
‘But I should have bought that,’ Alec said indignantly, ‘as the loser.’
Max waved the protest aside.
‘When her parents found what a changed girl Julia was, their gratitude was positively touching.’ he said. ‘They insisted on my finding her a place here for the next twelve months at least. Then, as they offered me anything I cared to name, I thought a case of Haut Brion might be rather apt.’
‘You know what you are, Max?’ said Alec gently.
‘What?’
‘An original.’
Max uncorked a bottle and decanted it. As they took their first sip an hour or two later, Alec noticed that another girl had joined the queue for the ironing board. She was quite petite with a slim fine-boned body, short-cropped blonde hair and flirting blue eyes. Her sun-browned figure wiggled in the cheeky pink bikini as if in time to silent music. She looked at Alec and then looked away again.
‘Nathalie,’ said Max softly, ‘from France.’
The pert young rump in the scandalous little bikini-seat twitched impatiently at the end of the queue. Alec sighed.
‘I don’t suppose, Max,’ he said wistfully, ‘I don’t suppose you’d consider giving me the chance to even the score?’
Nathalie turned her back upon the two admirers, her knee jigging foot tapping impatiently, her saucy little bum performing its rhythmic twitch-and-wiggle, twitch-and-wiggle, twitch-and-wiggle.
‘That,’ said Max, ‘would be telling. Wouldn’t it?’

Saturday, 29 September 2018

Pyjama Splits

From Blushes Supplement 15
They assembled in the drawing room for drinks at 7.30. In addition to Hilary and Mr Silton three other men whom he introduced as members of his Division. Ordinary Ministry faces and their names did not register. You were of course trained to latch onto a person’s name and commit it to memory but Hilary’s mind in its present state was quite incapable of such routine matters. Not after that experience some 90 minutes earlier. In the dining room next door. When she had been upended on the dining table and had her bare bottom caned by Mr Silton.
Still feeling numb she automatically accepted the first drink suggested, white wine. The drinks had been brought in by Mr Rutter, Mr Strangeway’s chauffeur, who earlier that afternoon had driven Hilary and Mr Strangeway up from London. That had been an unbelievable journey too — but not as bad as being upside down on the dining table.
Mr Rutter’s eyes briefly met Hilary’s as he handed her the glass. Did he know what Mr Strangeway had done to Hilary, his new Personal Assistant, in the back seat of the Daimler? Or could he have any idea what Mr Silton had done here, next door? Hilary felt little beads of perspiration on her upper lip.
General chat; including of course the fact of Mr Strangeway’s abrupt recall to London immediately after arrival on some major flap. ‘Leaving poor Miss Wareham at quite a loose end,’ laughed Mr Silton.
Hilary couldn’t help flushing. Mr Silton had seen that she wasn’t at a loose end. He had used the opportunity to progress her training. That was what he had said. And progressing her training had meant caning her bare bottom. First bend over the edge of that table and then up on it, her legs in the air. She couldn’t do anything; she couldn’t refuse. Because she was only Miss Wareham and a very recent recruit. And Mr Silton was a Very Important Person, Head of a Division, as was her own Mr Strangeway. So all you could do was… co-operate.
Afterwards, when Mr Silton had finished with her, Hilary had had a hot bath and changed her clothes. That made you feel just a little better but not very much. In the bathroom mirror she had seen distinct red stripes across her bottom.
Soon they went in to dinner. Into that room where… Mr Silton taking her arm. asking if she knew Yorkshire. Hilary mumbled something. There was the table, now glitteringly laid for dinner. The table where not long before she had been upside down and displaying… everything. Did these other men know? Were those bland Ministry faces smirking? Had one of them possibly been peering through the keyhole watching it all?
Hilary, sitting down, felt a sudden urge to go to the loo. But you could hardly do that. She bit her lip. A servant was bringing in the soup.
Somehow the meal passed. Had she eaten anything? Hilary didn’t really know. Back up in her room. She had pleaded a headache. Perhaps if she stayed the rest of the evening up here, forcing herself to look at some of Mr Strangeway’s papers, and then had an early night —
A knock at the door. A brisk little knock. The same knock that earlier had announced Mr Silton. She forced herself to get up and go… Yes, Mr Silton.
‘Hello, my dear. Headache any better?’ He had something in his hand. Pale blue material.
‘Look, what I’d like, if you are feeling a little better now…’
Ten minutes later Hilary was knocking at the door of his room. Along the corridor, second on the right. She was in that nightmare again. In her dressing gown. And underneath it…
He opened the door. On numb legs, barefoot, she entered. ‘Good. Very good. Because I thought we might do a little more. A quick little after-dinner session, eh?’ Mr Silton gave a little laugh. ‘I must say I’m not regretting that poor old Bob was called back to town at all.’
He had carefully closed the door and now he told Hilary to take off the dressing gown. She had known that he would tell her to take it off. There hadn’t been much doubt about that. But…
‘Come on, Miss Wareham.’ From somewhere that dreadful cane had appeared again. That too must have been expected. Mr Silton swished it through the air. Hilary’s hands went to the belt of her pink gown.
Underneath there was that blue thing he had held as he came into her room. It had turned out to be a pair of pyjama trousers. Large, possibly men’s, pyjama trousers. With the seat seam split open from waist to crotch. This was what Hilary had on when she removed the dressing gown. Nothing else.
‘Excellent, Miss Wareham.’ Mr Silton’s eyes approvingly took in Hilary’s full nude breasts as well as the pyjamas themselves. Hilary’s full nude breasts. ‘Excellent. What d’you think?’
What did she think? That if it was meant to humiliate her it was excellent. Maybe that was the aim. Could it be that this was how girls were routinely inducted into the Ministry? Humiliated and beaten to test their mettle. Or was it just her dreadful misfortune to fall into the hands of two men who correctly assumed that she wouldn’t dare complain.
Hilary had no idea. Mr Silton had moved behind her. She bit her lip as his hand slid in the open gap at the back, to grope her bottom.
‘Yes, Miss Wareham. You really do look most charming. And now to our business, eh? Up on the stool please.’
An ornamental stool or chest that stood in the centre of the room. Hilary was made to kneel up on it. Then told to put her hands behind and pull open the slit in the seat of the pyjamas. Was Mr Silton just seeing how far he could humiliate her? Perhaps she should have refused at the beginning of all this… and let them kick her out. Hilary did as she was told.
Mr Silton looked. The marks of the earlier caning were still quite clear. He brought the cane slicing in again.
Hilary gave a gasping yelp.
‘Mmmm. Get down. Hands on the stool.’
Abjectly, with the fresh sting in her bottom, Hilary did it. On hands and knees on the stool now.
The cane whistled in again. ‘Aaeeeooowww!
And again. ‘Aaaeekkk!
It was perhaps not quite what Mr Silton wanted. The cane was meeting parted pyjamas as well as bared bottom. Perhaps he felt this might be having a deadening effect on the impact — although the pain to Hilary was diabolical enough. He pulled the pyjamas down, around her lower thighs. The kneeling girl now quite nude from there up.
Mr Silton grunted approval of the change. And once more sliced the cane in. This time the unmistakable sound of cane hitting bare flesh only — and also a more urgent squeal from Hilary. Yes: better.
CRACK!… again. And again.
The squeals desperate. The clenching. jerking nates desperate too.
Mr Silton delivered some more…
Then, later, taking Hilary’s arm. At least it was over, she told herself. But it wasn’t. Simply another position. Kneeling on the floor now, her body draped over the stool. Her bare bottom arched and the wicked cane biting in again. It was too much. She couldn’t take any more. She would roll away from that impossible cane. Onto her back on the floor. Roll up in a ball and cry: No! No more! You can kick me out but no more!
Hilary didn’t do that though. It would be an open challenge to authority and she couldn’t bring herself to do it. So she suffered till the end, until Mr Silton had had his fill of her quivering, jerking, red hot bottom.
He pulled her to her feet. The lowered pyjamas simply slid down to her ankles. For the moment she was in too much of a state to do anything about them — and in any case Mr Silton would probably tell her to leave them where they were. He came close. He had dropped the cane and his hand slid over the jutting breasts.
‘Mr Strangeway is going to be very pleased with you.’
Mr Silton’s voice was soft, though perhaps a little excited. A contrast to the vicious sting of that cane which had left Hilary’s bottom still feeling as if she’d sat on a red hot stove. The hand stroking her bottom slid down. Hilary’s agitated breath snorted out as the hand reached her pussy. That thick bush of hair. Was there now to be a further test of a girl’s discipline, her submissiveness?
The hand was cupping. Hilary trembling afresh. Mr Silton was asking if she had a boyfriend. The same question Mr Strangeway had asked. A stuttered affirmative. Robin seemed light years away since that drive up the M1.
Mr Silton made a soft ‘Mmmm’ sound and was no doubt about to say more when providentially there was a discreet knock at the door. A female voice, one of the servants presumably. ‘Would you like some cocoa, sir?’
Mr Silton took his hand away from what he had been stroking. Er, yes he would. ‘Er, make it two, would you, one for Miss Wareham who is here. In five minutes perhaps.’
Saved by the cocoa? Or perhaps Mr Silton was anyway more interested in beating girls than in doing… that other. Shivering, Hilary was allowed to pull up the pyjamas and put on her dressing gown. Mr Silton did not seem too disturbed at the interruption.
‘I always like my cup of cocoa before bed. Always had it as a boy, regular as clockwork. My nanny used to make it. Ah those blissful days of childhood, eh Miss Wareham?
Hilary, still suffering from her humiliating beating, made sounds of agreement. The cocoa when it came was brought in by Mr Rutter. Again that same quick frank look at Hilary. A look that took in her dressing gown and the pyjama trousers beneath. The look of a man who knew what Mr Silton and Mr Strangeway liked to do?
It was just the one quick glance and then Mr Rutter was the attentive, somewhat obsequious Ministry servant. In answer to Mr Silton he said he hadn’t been able to drive Mr Strangeway back because it would have exceeded his allowed driving hours. Mr Rutter went out with a correct, ‘Goodnight sir. Goodnight Miss Wareham.’
----//----
‘Would you like a little drive out in the country, Miss?’
It was Mr Rutter and that half-apologetic voice. He went on to say that he had checked with Mr Silton who said it was quite all right. Mr Silton was in conference with some of his people and would not be requiring Hilary. ‘It is a nice fresh morning, Miss.’
It was, bright and sunny. Hilary glancing out of the library window had been thinking that very thing and wondering if she could go for a stroll in the garden, but Mr Silton might require her. ‘Oh super!’ she said with a smile.
Hilary had had a reasonable night. There had been no more knocks at her door after she left Mr Silton —and no master keys for instance quietly opening it. Perhaps it was silly to think things like that but there had been frantic little thoughts running round in Hilary’s head. Although Mr Silton after his cocoa had seemed ready to call it a day — perhaps a conditioned response from his nanny-cossetted childhood. Cocoa and then quickly to bed like a good boy. Today…? Well Mr Siltori was here of course and Mr Strangeway was due later. So there were fearful possibilities. But Hilary had had her breakfast and no problems so far. And yes, a drive out in the country did sound super. Even if it was with the slightly scary Mr Rutter.
In the front seat of the Daimler, Mr Rutter said that Mr Strangeway had gone back in the other car, a Rover. ‘Not half the motor that this is, Miss.’ Hilary smiled brightly. Perhaps he wasn’t really scary. It was all her silly imagination. He didn’t have his cap on today — it was placed carefully on the back seat — and maybe that helped. He would be about 40, just an ordinary-looking man.
‘Those gentlemen can be very hard on a girl, Miss. Especially when she’s new.’
Oh dear. They were outside the big iron gates and going along a leafy lane. Please God let Mr Rutter not be referring to… that.
‘Very hard, Miss. Eh?’
What did you say? She smiled weakly. ‘There is a lot to learn at first, Mr Rutter. I… expect you found that in your job too.’
Mr Rutter chuckled to himself. ‘That is not the same, is it Miss? Oh dear me no!’
Hilary remembered that the chauffeur had last seen her in Mr Silton’s room, in her dressing gown. ‘Last night I… I was in Mr Silton’s room because he wanted to check on something.’ She didn’t have to explain her actions to a mere chauffeur but on the other hand…
He laughed again. ‘Check on your bottom, Miss, I daresay.’
A silence. It was exactly like Mr Silton first coming into her room and saying what he had said. Or Mr Strangeway in the back seat of this car. A sudden yawning crack in Hilary’s normal, everyday existence. But Mr Rutter was only the chauffeur. Not a Very Important Person. As such he was being very impertinent.
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Mr Rutter,’ Hilary said haughtily, though feeling herself colouring.
‘That same as what he did earlier, Miss, is what I mean.’
Oh dear! ‘Mr Rutter if you wish to be impertinent I think we had better turn round and go back.’
Mr Rutter just laughed and drove on at the same steady speed. Conversation stopped. Perhaps stupid, impertinent Mr Rutter realised he had gone too far. What he had said had made her go all hot and cold but it could only be conjecture and he had better not say it again.
Not too much later he was slowing, and pulling off the lane onto a track. And then pulling off the track and stopping. A lovely desolate moorland spot. Mr Rutter turned to Hilary, smiling.
‘Lovely bit of country, Miss.’ He was reaching inside his coat, to his wallet.
A colour photograph. It showed Hilary and Mr Silton in the dining room of the house. Hilary bent over the dining table with her knickers off, her ripe bottom bare, and Mr Silton with that cane. A polaroid photograph taken presumably from the window. Having allowed sufficient time for Hilary to see it Mr Rutter put the print back in the security of his wallet.
‘Those gentlemen can be awfully hard, Miss. Like I said.’
There was nothing Hilary could say. There were things she wanted to say but for the moment she was struck dumb. And anyway saying those things would not help. Mr Rutter’s hand came down and patted her thigh. She angrily brushed it off, words now coming.
‘You bastard!’
‘Now Miss, please. We don’t want any of that. I would say it’s in your interest to be friendly. Co-operative. I mean you want me to keep these photos I’ve got in safe keeping, don’t you Miss?’
His hand came down again. Hilary moved to push it abruptly away again but then stopped herself. The hand squeezed her thigh through her skirt. ‘Now Miss, let’s just say we’re going to have an understanding.’
‘What do you want?’ she asked in that shaky voice. Rutter gave some indication of what that might be by moving his hand from her thigh up to her breast. Mounding it through her sweater.
‘It won’t be the cane, Miss. Not like those two so-called gentlemen. Mr Strangeway may not have caned you yet but he will all right. I don’t think that’s right, Miss, I really don’t. But, well, I would like to give that lovely bottom a bit of a smacking!’
The hand was still at her breast and there was nothing Hilary could do about it. Her brain took in what he had just said.
‘To tell the truth, Miss, I am very partial to nice, well brought up girls like yourself. Good breeding. that’s what gets me. Of course being from a working class background and not a lot of education I don’t often get that chance. But I’ve certainly struck lucky with you, Miss Wareham, and especially with you being such a lovely girl as well.’
It was sickening for Hilary to have to listen to this obsequious talk, but talking in that obsequious manner didn’t prevent Mr Rutter from indulging in his pleasures. Taking her knickers down and smacking her bare bottom, as Mr Strangeway had done in this very same car.
Mr Rutter took his time about it, enjoying the feel of her wriggling bare-belly against his thighs. Hilary’s legs kicked, ineffectually, and her head jerked up every now and then; her squeals and tearful protests rang clear in the still air beyond the car’s open window. A flight of birds took wing suddenly, their high-pitched cries echoing those of well-spanked Hilary still struggling against Mr Rutter’s spanking hand in the Daimler.

Friday, 28 September 2018

Letter from Jane on Grand Canary

The first of three Jane features from Blushes 65
Hello BLUSHES Readers!
Yes this is me again! Jane! And guess what? I’m out here on the island of Grand Canary which I expect you know is part of the Canary Islands. It’s down here off the coast of Africa. (I expect you all know that too but I didn’t. Not before they said I was coming here and I found it on the map, I could not have told you where the Canary Islands were!)
But anyway it’s really great; really fantastic! Especially of course at this time of year, December, when the weather in England is so awful. While you’re all freezing and getting those awful storms that I heard about on the radio we are going around in shorts and a little T-shirt. And of course me in some of the shots Bill has been shooting even less than that!
Bill I should say is Mr Rawlins who is the BLUSHES photographer and it is he that I am out here with. The reason of course is to get some nice shots (of me!) for the magazine. So we’re not out here for a holiday really, it is work. But of course it is pretty nice to be working on the island of Grand Canary and I am really grateful to the Editor for thinking of this. (He said that as I was just starting with BLUSHES he wanted to send me on a nice assignment. But they wouldn’t all be as nice as this! I hope that doesn’t mean anything awful!)
Anyway it is really great. I am only sorry that my boyfriend Ian can’t be out here too, but then it is work that I’m here for and I couldn’t expect the Editor to pay for Ian too. And also he wouldn’t really be too happy to know the kind of work I am doing. I.e. modelling work. With quite frequently my shorts and knickers down. Including of course being spanked.
Ian doesn’t know any of that yet. He’ll have to know some time I suppose and hopefully he will understand that it’s nothing really awful. Nowadays modelling is not thought of as such a dreadful thing, with Page Three Girls etc. However Ian is a bit old-fashioned in some ways. And so is my mother! Who of course doesn’t know either!
But anyway don’t think about all that! Right now it is the third day we have been here (Tuesday I think but you can sort of forget the days). It is the late afternoon and I am sitting on the balcony of my hotel room writing this. We have done shoots on all three days, so clearly it has not been a holiday but hard work! Apart from shots of me by myself we have been mostly working with this bloke who the Editor knows and who lives out here. He owns a hotel I think. His name is Mike. He’s OK but I must admit scares me a bit. Probably because I tend to think of him as the character in this story that we’ve been shooting. I mean as if he really is that character and will do those things.
Well you will see what the story is when it comes out in the magazine: I am out here with my boyfriend (!) and this character sees me in the hotel bar and fancies me. Only the trouble is he is a real villain, into drug smuggling and the white slave trade. That means kidnapping girls of course. For rich Arab sheiks. And also for awful, you know, brothels. Girls can be captured and never seen again. Or maybe just kept for a while and then returned, after having had all that stuff done to them. Well it’s a pretty scary story. Maybe you readers will think it’s great of course, but I would prefer something less scary. As it’s the first thing I’ve done.
It is silly of course and that is what I keep telling myself: it is just a story. Maybe I am just too impressionable, that is my problem. Inexperienced, that is the main reason. Of course according to the Editor this is really great, it will mean I will look all scared in the photos and that is good. When I am being spanked and that. Caned! Yes, I have been caned too, by that Mike. And if you want to know, a cane on your bare bottom is really killing. Blue Murder! I don’t know how any girl could not look dead scared when she is getting the cane — though Bill says some girls like it! I can’t believe that.
Anyway we have done various photo sessions in the beautiful countryside here. Especially up on the mountain and also some on the super beaches that are here. Shots of me of course (!) doing my all for BLUSHES magazine. Suffering pretty awful pain for the magazine. That Mike can really hit a girl’s bottom when he’s got her across his lap. With her shorts and knickers down. Or of course if she’s got a dress on, the skirt of it up round her waist. Really awful! He’s really big for one thing, with an arm like — what? A sledgehammer? Yes.
Bill has also taken some shots of me in different parts of the hotel where we’re staying. (Which I should say is pretty plush, I am glad I’m not paying for it. Well I wouldn’t be able to, would I?) Glamour sort of shots. In some of them I am wearing a dress but haven’t got any knickers on underneath. I don’t know exactly what these shots show because Bill hasn’t developed them yet. I hope it is not too much! Anyway you will all see when the magazine comes out.
In a couple of places where we were doing these shots we had a real scare with someone coming in, but managed to, you know, straighten up just in time. (I think just in time.) Bill said that if someone had seen I could have been done for indecent display in a public place. And they could have put me inside — unless I was nice to the magistrate or whatever. I think he was just trying to scare me. (Editor’s Note: Bill Rawlins says he told Jane she could have got off a charge by fucking the magistrate. Or possibly instead of being banged up she might get the option of a good caning! Maybe there’s a good story line here!)
So that’s what I’ve been doing really for the last three days. Some sight-seeing (we have got a super little convertible hire car) and we’ve had some great meals, wine etc. But I have been working. And as I say suffering! For all you BLUSHES readers!
And that leads me in to what I am supposed to be saying in this letter (as well as recounting what we’ve been up to). Which is to tell you all to write in. With your ideas for stories. In which my own sweet self (!) can be the star. If you have any ideas for action in which you would like to see me then please write in. I would myself say nothing too horrible. But Bill says the message from the Editor is it can be as awful as you like! Ugh!
So all the best to you all for now. In a few more days I shall be back there in freezing England!! What a thought! But at least I shall be seeing Ian again. And I will be away from that Mike! I’ll miss this super sun though!
Be seeing you!
Your (well spanked!) JANE