‘No!’ she yelps. ‘Not the cane!’
Sophie is standing in the second-floor bathroom where she has been told by Mrs Rudley to go and wait for Mr Statler. It is Mrs Rudley who also, and presumably on Mr Statler’s instructions, has told Sophie to wear what she is wearing. Sports Kit Modified Number 1, or more usually known as ‘Briefs and Braces’. Which consists of a demure sleeveless and form-fitting white vest plus brief shorts of thin black cotton (‘Briefs’) which are fastened with a pair of narrow maroon elastic braces. The thin black shorts which are tight-fitting to the cheeks of a girl’s bottom and also to the mound of her private parts in fact have elastic at the waist and the braces are a form of secondary support against the possibility of elastic failure during such energetic exercises as netball or cross-country running. On her feet and completing the Sports Kit Modified Number 1 outfit Sophie has white ankle socks and white sandals.
Mr Statler who has just appeared, abruptly entering the bathroom and closing the door behind him, does indeed have a cane in his hand: a nasty looking full-sized rattan. He is in reasonably formal rig of blazer with neat dark red silk handkerchief in the breast pocket, worn with a striped silk tie.
‘No…’ Sophie breaths again. ‘Not that. Something else. But not… that cane.’
Mr Statler slices it through the air in a way that can make a girl think she is going to wet her knickers — or equally her tight black cotton briefs if she is wearing Sports Number 1, which of course are worn with nothing underneath. ‘Why not?’ he smiles pleasantly. ‘I certainly feel you can do with it.’
‘No sir, please.’ Sophie’s bottom shudders as if it can already feel itself denuded of its single tightly-encasing covering and in receipt of the scalding kiss of Mr Statler’s implement. Sophie is of above average height in her socks and sandals, a pretty girl with her honey-blonde hair held back this morning with two pink combs. Her blue eyes are made up, her soft mouth lightly adorned with pink lipstick: Mr Statler is known not to be averse to youthful female attractions and if you are told he wants to see you, well…
She has a nice shapely teenage shape in her Sports Number 1, slim-waisted but filling out the black briefs and the vest very nicely thank you. Especially the rear of the brief and tight shorts. Sophie’s cheeky rear. Which, now confronted with what is in Mr Statler’s hand, is quivering apprehensively.
Mr Statler advances, transferring the cane to his left hand. ‘No sir, Miss?’ He has come very close. Sophie who is already standing with her back close to the ornate wash-basin has no retreat. But anyway a girl can’t back off from Mr Statler when he approaches. You stand straight and still. Compliant. Receptive to what he has to say — or wishes to do.
‘Eh Miss?’ Mr Statler’s free right hand comes out. In the very general region of the tops of Sophie’s virtually bare thighs. And very adjacent to that ripe mound at her lower abdomen.
‘No sir. Ooh. Aaa… haaa… No sir…’ the second drawn-out ‘No sir’ and indeed the ‘Aaa… haaa’ preceding it do not relate directly to the matter of the cane but to the matter of Mr Statler’s hand. Which has taken a light hold of Sophie’s mound. Sophie trembles. Her knees especially tremble. The delicious cheeks of her bottom tremble too. ‘No sir…’ The hand is enclosing a girl’s most sensitive part. Well just about. Mr Statler’s fingers on the undercurve of the mound are in virtually direct contact with the lips of her slit.
‘You’re very jumpy Sophie. And it seems you can’t stop saying no.’
‘S… Sorry sir. But… oooohh. You’re tickling sir. And… and I really… don’t want the cane sir.’
Mr Statler pushes his fingers further in between Sophie’s squirming thighs, bringing forth a further high-pitched ‘Oooooh’, then withdraws his hand.
‘When a girl’s as jumpy as you seem to be Sophie, she needs something to settle her. A couple of nice cuts with the cane. Take your shorts down.’
‘No sir! I mean… all right sir. But… not the cane. Anything else.’
‘Anything Sophie?’ She is slipping the braces from the slim shoulders, then pushing down the tight shorts. Down to mid-thigh and thus completely exposing her more interesting parts for, as already noted, a girl does not wear anything else, no actual knickers, under Sports Kit Number 1. She straightens up. Controlling the urge to slide one hand defensively in front of her pussy. Which of course has received that little stimulation from Mr Statler’s fingers and is now wide-awake and is telling Sophie it is wide-awake plus all sorts of other things as well. Hands straight at their sides she endeavours to think of something else, other than her awakened pussy. There is of course the cane to think about. The cane which is still in Mr Statler’s hand.
‘Anything else Miss? That sounds like a very all-embracing offer. A girl could get herself into trouble making offers like that.’ Mr Statler has come in close again. And his hand does what it did before, i.e. takes hold of Sophie’s mound. Only this time there is not that thin layer of black cotton, there is only Sophie. Her nest of brown curls, her warm bare flesh. A little wetness too. The self-lubricating sticky wetness which a healthy girl automatically produces when stimulated. A sticky wetness which of course is basically produced to lubricate the passage of the erect male penis although clearly that is a highly embarrassing thought for a girl, especially when standing in close proximity to Mr Statler with her hands down at her sides and her shorts down at mid-thigh.
‘Yes Miss, an unscrupulous gentleman — and perhaps even more one who is not a gentleman — might take quick and unfortunate advantage of an offer like that. So that a girl could find herself with, as the vernacular has it, a bun in her oven. Most unfortunate.’
‘No sir…’ Mr Statler’s hand is there again and she is undeniably and most embarrassingly moist. Giving possible credence to what Mr Statler is suggesting i.e. that unscrupulous gentlemen could find her wet and ready for it. ‘No… I didn’t mean that sir. Not at all.’
‘In that case Sophie a girl should be more precise in her utterances. Much more precise.’
‘Yes sir…’ One finger… Oh God.
Sophie almost faints with relief as Mr Statler withdraws his hand, his finger. But the relief is only of seconds’ duration.
‘Turn round Miss. And bend forward. I am going to cane you.’
‘Ooooh! No… Oh!’
‘Yes. And stop that racket. I am sure you know the reason. I have had various complaints from Mr Greenlow. Insubordination. Dawdling on a cross-country run. Etcetera. Hopefully the cane across your bare bottom will cause you to think twice about such matters in future.’
Sophie turns because she has no choice, it is clearly Mr Statler’s intention to do it. The mention of Mr Greenlow’s name comes as no surprise. Not that she has been insubordinate to Mr Greenlow, merely non-cooperative. Not cooperating in what Mr Greenlow wants. Of course he hasn’t actually said it, spelled it out, but it is clear what he wants all right. That moisture, that sticky lubrication: Mr Greenlow would like to have direct and personal experience of it. And Sophie has not been disposed to put it on offer. Hence the talk of insubordination and other crimes.
Sophie would like to blurt all this out to Mr Statler. Mr Greenlow’s unscrupulous behaviour. But a moment’s thought tells her to forget it. Accusing Mr Greenlow will do no good at all, it would simply make matters worse because naturally Mr Greenlow will be believed and she will not. No there is nothing she can do except… accept what is coming.
Mr Statler makes Sophie put her hands behind her back, then takes both her wrists in one hand. His left of course. Mr Statler is right-handed. And in his right hand is that dreadful full-size rattan. He bends the whimpering Sophie forward, so that the soft flesh of her bared bottom is taut, thrustingly out.
‘You accept that you need this Sophie.’
The routine form of words that give a legitimacy to what is to happen.
And you say yes because it is better for you than saying no. That is something you learn. Sophie stutters a distressed affirmative.
‘Good girl. OK then…’
The sharply searing sound of bamboo coming into abrupt contact with softly resilient flesh. A very recognisable sound but the recipient feels rather than hears it. It feels rather like your bottom has been cut in two with perhaps a red-hot poker. Something like that. You know beforehand that it is going to feel dreadful and you think that perhaps you are more or less ready for it but you never are. It is always more dreadful than you can think. The first one. Not that subsequent cuts are any better. They are if anything worse. Especially if he can manage to lay the cane precisely along the line of an earlier one (not humming bright red of course). And Mr Statler is pretty good at doing this. He is after all an expert.
After four of them Sophie is like a girl demented. Writhing sinuously like a dervish. It is a good job Mr Statler has a firm grip of her wrists otherwise she would be grovelling in a heap on the floor. She is mouthing incoherent words — and has again that awful feeling that she is about to wet herself. And if she were to, well it would be dreadful all right but she can’t worry about it, all she can think of is her poor bottom. Her poor red-hot bottom.
‘I should give you four more,’ Mr Statler says cheerily, putting the cane down in the bath while keeping his grip on Sophie’s wrists. Straightening her up and groping her red-hot rear with his now free right hand. ‘Shouldn’t I?’
Another high-pitched squeal of shock-horror. Four more would kill her.
‘Yes I should,’ insists Mr Statler in his jokey way. ‘I think you could do with it. But maybe this time… OK. Just see that I have no more complaints from Mr Greenlow.’
He lets go of Sophie’s wrists and turns her to face him. A hand slides in to her quivering groin again. His fingers encounter moisture.
‘You’re wet Miss. Turns you on does it: a session with the cane?’
‘No sir!’ Hot-faced, vigorously shaking her head. Her hot bottom is still killing.
Mr Statler gives a harsh male laugh. ‘Perhaps you wet yourself then. Wet your pants Sophie? Except of course that your pants are down.’
Sophie rolls her blue eyes. There is no doubt that she is wet but she can’t admit to anything as demeaning as wetting her pants. As equally she can’t accept that the cane has turned her on when it definitely has not. ‘I… it’s… sweat sir. Perspiration. Fr… from being scared I suppose. Of the cane.’
Mr Statler raises his hand to his nostrils. Then raises his eyebrows quizzically. But all he says is, ‘OK. Get your shorts up.’
Somewhat later Sophie sees Mr Greenlow downstairs in his room. Mr Greenlow is her tutor for French and German and she is due to have a session of German which is not her best subject. She is still wearing Sports Kit Number 1 which is not what you would normally wear for a tutorial but Mrs Rudley whom Sophie saw directly after her session with Mr Statler in the bathroom (routine after a caning, Mrs Rudley confirming and noting in her book that you are OK) said she was to keep it on. Mr Greenlow had said so.
‘Ah the delightful Sophie,’ he says when she has knocked and entered. Mr Greenlow is a similar age to Mr Statler, fiftyish perhaps. Mr Greenlow can be pleasant and amusing but of course there is also that other business which is not pleasant at all. He gets up from his desk, grinning at her. Like Mr Statler he is wearing a blazer and smart tie.
‘Come here lovely girl. Let me have a look at you. How are you this morning? And how is… heh-heh… your bottom?’
‘You… You…’ Red-faced, Sophie perhaps fortunately cannot find words to express what she feels.
‘Don’t say it,’ smiles Mr Greenlow. ‘You might regret it. You wouldn’t want another dose tomorrow would you? Be a nice sensible girl. Come on, let me see your bottom. Let me see the damage.’
And in spite of her protestations Sophie has to take down her shorts so that Mr Greenlow can see her bare bottom and the cane marks which Mr Statler has left there.
‘You poor dear,’ her tutor murmurs sympathetically as he slides his hand over the warm flesh. ‘But you should be sensible shouldn’t you? Sensible and cooperative. Then there’d be no problems whatsoever.’
Sophie, with Mr Greenlow fondling her still sore bottom, feels a keen desire to tell him what she thinks but doesn’t. Mr Greenlow suggests that she sit on his lap while they have a general chat, to prove that she is going to be nice and cooperative. Sophie tries to refuse but Mr Greenlow talks of perhaps having to go and see Mr Statler again, so Sophie finally agrees. But she doesn’t agree to his original idea which was that she sit on his lap with her shorts down. Mr Greenlow accepts that her shorts can be pulled up first.
Sitting on Mr Greenlow’s lap would not be desperately awful except for the fact of what you know he wants. The fact that Mr Greenlow is horny. Which you are very soon aware of on his lap because you very soon find yourself sitting on something stiff and hard. And of course you know very well what it is. You also know that Mr Greenlow enjoys having you sit on it, having the soft ripeness of your bottom cheeks weighing solidly down on it. And you know too that although he very much enjoys this there is something else he would enjoy even more, and the thought of that is undoubtedly in his mind: Something else that he would like to do with the thing you are sitting on, somewhere else he would like to put it. All of this can make sitting on Mr Greenlow’s lap an embarrassing experience. Especially when in addition to all this he is stroking your boobs through the single thin layer of vest.
What Mr Greenlow had apparently meant to say at the outset was that he had decided to take Sophie out in the country for her tutorial this morning. It is a nice warm sunny day and it would be so pleasant out in the country and this is why he had told Mrs Rudley to tell Sophie to keep her Sports Kit Number 1 on: i.e. it was suitable attire for a country session. Mr Greenlow has meant to say this at the outset but he has got rather side-tracked, carried away, first by making Sophie take her shorts down so that he could admire the cane marks on her bottom, and then by getting her on his lap and having Sophie’s delicious bottom firmly on top of his very-quickly-erect organ; all of this has driven other thoughts out of his mind.
However he does eventually remember and tells Sophie. She hears Mr Greenlow with mixed feelings. It will certainly be a relief to get off his lap, to get her bottom off of his rampant part. But what is he going to want out in the country, that is the question. Has he got some plan of campaign, or more specifically of conquest? Not that she has any choice in the matter; Mr Greenlow can have his tutorial out in the country if he wants to and no doubt Sophie should think herself fortunate to be going out.
It is a lovely day there is no doubt about that, with just a few light fluffy clouds high in the bright blue sky, and Mr Greenlow finds a nice secluded grassy glade in pretty oak woods where clearly no one is going to disturb them. In their study of the German language. Or whatever else Mr Greenlow may have in mind to study. He has brought a blanket to sit on. Or lie on?
Sitting down himself on the spread blanket Mr Greenlow invites Sophie to take off her shorts and then join him. ‘Get some sun at the same time,’ is his rationale for removal of the shorts.
‘Uh-uh.’ Sophie shakes her head. ‘No thanks. I’m… uh… not keen on too much sun.’
Mr Greenlow’s tone becomes harder. Does she really want to go straight back to Mr Statler in the morning? For gross insubordination and disobedience. If Mr Statler has a girl sent to him two days in a row he can be really unpleasant. ‘You know that Sophie I presume?’
Sophie does know it. ‘Look…’ she pleads. But Mr Greenlow is not interested in any ‘Look’s. He is interested in Sophie taking her shorts off. ‘Right off,’ he spells out in case she is in any possible doubt.
So of course Sophie takes off her shorts. And the red braces. The little vest does not reach down much further than her waist so there is no point trying to yank it down to cover herself. Any anyway Mr Greenlow does not want that. He wants Sophie to get some sun. Or so he says. He certainly wants to see bare flesh. And get his hands on it.
Sophie, without her shorts, gets down on the blanket. She doesn’t want to lie down but Mr Greenlow wants her to. ‘Relax for a bit,’ he says. Relax on the blanket on her back and with her legs nicely open.
‘Look… aren’t we supposed to be doing the German?’ Sophie tries to push his hand away from her pussy, but not in a desperately convincing way. She is already getting wet. Why does she get wet so easily; it only makes people — Mr Greenlow, Mr Statler — think she wants it. And she doesn’t, she really doesn’t.
‘Just relax,’ Mr Greenlow tells her, not allowing his hand to be pushed away from Sophie’s wet pussy. He laughs. ‘I didn’t know you were so keen to get at the German. We will, don’t worry. And I’ve got something too. German culture. A nice bottle of Piesporter ‘72. Nice and cool in the cold box. We’ll have a couple of glasses of that in a mo. Not that I think you need it to loosen you up Sophie. I think you’re ready already.’
‘No I’m not…’ she whimpers. ‘Really I’m not…’ But it is getting to her. Lying here on this blanket in the hot sun… with Mr Greenlow’s hand between her legs. His hand which is undeniably getting her going, getting her juices flowing.
‘No complaints from Mr Greenlow recently Sophie.’
‘No sir. Well I… I am trying sir.’ Hoping that she’s not flushing, that the unfortunate truth is not written all over her face. I, Sophie Belford, am letting Mr Greenlow screw me. Pretty regularly. Because, well, things are a lot easier that way. Her face doesn’t say that does it?
‘You’ve reached some kind of modus vivendi I take it?’
‘Yes sir. I suppose so sir. I’m trying harder.’
Sophie has changed to meet Mr Statler at the top of the main stairs. It is the hour before the evening meal and she is more formally attired than when we have previously met her. Instead of Sports Kit Modified Number 1 Sophie is in Formal Dress Number 2. Which is a black silk dress, full-skirted, sleeveless, knee-length worn with white knee-socks and formal black shiny-leather shoes. Formal Dress Number 1 is a similar dress worn with sheer dark nylons and a suspender belt and high heels. Formal Number 1 is generally reserved for special occasions, when there are important visitors etc. Otherwise the evening meal, as today, calls for Formal Number 2.
‘Good. That’s very good.’ Mr Statler does not seem to be in a hurry. Presumably he doesn’t have another girl waiting to see him in his study or anywhere else (the bathroom for instance). ‘Yes.’ Moving closer in to Sophie he slides his hand round her waist, then slips it down, to the silk-clad jut of her rump. His fingers detect brief knickers under the thin black silk. Knickers are allowed of course with Formal Number 1 and Number 2, unless the individual has been specifically forbidden them for some reason or other. Sophie is not in that situation so the knickers are not a problem. Mr Statler lightly slaps her bottom.
‘Yes, well I won’t inquire what the modus vivendi is. What exactly quid pro quo has been agreed. But no doubt the different parties are content and everyone is happy. Except that… hah-hah… I am not having the pleasure of caning you Sophie. Since… it must be two weeks now. Since that last time in the bathroom. What about that?’
Yes it would be two weeks. Since that time in the main bathroom and then afterwards out in the oak wood with Mr Greenlow. Mr Greenlow and his blanket and his deliciously cold German wine that was so delicious you kept having more without realising what it was doing. That and Mr Greenlow’s hand of course, his very knowing fingers. Those fingers, and the hot seductive sun, might easily have done the trick without benefit of the wine. At any rate… Yes two weeks now. And in those two weeks… pretty regularly. Well once you’d done it, you’d started, there didn’t seem any point… in not avoiding being sent to Mr Statler.
What did Mr Statler say: he’s unfortunately not had the pleasure of caning her? His little joke of course. Sophie tries a little laugh in appreciation. It sounds more like a croak. He is joking. Presumably. Mr Statler is now indicating a stool which happens to be over by the wall.
‘Bring that over here Sophie. then kneel up on it. And lift your dress up round your waist.’
Her heart is suddenly thudding, all kinds of things are being flooded into her veins. Adrenalin and that sort of stuff. As she does what Mr Statler has told her. Kneeling on the stool with the skirt of her black silk dress up round her waist. Revealing brief little white knickers tight over the cheeks of her bottom plus the long bare silky thighs. She yelps as Mr Statler’s hand reaches forward to sharply pinch the soft underside of one thigh.
‘Just stay there a moment Sophie. I’ll be right back. Only…’ his hand comes in again and this time pinches her bottom ‘I have rather missed this.’
Sophie is left there as Mr Statler goes off down the stairs. Left like this holding her dress up round her waist to wonder what horrible thing is in store for her. Because it clearly is not going to be anything nice. Mr Statler does not take long to reappear.
‘Sorry about that my dear. A phone call. Now where were we? Oh yes of course. Yes, get off there then please…’ Mr Statler is helping her down, then sitting on the stool himself.
‘Yes, now come here. Over my lap. Let’s see… That pretty bottom…’
Sophie is over Mr Statler’s lap with her dress still up and he is tugging down the brief white knickers. Mr Statler’s hand grips one nude cheek.
‘Yes I’ve quite missed this Sophie,’ he gives the bare cheek a sharp slap. ‘And I suppose Mr Greenlow… is not missing it at all eh? This… or something else. Eh? You wouldn’t like to tell me about that would you Sophie? The modus vivendi that has presumably been agreed. In strict confidence of course, we don’t need to tell Mr Greenlow that you’ve told me.’
Mr Greenlow has of course told her not to tell anyone. Because he is not supposed to do what he is doing. A tutor is definitely not supposed to be doing that, just as he is not supposed to cane a girl either. Although it does happen, such things do, and no doubt not only Mr Greenlow and not only Sophie. But still, Mr Statler is not going to approve which is why Sophie has been instructed not to tell. Anyone. Not that Mr Greenlow can make any threats about this; he can’t very well threaten to send her to Mr Statler. But Sophie would rather not tell, she herself would rather keep it a secret.
‘Nothing,’ she says with her face down towards the floor and her bared bottom up over Mr Statler’s lap. ‘There’s not anything… Aaaaoooowwwhhh…!’
The anguished yelp is occasioned by Mr Statler’s hand slamming hard down onto her exposed flesh. Followed by a couple more which are equally hard.
‘I don’t want little white lies Miss. We can’t have little secrets. Not just you and Mr Greenlow. We can have little secrets if it’s you and Mr Greenlow and me of course. OK?’
Then Mr Statler slams his hand down hard a few more times. After which he pushes Sophie to her feet. That was just a little warm up, he says. They will now resume their friendly discussion in his study. Where when he went to make his phone call he took his cane out. It is now waiting for them on Mr Statler’s desk. Waiting for Sophie. Waiting for her bottom which it hasn’t seen, hasn’t felt, for two weeks now.
‘No! Please… Please sir!’ Sophie yelps.
‘Come on,’ Mr Statler says. With a look of pleased anticipation on his face.