Story from Janus 6.02 by Patricia Webb
This is the favourite story of John Jenkins from :
My number one all-time favourite story was published in Janus in around 1975. It was called ‘The Schooling of Charlotte’. It is an absolute classic.
The story is beautifully told with some wonderfully evocative language. It tells of a stunning but petulant sixth-former, The Honourable Charlotte Castleton, who attends a riding school run by Mary Radcliffe. Ms Radcliffe is in her early twenties, highly attractive and very dominant. Charlotte has misbehaved by beating her horse excessively. The riding instructress decides to punish Charlotte appropriately and has, we are told, been given permission to ‘physically chastise’ any pupil who merits it.
Charlotte is appalled at the news and challenges Radcliffe provocatively by invoking her father who, she threatens, will close down the riding school if the punishment proceeds. Radcliffe ignores this bravado and goads the girl by asking her if she has ever been punished at school and if so in what way. Charlotte is then humiliatingly forced to describe how the girls at the school are caned and even have their knickers taken down.
In a wonderful phrase Mary Radcliffe responds by saying ‘then I can’t see what possible objection you can have to my thrashing you. For thrashed you will be and, call it poetic justice if you like, but you will be punished with your own riding whip’. At this poor Charlotte realises that this is serious and then, fatally, tries to bargain by asking not to punished in front of the other girls in the riding class. Radcliffe of course refuses this request and soon the poor girl is made to bend over a saddle-horse for a very public punishment.
The best spanking stories always dwell properly on the preparation and this one describes in wonderful detail how Charlotte’s jodhpurs are removed revealing a pair of tight white knickers ‘that strained to contain the luscious flesh within’ Such a stunning phrase! Despite protestations, Mary Radcliffe slips her fingers into the waistband of these drum-tight skimpy knickers, peels them down to the knees and the naughty girl’s bottom is then properly exposed for its thrashing.
I often find the beatings themselves can be disappointing but this one isn’t. The poor defenceless girl gets twelve strokes from the crop. Each cut is described in painful detail. The girl tries hard not to cry but Ms Radcliffe finally breaks her on stroke number six. The crop slashes down time after time, the poor girl weeps loudly and the witnesses — ten of her school-mates — are all in rapt shock.
This story sets a high bar and as Charlotte eventually tugs her tiny while panties back up you can’t help wondering which of the other girls is going to pulling theirs down now that their teacher has so obviously got a taste for physical punishment.
What makes this so special? Like all good things it’s a combination of factors. The first half or more of any good spanking story should be spent on the build up. There needs to be a convincing cause for the punishment; the victim must be in need of discipline and she should progress through the story from arrogance to fear through to abject humiliation. Similarly the authority-figure needs to take only minimal pleasure from inflicting the pain and must be resolute but not sadistic in meting out the beating. Certain rituals are critical, too: Clothing needs to be appropriate and needs to be removed slowly and methodically. Skirts, jeans or — in this case — jodhpurs need to be well-fitting and taken off with care and after proteSt
Most importantly, they must always reveal knickers that are small, tight and well-chosen. We need to know what they are like. Patterned or plain, white or coloured? After all which of us doesn’t spend minutes of every day looking at spankables and wondering what covers their firm little backsides? They may be called panties occasionally but please not pants or drawers and never, ever do we want a thong!
In this story the knickers are taken down from the start. I usually prefer it if they are removed half-way through the punishment but there certainly does have to some bare-bottom action with the reddening flesh nicely described. I also prefer it if the knickers are at half-mast rather than removed entirely.
So here it is — A Masterpiece:
‘Ride, prepare to trot. Trr-rot.’ Under the direction of Mary Radcliffe the class of six girls applied the aid and the horses trotted smoothly round the perimeter track of the large indoor riding school. Halfway down one long side they circled away leaving the top half of the school clear for a young girl exercising a dark bay thoroughbred.
Mary Radcliffe, tall, dark and attractive and looking younger than her twenty-two years, was a hard taskmaster and no faults escaped her. As the ride circled her she schooled each girl until satisfied that horse and rider were working to the best of their ability. The six girls ranged in age from fifteen to eighteen and were pupils from nearby St Catherine’s School, to which Mary Radcliffe had been appointed riding instructress.
The school echoed with the sound of Mary’s staccato commands, the dull thud of hooves upon the tan and the jingle of harness. Suddenly, without warning, there came a commotion near the double doors. The honourable Charlotte Castleton, her temper expiring at her mount’s disobedience, brought her riding whip slashing down repeatedly across the bay’s quarters. Dominic threw up his head and squealed with fright and pain, swinging his quarters as he tried to escape the whip.
Everyone looked round and one or two girls had their hands full trying to calm their snorting, side-stepping mounts as the horses sensed Dominic’s fear. Mary’s brow darkened in anger.
‘Charlotte,’ she shouted. ‘Stop that at once.’
Charlotte, her face flushed with rage, scowled at Mary as she hurried towards her. Eighteen years old and very attractive, Charlotte was, like the other girls, a senior pupil from St Catherine’s.
‘He’s been an absolute pig,’ she began furiously but the incensed Miss Radcliffe cut her short.
‘Shut up,’ she fumed. ‘I don’t want to listen to excuses. How dare you mistreat a horse like this. Dismount at once.’ She ran a soothing hand down Dominic’s sweating neck. ‘I said at once, Charlotte,’ she repeated when the girl was slow to obey. Her eyes glittered and her lips compressed as, with a disdainful shrug, Charlotte nonchalantly swung a leg across the bay’s striped quarters and slid lightly to the ground.
Skilled horsewoman though Charlotte was, she lacked a certain sympathy towards her mounts, demanding instant obedience to her aids and never failing to punish disobedience even when a horse, through insufficient schooling, was incapable of responding to aids that were, as yet, unfamiliar to him. Essentially proud, her attitude was haughty and overbearing, even to her riding instructress, and there had been several occasions when Mary Radcliffe had been sorely tempted to take her across her knee and spank her aristocratic bottom, and it was with a feeling almost of excitement that she realised that here at last was her chance to teach this arrogant girl a well needed and long overdue lesson.
‘This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you lose your temper with a horse,’ she broke out. ‘But it will certainly be the last I’m going to teach you a lesson by example, Charlotte, and I intend to thrash you as you have thrashed this horse.’
Charlotte’s fair brows ascended. ‘Thrash me,’ she repeated incredulously. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Oh, wouldn’t I?’ Mary Radcliffe returned grimly. ‘We’ll see about that. You’ll stable Dominic and then return here so that I may punish you as you deserve.’
Nonplussed, Charlotte stared at her.
‘Certainly not,’ she retorted. ‘And if you dare lay a finger on me I shall report you. You seem to forget who I am and who my father is. One word from me and he would have this stable closed. Permanently.’
Mary’s eyes blazed and before she could stop herself her hand flashed out and caught Charlotte squarely across the face, sending her head snapping sideways. My God, she felt better for that! Charlotte yelped and put a hand to her stinging cheek. She was pale with anger and the scarlet imprint of Mary’s hand was plainly visible.
‘You,’ Mary barked before Charlotte had time to recover. ‘You are nothing but a spoiled brat who deserves to be taught a much-needed lesson in respect. Respect to me and respect of my horses. As to your father. Well, I, too, have many influential acquaintances and your childish threat causes me no qualms whatsoever. And it certainly won’t alter my decision to thrash you as you deserve. Furthermore, I am well aware that all girls at St Catherine’s are subject to corporal punishment and it may interest you to know that when I undertook the position of riding instructress it was made quite clear to me that any misbehaviour of the pupils under my tuition would be dealt with by me in whatever way I saw fit. Naturally, I shall report your behaviour and my punishment of you to your Headmistress. For punished you’ll certainly be.’
Charlotte, her colouring coming and going, listened in sullen silence, recalling her Headmistress’s warning that she had empowered Miss Radcliffe with full authority to deal with any insubordination. Whether that actually permitted her to physically chastise a girl on the bare bottom as Miss Radcliffe seemed to be inferring, Charlotte did not know, but she realised with misgivings that Miss Radcliffe’s mind was made up and that the honourable Charlotte Castleton, a senior prefect at St Catherine’s, was about to have her bottom caned.
Mary Radcliffe, her desire to physically chastise the girl about to be realised, felt fully in control of the situation. Charlotte was looking far less sure of herself and she noticed a definite sense of apprehension about the girl as she saw her nervously finger her breeches-clad bottom.
‘Now, Charlotte,’ she went on briskly. ‘Return Dominic to his stable and then come back here. The rest of you girls do likewise as I think it appropriate that I punish Charlotte in public seeing that she saw fit to behave so disgracefully in public.’
Charlotte was aghast at the prospect of being punished before the other girls. Only Angela was a fellow Sixth former, the other five all being members of lower forms and therefore used to deferring to her position as a prefect. That they should be present while she was caned was unthinkable.
‘No,’ she retorted indignantly, her chin tilting. ‘Punish me if you wish. But I certainly won’t allow you to do so in public.’
‘My dear Charlotte,’ Mary Radcliffe drawled, not at all dismayed by her defiance. Indeed, her imperious attitude would make the humbling of her all the sweeter. ‘You have no say in the matter whatsoever. Here you have publicly misbehaved and here you will be publicly punished. And call it poetic justice if you like but I shall beat you with your own riding whip. Give it to me please.’ She held out her hand, her eyes never leaving the girl’s sulky face.
Charlotte almost refused then, white to the lips, she relinquished her riding whip. Mary bent it between her hands. Three feet of black leather covering a whalebone centre tapering to a thin looped tip. This would really make her jump.
‘Now, Charlotte,’ she said. ‘Take Dominic out and return as quickly as you can. I don’t want to have to come and fetch you.’
‘You won’t have to,’ Charlotte snapped, furious at the inference that she might be afraid to return and take her punishment. Without looking at anyone, she slipped the reins over Dominic’s head, ran up the stirrups and led him out of the school. It had been nearly two years since she had felt the bite of a cane across her bottom but she would be damned if she would allow herself to be intimidated by a girl only four years her senior and, apprehensive though she felt, her expression gave no hint of her anxiety when she returned to the indoor riding school.
The sight that met her eyes was not designed to encourage. In her absence Mary Radcliffe had had one of the heavy wooden saddle horses brought from the tack room and placed in the centre of the school. Looking very formal in her black cap, black jacket, cream breeches and black boots, Mary Radcliffe was waiting beside the horse, gently tapping the whip against a booted calf. The six girls stood silently to one side.
‘Like a bloody firing squad,’ Charlotte thought bitterly. Well, if they wanted a show she would give them one and, head high, she sauntered across the tan surface towards the little group. Pausing before Mary Radcliffe, she stared almost challengingly at her before allowing her gaze to fall to the whip held casually in her right hand. Even now she could scarcely believe that she would soon be feeling it whipping down across her bottom.
Mary saw her staring at the whip as though fascinated and swished it experimentally through the air. The high-pitched whine sent a thrill of fear through every girl and Mary had the satisfaction of seeing Charlotte wince.
‘Right, Charlotte,’ she said almost cheerfully. ‘For abusing one of my horses I shall give you twelve strokes across your bottom with your own riding whip.’
‘Twelve,’ Charlotte repeated, dismayed. The most she had ever received at school had been eight.
‘Yes, twelve,’ Mary intoned. ‘It’s no more than you deserve so please remove your cap and jacket.’
Charlotte recovered her composure and with an insolent shrug she took off her black cap, shook loose her blonde hair and removed her tweed hacking jacket. Standing now in white shirt, beige breeches and black boots her mature figure was shown to perfection. Firm, up-thrust breasts jutted against her shirt, her slender waist accentuating the swell of her hips and buttocks. Long, slim legs.
‘And now take down your breeches.’
Charlotte almost laughed. ‘My breeches!’ she exclaimed, having no intention of doing anything of the sort.
‘Of course,’ Mary returned, quite unperturbed. ‘You didn’t think I would allow you to keep them on, did you? I assume you aren’t caned across your skirt at school, are you?’ Charlotte remained stubbornly silent. ‘Well, how are you punished at school?’ she persisted as Charlotte averted her eyes and stared at a point somewhere above her head. She was well aware that her words were goading Charlotte into a mood of defiance against her and a faint smile touched her lips. She admired spirit in a girl. It would make the subduing of her all the more satisfying. ‘I’m waiting, Charlotte.’
Charlotte looked at her then, her face pale, eyes flashing. ‘Depending on who’s punishing us we have to bend over a desk or the arm of a chair. Our skirts are then raised and our knickers taken down.’
‘I can see you speak from experience,’ Mary quipped, enjoying her discomfort. ‘Well, I therefore fail to see what possible objection you can have to my thrashing you on your bare bottom. Take down your breeches at once, Charlotte, or I shall call upon the assistance of these girls to do it for you.’
Charlotte had every objection but that latter remark told her how futile it would be to oppose Miss Radcliffe. And judging by the smirks on the faces of the younger girls they would like nothing better than to forcibly take down her breeches. Well, she would deprive them of that pleasure at least and swallowing her pride she turned her back on everyone and began pushing them down. They had an elasticated waistband and it was an altogether provocative display as she slowly inched them down her thighs to her knees, her hips swaying seductively.
‘Bend over and grasp the bar,’ Mary Radcliffe commanded as Charlotte remained standing rigidly erect before the wooden horse. ‘I shall give you twelve strokes across your bottom and I shall expect you to take your punishment with the minimum of fuss. Should you display any resistance then I shall restrain you.’
Twelve strokes with that flexible riding whip would be punishment indeed, but her threat of restraint stiffened Charlotte’s resolve to take them in silence and she stared disdainfully over her shoulder at the grim-faced instructress.
‘You won’t need to restrain me,’ she observed scornfully. With that rejoinder she turned back and bent gracefully forward across the inverted vee of the wooden horse. Her shirt rode up to expose white cotton knickers that strained to contain the luscious flesh within.
Mary Radcliffe stepped to Charlotte’s side and, instructing her to raise her hips clear of the horse, slipped her hand beneath Charlotte’s belly, inserted her fingers into the waistband of her skimpy white knickers and pulled them down, first from the front and then over the twin mounds of her buttocks. She pushed them right down to join her breeches about her knees. Charlotte felt the cool air fan her naked bottom and writhed inwardly as she heard the sniggers of the younger girls. With a flick of her wrist, Mary turned back Charlotte’s shirt so that she was now naked from her shoulders to her knees.
There was no doubt that Charlotte possessed a superb bottom. Full and well-rounded, the deep cleft of her buttocks showing darker against the ivory white of her resilient flesh.
‘Place your legs apart,’ Mary Radcliffe ordered implacably.
Charlotte felt her colour rise as she braced her shapely legs against the elasticated waistband of her brief knickers and breeches knowing she was blatantly exposing herself to the gaze of Miss Radcliffe and the tittering girls. She felt both angry and humiliated for she knew that once word of her thrashing got round the school her authority as a prefect would be seriously undermined. The younger girls particularly would relish the thought of a prefect getting whipped and the knowledge that she had been punished in public by the young riding instructress would send them into added transports of delight.
Mary Radcliffe stepped to Charlotte’s side and placed the tip of the whip across her buttocks to get her measure: She saw the girl’s cheeks clench at the touch then, giving two preliminary taps, she raised her arm and brought the whip flashing down across Charlotte’s defenceless bottom. Despite herself, Charlotte gasped with shock and pain, tenaciously gripping the bar with hands that were icy cold. God Almighty, she had forgotten how cruel was the bite of a rod across tender young flesh!
Mary had never physically punished anyone before and she watched fascinated as the whip seemed to sink into the girl’s bottom cheeks, the creamy flesh depressing and rebounding, the blood rushing to the surface to form twin tracks of searing fire.
Charlotte tried to tighten her muscles in anticipation of the second cut but her very position made it impossible for her to do so. Bent so far forward with her bottom thrust high into the air and her legs braced apart, her naked buttocks remained soft and yielding. A magnificent target.
After an interval of perhaps five seconds, Mary raised her arm and brought the whip whistling down and a second line of fire tore across Charlotte’s bottom just below the first. Her cheeks clenched convulsively together and she pressed herself against the wooden horse but no cry escaped her. Mary frowned slightly, as she had expected a greater reaction than this. Perhaps she was dealing too lightly with the girl. She took a firmer grip on the whip and cut number three thwacked down full across the fleshiest part of Charlotte’s well-developed buttocks. Her body contorted and Mary was rewarded with a stifled gasp of pain she could not quite repress.
From her upside-down position Charlotte could see the whip dangling limply in Miss Radcliffe’s hand. Then it disappeared from sight and she tensed herself for the fourth cut. She would not cry out. She would not. She was beginning to breathe rather heavily and a hiss of indrawn breath escaped her as the whip sliced down across her right buttock cheek, the tip curling round and biting into her hip. She cringed away and shut her eyes, biting back a cry of pure torment. Her bottom quivered uncontrollably and then bounced madly as the fifth cut was delivered with full vigour across her smarting left cheek, the looped tip seeking and finding the sensitive crevice of her buttocks. Despite her resolve to take her thrashing in silence this cruel stroke was almost unbearable and a strangled cry escaped her lips. Before her trembling bottom had fully absorbed the pain of the fifth cut the sixth cracked down across the very tender flesh at the base of her bottom where her buttocks curved to meet her thighs. Charlotte’s head snapped back and hot scalding tears filled her eyes.
Mary Radcliffe, sensing that Charlotte’s control was nearing breaking point, gazed down upon her trembling bottom with almost clinical interest. Novice she may be in the art of physical chastisement, but she was giving this girl a hiding she would not forget. Charlotte’s bottom was no longer creamy white but flushed and angry, the six hot weals neatly bisected by the crevice of her shapely buttocks.
‘Six more to go, Charlotte,’ she announced impassively, removing her jacket to give even greater mobility to her strong right arm.
Charlotte moaned and gritted her teeth as she heard the high-pitched whine of the whip before it exploded across her tortured buttocks with a force that utterly destroyed her stoicism and sent her into a paroxysm of impassioned weeping.
Again the whip sang through the air sending Charlotte reeling to the left as it bit deeply into the inflamed flesh of her right buttock-cheek. An equally ferocious cut across her left buttock-cheek sent her reeling back again and her agonised shrieks echoed through the riding school. She no longer cared that she was being caned in the presence of younger girls. She could think of nothing but the burning pain centred in her twitching, throbbing bottom and her tears flowed continuously and unashamedly down her face.
Mary Radcliffe placed her left hand firmly on the small of Charlotte’s back, pressing the trembling girl against the horse and with deliberate precision brought the whip slicing diagonally down across a bottom that quivered with fearful anticipation. The stroke drew from Charlotte a shrill cry of anguish as it burned across the pulsating weals and the now subdued audience watched as her inflamed bottom writhed convulsively and her legs kicked wildly to display the secrets that lay between her thighs.
Mary smiled grimly and delivered the final two cuts with equal ferocity across the very tops of Charlotte’s thighs, smooth white flesh as yet unmarked by the whip but upon which there now sprang two fearful scarlet weals. Charlotte howled as white-hot pain engulfed her and as Mary released her she shot upright, her hands frantically rubbing her stinging, swollen buttocks in a desperate attempt to ease the burning pain, tears cascading down her face.
‘There, Charlotte,’ she heard Mary Radcliffe say through a mist of pain. ‘You’ve had your bottom soundly whipped and I hope it’s taught you never again to ill-treat a dumb animal. Do you think you’ve learnt your lesson?’
Charlotte, head bowed, hands still clutching her punished cheeks, remained standing facing the horse. Sobs still racked her body and she. was totally incapable of speech.
‘Please answer me, Charlotte,’ Mary Radcliffe insisted, turning her by the shoulders.
Charlotte kept her gaze lowered then slowly she ran a trembling hand through her tangled hair and raised her flushed and tear-stained face. ‘Yes,’ she croaked hoarsely. ‘Yes, I’ve learnt my lesson.’ She never thought to hear herself say those words but the rod is a great leveller and every trace of her former haughtiness had dissolved beneath the sting of the whip. Long after the pain had receded and the bruises faded she would writhe beneath the added humiliation of having had her knickers lowered and her bottom bared for the cane before girls subordinate to her.
‘I sincerely hope you have,’ Mary Radcliffe observed. ‘Because if ever you give me cause to punish you again then this thrashing will seem like a light spanking compared to what you’ll receive next time.’
Charlotte winced and fresh tears filled her eyes. ‘You — you won’t have to beat me again,’ she murmured, her voice barely audible. She ‘despised herself for having broken down so completely but the intense pain of this thrashing had taught her a lesson she would never forget and she vowed that never again would she allow herself to get into a situation where she could be humbled by the whip.
Mary regarded the subdued girl in silence. She was surprised to discover how stimulating she had found the caning of Charlotte to be. Simply by asserting her authority and forcing Charlotte to bend submissively before her to have her bottom bared and caned, she had reduced her from an arrogant eighteen-year-old to a tearful repentant child and she wondered if perhaps this might not be an excellent way of encouraging discipline throughout her stable. She could name at least three other pupils who would benefit from having their panties taken down and being given a taste of the cane across their bottoms. However delightful she found the idea to be, and it certainly appealed to her dominant nature, that remained for the future. Here was the present and she was determined to teach Charlotte one more lesson in humility.
‘Good,’ she said at last. ‘Now before I dismiss you please listen to what I have to say.’ She turned Charlotte round and bent her forward from the waist so that her thrashed bottom was once again presented to the assembled girls. She raised her hand in brought it down smartly first on the right cheek and then on the left. Each spank landed with a resounding crack. ‘If any of you girls are ever tempted to lose your temper with a horse then I hope the sight of this girl’s behind will give you pause for thought. Because next time it may well be one of you who has to expose her bottom for a thrashing.’
Charlotte almost wept afresh with rage and humiliation at this spanking, knowing that the six girls were taking in every inch of her crimson, weal-striped backside. No-one said anything, though Mary Radcliffe did not miss the apprehensive glances that were exchanged. Her lesson in discipline had gone home with a vengeance.
‘Right, Charlotte,’ she said curtly, giving her one more slap across her smarting rear that made her gasp. ‘Adjust your clothing and then you may go.’
Charlotte straightened at once and, still keeping her back to everyone, gingerly pulled up her little knickers and then her breeches. She winced and squirmed as the material hugged and chafed her burning bottom and she knew it would be days before she would be able to sit down without being painfully reminded of her beating. Retrieving her hat and jacket, she turned to go.
‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ came Mary Radcliffe’s amused voice.Charlotte looked round and Mary smiled as she snatched her whip from her hand and walked stiffly from the school.