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Thursday, 28 February 2019

Two Daughters Dealt With

Story from Janus 36 by Simon Banks
Well, what do you do with a 17-year-old daughter who has got to the stage of telling you, her father, that she’s old enough to do what she wants? And what she wants includes staying out at night to all hours with God-knows-who. And not just one such girl but two. Two close friends both still at school: Elaine Baxter and Tracy Watson.
What do you do if you are their fathers?
At least you can put your heads together, which is what Steven Baxter and Michael Watson, both in their early forties, were doing in the Pig’s Head over a pint. Something had to be done, but what? It had been building up for a while but last night was the end; when both men had waited up till after 1am before their daughters finally came in. And where had the girls been? ‘Just out, Dad,’ had been Elaine Baxter’s answer. While Tracy had advised her father, ‘Don’t worry, Dad. I can look after myself.’
‘We’ve got to do something,’ said Steve Baxter. He wiped the beer froth from his moustache.
‘Yes, but what?’
‘Actually, what they both need is a good caning.’
That was probably right, Tracy’s father agreed, but where were they going to get it? Certainly not at school, not the way schools were nowadays. ‘And, well,’ admitted Mr Watson, ‘I don’t exactly fancy caning my own daughter.’
Steven Baxter took a swallow of beer. He felt the same: he also couldn’t really see himself caning his own now shapely and decidedly nubile Elaine. It wouldn’t seem right somehow, though he’d be quite happy for someone else to do it and inject some sense into her.
He looked up as the thought suddenly came to him. ‘There is an answer of course. We could swap. You cane Elaine and I could cane young Tracy.’
Michael Watson’s eyes gradually widened as the sheer beauty of the idea sunk in. It was the obvious answer.
‘Steven Baxter! I think you’ve hit on it! That’s it!’
Steve Baxter grinned. ‘Parental approval will not be a problem!’
‘You’re bloody right it won’t!’
There was nothing like striking while the iron was hot, when the offence was still fresh in the offenders’ minds. It was decided therefore that the next day, a Saturday, would be ideal. For one thing on Saturdays both wives would be out shopping, for the presence of wives could well weaken the hard resolve that this called for. And obtaining the necessary instruments of chastisement did not present a problem for after leaving the pub they went round to have a chat with old Jack Crabtree, a retired village schoolmaster.
That gentleman duly produced a pair of nice whippy rattans. It was about time, he said, that these two mementos of his teaching days saw some action again. The three men laughed. To the two girls it was all going to come as a very nasty shock.
Elaine Baxter first became aware that something was up when after breakfast her father told her he was taking her over to the Watsons’. Elaine, a very pretty blonde young lady with a well filled-out figure which this morning was on show in a tight pink T-shirt and equally tight blue jeans, opened her blue eyes wide.
‘I’m not seeing Tracy this morning.’
Her father simply said it was not Tracy she was to see but Mr Watson.
‘Whatever for?’ asked Elaine.
‘You’ll see,’ said Mr Baxter. ‘But whatever he does or tells you to do you can be sure he’s got my authority.’
That made it even more mystifying but she could get no more out of her father. When they reached the Watsons’ house in Holden Avenue there was an equally mystified-looking Tracy waiting.
‘What’s this all about?’ she wanted to know.
She got the same ‘You’ll see’ which she had also earlier got from her father. Very shortly Steven Baxter was driving back the way he had come; his passenger now not his daughter but the equally attractive Tracy Watson.
‘What is this all about, Mr Baxter?’ she asked yet again when the two of them were inside the Baxters’ sitting room. ‘Is it some kind of joke?’
Steven Baxter gave her a thoughtful look. She was an attractive young piece all right; a gaminely pretty face framed by chestnut hair cut short, while down below, her figure, fuller than his own daughter’s, curved in all the right places in her pale blue sleeveless top and full black skirt.
‘No, it’s not a joke, Tracy. It’s about Thursday night. Your and Elaine’s gallivanting about.’
‘Oh that!’
‘Yes, that. And for that, young Miss, you are going to have the cane. On your bare bottom.’
She looked… and a pink flush gradually suffused her cheeks. ‘You — you’ve got to be bloody joking!’
‘Not joking, Tracy. And please don’t use that language. It’s going to be six strokes of the cane. Six with your knickers down on your bare bottom. That’s the basic. I shall then want you to tell me what you were doing on Thursday night and who you were with. If you refuse then there’ll be some more of the cane on that no doubt pretty bottom.’
Tracy’s face was now crimson. ‘No way! That… this is just ridiculous. Look, if you try anything I-I’ll tell my Mum.’
Mr Baxter laughed. ‘Your mother’s got nothing to do with it, Tracy. This is being taken care of by me and your father. And for your information he is right now going to be dishing out the same medicine to Elaine. So, if you’ll remove that skirt. And then slip your knickers down.’
‘No!’ she blurted. ‘I simply refuse!’
‘Take your skirt off!’ he growled. ‘Or I’ll do it myself. Or would you on the other hand like to be sent to an Approved School for six months? Parents unable to cope with juvenile delinquent, etc. You could quite easily, you know. And at those places they can cane you twice a day.’
This was a bit of Steven Baxter’s own imagination but it sounded good. Or correspondingly horribly bad if you were the naive and gullible Tracy Watson.
‘Look…’ she pleaded, ‘isn’t there… something else?’
‘No. The cane. Your dad and I are both quite adamant. You’ve got to be taught a lesson.’
Tracy looked at him… then up at the ceiling. Then down at the floor. And then at last, cowed by his truly adult supremacy, her hands went to the waist of the black calf-length cotton skirt. Pops were unpopped. The skirt came down and she stepped out of it. Underneath, her ripely rounded hips and bottom were in a skimpy pair of brief blue knickers under transparent tights.
‘Now take the tights and knickers down.’
‘Look… this is just awful!’ Her voice was cracking.
‘Take them down!’
Tracy hesitated again, then turned her back but was sharply told to stay facing Mr Baxter. Reluctantly the tights came down, to mid-thigh, and then even more reluctantly the brief knickers were slid down off the rounded hips. There was a well-developed bush of black hair which she covered with her hand.
‘This is simply awful!’ Tracy wailed again.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s meant to be. Now let’s see: let’s have you over the arm of the armchair, shall we?’
Tracy hobbled over to the chair and Mr Baxter pushed her down so that her hips were up on the chair arm and the upper part of her body was down in the seat. The twin globes of Tracy’s succulent rear were thrust sharply up to present a bewitching target.
Steven Baxter pushed one creamy flank. ‘Open your legs.’
‘No!’ protested the half-muffled voice.
‘Yes! This is a punishment, remember. And the more unpleasant it is the more you’ll think twice about your behaviour in the future.’
He placed her feet as far apart as the lowered knickers and tights would allow. It was a revealing position of course and Tracy knew it. She gave a groaning wail of embarrassment.
Steven Baxter now had Mr Crabtree’s cane in his hand. He gave it an experimental swish through the air, then tap-tapped it across the crests of the pouting bottom globes. There was an apprehensive hiss from Tracy. The cane was raised…
It struck with juddering impact, momentarily sinking into the soft resilient flesh before springing out again. ‘Aaaeeeooohh!!’ Tracy’s anguished yelp resembled the cry of a cat in heat, her hands coming automatically back to clutch at her burning bum which now displayed a bright red double-edged stripe.
Mr Baxter whipped the cane lightly across the backs of the clutching hands. ‘Hands away, or you’ll get extra ones. Come on!’
The hands were reluctantly removed; the jerking bottom became somewhat less agitated. Again the cane was raised and whipped down.
THWATT!… Once more it bit sharply in, an inch lower than the first contact line. Another banshee yell from Tracy and a renewed frenzied dance of her ripe round bum. From the depths of the chair seat there came desperate cries.
‘Stop, Mr Baxter! No more! You’re killing me…’
Steve Baxter drank in the splendid sight of the now doubly-striped bottom, relishing his power over the nubile half-naked teenager. ‘You’re getting six, like I said.’
THWATT!… ‘Aaaoooowwch!!’
He had laid the third into the exact curve where bum cheeks became fat upper thighs, a splendidly tender region which produced a correspondingly desperate reaction from young Tracy. How that must have hurt her! He waited until her violent motion had subsided somewhat, and then went back up to the full crest of the bottom for the fourth.
She seemed to be sobbing how.
The final two Mr Baxter put on in a nice cross, top left to lower right and vice versa. A cross on top of three transverse shots, although he wasn’t quite as accurate as he had wanted to be with the last of the six strokes. Then he let the cane fall to the floor. The girl’s bottom, twitching and writhing, was an impressive sight and it was clear he’d done an excellent job. Gasping and sobbing, Tracy made no attempt to get up.
He reached out to pat the red-striped bum. ‘Come on, it’s over now. At least it is if you’re sensible.’
He pulled Tracy to her feet, then put his arm round her. She was a nice kid, or had been until this recent bout of wildness. The sorrowful chestnut head reached his shoulders and her tear-stained face was pressed into his shirt-front, quickly wetting it. A bit further down a pair of firm full tits were pressed in as well. Very pleasant. Steve Baxter patted her back, then one hand slid down to likewise pat her bare bum. At which she flinched and gasped.
‘Going to tell me about it now?’ he asked.
She made a sound like ‘Nnngghh…’
Mr Baxter backed towards the armchair, taking Tracy with him. He sat down in the now vacant seat, as he did so twisting her so that she finished up face down — and bottom up — over his lap. His left hand held her while his right slid softly and caressingly over the now heated bare bottom.
‘You’re going to have to tell, Tracy; otherwise I’ll just have to continue your medicine.’
There was a silence and then, intermixed with sobs, it came jerkily out. They had gone to the disco where these two fellows had picked them up and taken them out in their car. Two young reps it seemed. According to Tracy’s halting account nothing much had happened. So were they planning to see them again, Mr Baxter wanted to know?
‘No! Definitely not! You understand?’
She was silent. He gave the bare bottom which he had been stroking a sharp smack. ‘Understand?’
‘Y…yes,’ she said, wincing.
The hand resumed its caressing. With a sniff Tracy said, ‘You… you’re awfully mean, Mr Baxter…’
A little later Michael Watson arrived with Elaine. The two men had a brief private word. It seemed that things had gone just as well at Holden Avenue as they had at the Baxters’ house. Mr Watson went off with Tracy leaving Steven Baxter alone with his daughter.
‘OK?’ he asked. ‘Had a nice little lesson then?’
Flushing red, Elaine made a face.
‘Let’s see,’ he told her. ‘Slip down your things.’
Elaine tried to refuse but her father insisted. Reluctantly she slipped down jeans and knickers, as she had earlier reluctantly slipped them down for Mr Watson. Her bottom bore six transverse red stripes, not the same pattern as Tracy’s, but the effect would have been very similar.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘That looks good! Pull them up.’
The two girls got together that afternoon, at Tracy’s house. It was nice and private for her parents had gone out. Up in Tracy’s room the girls commiserated with each other over their dreadful experiences of the morning. They told each other how really terrible their fathers were as they contemplated the prospect of no more late-night discos and the fact that they wouldn’t be seeing those two men again.
When they had said all this though, the fact remained that it had been a bit exciting, as well as painful. Awful but exciting at the same time. Because men were men and Mr Watson and Mr Baxter were both rather attractive in an older-man way. And having to submit to them in that very physical manner… well, the thought of it could undoubtedly make a 17-year-old female heart beat a bit faster. Not that they admitted this to each other.
‘Do you think,’ asked Elaine with a shiver, ‘that they’re going to want to do it again?’
‘Cripes!’ said Tracy.
In fact the two men decided, a couple of evening later in the Pig’s Head, that a little reminder for the girls would be no bad thing. The short sharp shock had obviously been excellent and a second dose could only improve matters. Indeed they were both agreed that more doses could with advantage be handed out at regular intervals for although they didn’t actually say so, each had found it a highly agreeable duty. For the second session, though, it was decided that the cane itself could be dispensed with. A sharp spanking would do.
It was not specified, the details were left open, but each of them privately decided such a spanking for the other’s daughter would be more effective if it was delivered on her bare bottom with skirt raised and knickers suitably lowered
Tracy and Elaine were both this time given prior warning by their fathers of what was to take place on Saturday morning. There were looks and expressions of shock and indignation — while at the same time each felt a shiver of excitement. It was frightful but it was also an undeniably heady prospect, in a way as exciting as being asked out by those two men at the disco.
And indeed when the weekend arrived both girls prepared for the ordeal as if they were going on a date: washing their hair the night before and on the appointed morning having a bath and putting on some scent and blusher and eye-shadow and, in Tracy’s case, some pink lipstick as well. And dressing in what they both considered to be their most glam outfits.
Furthermore both Tracy and Elaine decided that if they were going to be forced to reveal what was underneath their skirts, then boring old tights would not be good enough. So they arrayed themselves in eye-catching nylons and suspender belts, just like in those glamorous Sixties. Well, if you were going to be suffering the exciting indignity of having a man spank your bare bottom you had to be looking your best.

Wednesday, 27 February 2019

First Week of Term Part 2

Following on from Part 1 last week

Just how much can a young girl’s bottom take? Following their respective spankings downstairs, Brooks and Ellis find themselves awaiting further chastisement at the hands of the Head in the room upstairs set aside for canings. Brooks is sent to fetch the cane and in her absence the plumpish Ellis is once again put over the Headmaster’s knee for another spanking on her poor bare bottom. Brooks returns with cane and the two girls are made to kneel, side by side, on a padded bench and are caned. The less guilty brooks is despatched to the corner and looks on in horror as her accomplice is made to touch her toes for several strokes of the Head’s wicked cane. If you thought that Carol Ellis’s beautifully rounded rear-end was being severely dealt with downstairs in part one of this story, witness this thrashing in part two!
M/2f; year: 1985; time: 45 minutes
[continued from last week’s review] With a nice segue into part 2, both girls have pants at half-mast and are being caned by the teacher. Brooks on the bed; Harris kneels up on a bench. The teacher alternates mild snaps of the cane, as he wanders the room. The girls shrink in fear of the next unpredictable stroke. The punishment is lenient, but the intimidation is wonderful. The girls whine, cry, and sniffle through it all. Brooks is let off, and the video concludes with about 15 increasingly intense strokes to Alice’s notable behind. Nice marks and welts; a face glossed with tears and elegant acting – stoic acceptance that she must be caned and realistic unhappiness with the plight of helplessness without pants in front of a clearly lecherous teacher.
Part 1:
Part 2:

Tuesday, 26 February 2019

Video Lessons

Story from Uniform Girls 38
The TV screen is blank as the video begins to roll. Just the fuzzy, flickering grey light. Then abruptly it starts, shaking a bit, a hand-held camera, and slightly out of focus, but it quickly adjusts. To show a close-up of a bed. And a girl’s head, her face, framed by fluffed-up pillow and duvet. The pillow and duvet are in a pretty pink-and-white flowered pattern, bright and cheerful, as in a teenage girl’s room perhaps. The girl’s face is turned to the camera and she is awake, wide-awake. A pretty, rounded face beneath somewhat disordered short, auburn-brown hair. Her full mouth with its ripe pink lips is slightly parted and the big brown eyes are wide. With fear? Anticipation of something frightening she can see? There is only this close-up of the face, it is not possible for the viewer of the video to see anything else in the room. To see what the big brown eyes could be looking so wide-eyed at.
He shudders. The viewer of the video hunched in his chair before the screen. Unconsciously gritting his teeth. Not wanting to look but of course it is impossible not to. He knows the face of course. The girl with the pretty auburn hair and the soft, vulnerable mouth. Oh yes, he knows who she is.
The picture abruptly terminates, to be followed by the flickery grey light again. Is that all: that short piece of film? The video flickers on. Then… a voice from the blank screen. A man’s disembodied voice: soft, caressing almost. The sentences spaced out.
‘Sweet dreams, eh?’
‘Isn’t she lovely?’
‘A man would be lucky to be snuggling down with that.’
A longer pause. Then: ‘I wonder what Young Miss has got on under there?’
‘Could be nothing, I suppose. Nothing at all.’
‘Could be a girl’s sweet pussy in there with nothing at all on.’
Another of the longer pauses. Then: ‘I wonder if that sweet pussy had a visitor last night?’
‘Mmm? Do you wonder that? If it had a friendly visitor?’
That is the end of the voice. Just the flickering grey light again now. Is that all? It is enough, more than enough. The short piece of film and then the voice, digging under his skin. He has stiffened at the voice. His hands gripping the arms of his chair in the darkened room. He recognises the voice as of course he knows the girl.
The silent flickering continues. And then… a picture again. His eyes narrow. His breathing is tight, raspy.
The girl again. But she is not in bed now, she is standing. In the doorway of a bedroom with the bed, that pretty pink-and-white duvet and matching pillow, in the background. The room behind her is brightly lit, throwing the girl into sharp focus. She is standing with her hands at her sides in a white baby-doll nightie of silk or some similar material which clings to her ripely rounded figure. The nightie is virtually transparent and her firm, prominent boobs are especially in evidence, their pink nipples thrusting out, full, swollen it seems. As if perhaps someone has been playing with them. Sucking them maybe.
The baby-doll reaches only as far as the upper curve of her hips where it terminates in a fluffy hem. Below this are very tight, brief, matching pants. Sheer like the upper garment and tightly stretching over the ripe roundness of her Venus mound. The camera closes in. Focussing on her mound. The pants are so sheer that her auburn pussy hair shows clearly through, and sufficiently brief at the crotch that on either side a few curly hairs are uncontained.
The camera lingers on this intimate view and then the picture abruptly breaks off again. To be followed by more of the tantalising blank light.
He waits. For the voice. For the voice to probe again. Like a surgeon’s scalpel. He could turn the set off but of course he can’t. Shortly it comes: ‘Wasn’t that lovely?’
‘Isn’t she lovely?’
A little giggle. ‘Prime pussy.’
‘And those really lovely tits too.’
‘Yes, she’s got something on now.’
‘But maybe she’s just put it on, eh? To be decent for the camera.’
‘She really is lovely though.’
A longer pause. The talking has stopped perhaps. Then: ‘But pretty girls can’t be in bed all day, can they?’
‘Even if they are having visitors.’
‘Pretty girls do need… some discipline.’
‘Now and then…’
His breath hisses out. The voice has stopped now, the screen is flickering silently. But from the teasing words there is not much doubt that it will shortly come to life again. To dig deeper under his skin.
Yes. Here it is. A view of the bed again. A wider view, you can see something of the room, white walls with exposed dark brown timbers. It is not in fact the same room, or the same bed at least. The duvet is different, a different pattern, brown and white. But of course his eyes are not on any of that, they are on what is central in the picture. Filling a good part of the screen. The girl.
She is bent face-down over the edge of the bed in a half-sideways angle to the camera. She is in the baby-doll and pants again but the former has been pulled up above her waist. To reveal fully the swelling curves of her ripe rump in the tightly-stretched pants.
There can be no doubt what is happening. Or has been happening. Because across the exposed flesh which swells tightly out on either side of the brief and half-transparent pants can be seen two cane marks. Two sets of bright red tram-lines.
The camera lingers on the view: the immobile girl; her obediently offered bottom. Then it cuts out. The blank flickering again.
Some seconds pass. Then the voice again: ‘Oh yes. A little discipline.’
‘If a girl has been at fault.’
‘Disobedient to a visitor perhaps?’
More blank flickering. Is that it?
No. The picture is suddenly there again. The same view. The same bedroom scene. But different of course. The girl’s bottom more directly facing the camera. The brief pants have now been drawn down. So that what is facing is her completely nude bottom. And it is not only her bottom that is on view. In this position with her knees forward there is everything on view. A full view of her pussy. The pink slit in the auburn curls.
The picture cuts out. The flickering light. Running on. No voice this time. Then the picture again. The same view only now there is also a part-view of a man. His arm plus part of his torso. In a yellow sweater. His head is out of sight. But his hand… is at the girl’s bottom. The girl who is in the same position with her pants down.
The hand slides over the smooth-fleshed buttocks… and then onto her pussy. Onto her cunt. The hand is there, on her cunt, as the picture breaks off.
And that is the end. There is no more picture, no more voice. The tape runs blankly on and on. Until it comes to its end.
Numbed, he got up to rewind the tape. Maybe he should watch it through again. Force himself to, to see if there were any clues to where she was. But there was anyway nothing he could do. And he didn’t know if he could stand watching it a second time. Especially that last bit. When he had his hand on her.
The video had come by special delivery this morning. He had frantically opened the package to find the cassette and a brief printed note: Just to let you know she’s fit and well. Indeed in the pink of health. What a lovely girl! A letter will follow, with details of what I want. When you’ve had a little more time to consider your foolish behaviour.
He went to switch on the light. When would that letter come? Later today? Tomorrow? Next week? It would depend on how long that character wanted to toy with him. Torture him.
It was two days now since Pam had been abducted.
She had been picked up from the office where she worked as a data processor. Picked up when she left work, at five o’clock as usual. Graham knew this because there had been the phone call in the evening. Telling him to be sensible. Pam would be alright as long as he was sensible.
Sensible of course meant accepting it. Not creating a fuss. Not going to the police. He hadn’t gone to the police. For one thing the police nowadays, in 1995, were helpless in some areas. Nowadays people with power and influence could take the law into their own hands and the police would do nothing.
So Graham hadn’t made a complaint. Hadn’t reported that his young wife of only three weeks had been abducted. Even though he knew who it was. His name was Carling. Ronald Carling. Or that was the name he had used.
It was two weeks ago, almost at the end of their honeymoon at the seaside resort of Southcliffe. Graham and Pam had been in a pub on the front in the early afternoon, having a drink at the bar. The stranger had introduced himself and wanted to buy them a drink. A middle-aged man with glasses and a clipped military moustache. Ronald Carling he had said.
Graham had said, ‘No thanks’, rather curtly perhaps. He had already noticed the stranger eyeing Pam. His sharp eyes on Pam’s slim but ripe shape in her pretty short-skirted pink frock. Mr Carling had tried to insist and Graham had repeated his refusal and said they had to go. They had left the pub, Graham conscious of Carling’s eyes on Pam’s rear view.
The next afternoon they came across him again when they went for a stroll along the promenade. Perhaps Carling had been on the lookout for them but he suddenly appeared.
‘Hello. Remember me? Ronald Carling. How about that drink now?’
Graham said, ‘No. Really. And we’d rather you didn’t keep bothering us.’
Mr Carling has coloured slightly and then made the threat. Saying it wasn’t a good idea for young people to be discourteous, impolite. When someone was trying to be friendly. His eyes had been on Pam, eyeing her tits in the brief sun-top. Then he had looked straight at Graham.
‘You could regret being unfriendly, young man.’
He had gone on to suggest that if Graham didn’t want a drink he could take Pam by herself. He was sure the pretty lady would like a drink, and sure she didn’t want to be unfriendly.
Graham had a sudden hot vision of Mr Carling taking Pam off somewhere. In his car perhaps. Taking her somewhere and fucking her. That was what this man wanted, Graham could see it in his eyes. Or he thought he could. A nice juicy young piece that he had suddenly taken a fancy to.
Red in the face at the thought, Graham blurted, ‘Fuck off!’
Afterwards Pam said, ‘You shouldn’t have said that. He was really annoyed. He might do something.’
Graham had been dismissive. The man was just some stupid character trying to annoy them. Pam said maybe she should have gone and had a drink with him. It wasn’t worth making enemies. Not nowadays. She repeated: ‘He might do something.’
Graham said, ‘He wanted to… you know. Fuck you. That’s what he wanted.’
Pam had coloured. ‘Well, I wouldn’t have let him. And maybe he didn’t want that.’
Graham said, ‘Yes he did. And you wouldn’t have been able to stop him. He would have driven you out in the country and just done it. Taken your knickers off and just done it. You wouldn’t have been able to stop him.’
Pam wouldn’t agree. And she even spoke of going back out by herself, on the chance of seeing this Mr Carling again. To apologise for Graham’s words and accept his offer of a drink. Graham indignantly refused to agree to this and they had a bit of a tiff. But maybe he should have agreed. Definitely he should have agreed, he thought now.
What was that character doing to her.
Pam had remained nervous at first. They had one more day at Southcliffe following Graham’s stupidly (as Pam saw it) provocative remark, and she had been on tenterhooks all that day. Fearing some sort of action from Mr Carling though she didn’t know what. But they hadn’t seen him again. Back home the sense of apprehension had initially remained, because he could have found out where they lived: the town, and the little council flat that Pam had moved into just before the wedding and where now they were both settling into.
But there had been nothing. No sign to indicate that Mr Carling was going to pursue the matter and exact some sort of revenge. So gradually Pam stopped worrying about it. She had thought about it a lot at the beginning. Wondering if Graham had been right and the stranger had wanted to screw her. She had seen his looks of course, as Graham had, and it was certainly possible, likely perhaps. And it was true too what Graham said, that if he had really wanted to she couldn’t have stopped him. He could have pinned her down and taken her knickers off and simply done it. Screwed her.
Pam knew that even if she had denied it to Graham. At 19, as she was, a girl knew it as a fact of life. Nowadays. 1995. Pam knew it in particular from Predent Insurance where she had worked for the last year. A girl found out there were certain things she couldn’t argue with. Not if she wanted to keep her job. Graham of course didn’t know about work. About that side of work. About her boss, Mr Forton. And he of course wasn’t the only one at work.
No doubt that Mr Carling would have been the same. His eyes on her had said he wanted the same. And if he was going to cause trouble otherwise, Pam would have let him have it. Though not telling Graham because what was the point. Just saying they had a friendly drink and that was all.
Things were not greatly different back at work. She was a married woman now, Mrs Gilfield and not Pam Mercer, but that didn’t change things. Not for Mr Forton certainly.
‘How was Southcliffe?’ he greeted her. ‘But I suppose you didn’t see it. I suppose you were in bed all week. Doing it continuously day and night for the whole week, eh?’
And then Mr Forton wanted it. Right away. When she was scarcely in the office. Wanting it there, with the door locked.
No, things were still the same. And with that and their new flat to occupy Pam’s mind the thought of the importunate stranger quite quickly faded. He could be forgotten. Until two weeks later. Thursday evening, just after five o’clock when she went to her car in the car park. There he was. Smiling. Waiting for her.
With adrenalin suddenly flooding in her veins she thought of running, but didn’t. It wouldn’t do any good. If he had found her he was going to get her.
Breathless now she walked up to him.
‘Good girl,’ he said softly. ‘Mrs Gilfield, correct? The new Mrs Gilfield. And she’s going to come and have a drink with me.’
He had moved in close. His hands were unbuttoning her light coat. One hand sliding in lightly cupped Pam’s pussy through her thin dress.
‘Yes, young lady?’
‘Y… Yes… Alright…’ she stammered.
The note with that first video said he would receive a letter, but it is not a letter it is another video. A package by special delivery again the next morning which clearly contains a video. He feverishly opens it. This time there is no note, just the video tape. With his heart pounding Graham draws the curtain and puts the cassette in the machine. The grey flickering light again, but this time the voice starts almost at once. Mr Carling’s voice.
‘Hello, Graham. Can I call you Graham? Did you like the other tape? A lovely girl, isn’t she? And so photogenic. And cooperative too, I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear. That’s good because it means we have no problems. Although we do have to have a bit of discipline, as I said. And of course showed you. Discipline is always good for a pretty girl. So I’m doing you, and pretty Pam, a service, aren’t I?’ There is a smug little chuckle.
There is a pause. Is the picture going to start now? He dreads it starting because it is bound to be another exercise of sticking the knife in and twisting it around. But there is no way he can avoid watching. And Mr Carling knows that. It is not yet, though. There is more talk: ‘I only sent you excerpts of course. Of that first video. You might not have wanted to see all of it. All the action. She was very good, though. Very cooperative as I say. So we had no problems.’
‘But anyway, what you have now is my second effort. It’s more complete, there’s more continuous action. It’s not fully complete of course. There is more action that I haven’t sent. Action that perhaps you would not wish to see.’ One of those smug chuckles again. ‘You see I am a very sensitive person. I am concerned about people’s feelings. Perhaps in contrast to yourself, Graham. With your rather rude dismissal of my friendly overtures. But I am sure you are learning. This film incidentally was taken by a good friend of mine who is staying with us here. He is very impressed with your Pam. Very taken with her.’
The voice stops at that point. Now the film will come. Graham tenses himself. Yes. The screen is abruptly flooded with colour. Dazzling at first, as his eyes focus…
Mr Carling is sitting in what looks like a cottage kitchen, at a large table covered with a check cloth. In tweed jacket and tie and with the light glinting off his spectacles, he is drinking from a teacup. At the same time Pam is standing in the corner of the room. She is wearing a transparent green plastic mac and it seems very little else. The mac reaches scarcely as far as her crotch and below that her legs are bare. And she seems pretty much bare underneath the mac too. Certainly she is otherwise bare above the waist for her nude tits can be seen. Below the waist there is perhaps something. White. Tight knickers, or equally tight and brief shorts. Pam is looking contrite – or apprehensive. Or perhaps both. She is standing holding the hem of the rain jacket, as if trying to pull it down to cover more of herself. She is watching Mr Carling.
He puts the cup down and beckons her. There is no sound, but he has said something. Pam is coming over and Mr Carling is getting to his feet. Wagging his finger. Admonishing her. Perhaps she has made the tea and it is not to his liking. Pam is saying something, with now a decidedly unhappy expression on her face. Shaking her head. And then bending over. Bending herself down over the check table cloth.
Mr Carling pulls the rain jacket up above Pam’s waist. She in fact has on some sort of tight stretch knickers. In her bent-over position Pam’s ripe bottom seems to be virtually bursting out of them. Mr Carling slides his hand sensuously over the taut seat of the knickers. And briefly in between Pam’s thighs. Then he is going over to a cupboard. And taking out a cane.
Pam is going to be caned.
Yes. Graham holds his breath.
Squarely across those ripely out-thrust cheeks. Pam’s bottom writhes and rolls. In eerie silence because it is clear Pam must have yelled out.
This time the camera is focussed on her face, which as the cane slices in gives a silent yell of agony.
The caning continues, as Pam’s bottom squirms and writhes. Now and then her head jerks up and then goes down again, with her left or right cheek flat on the table cloth. Graham is not counting, he couldn’t bear to count, but there must be six or eight, each one zipping searingly into the straining seat of those ultra-tight knickers. At last Mr Carling stops. He turns to smile at the camera.
The film breaks off, to be replaced by the flickering grey light. And Mr Carling’s voice.
‘How was that? Took it very well, didn’t she? Made a bit of noise, although you won’t be hearing that. But apart from the noise, very good. Now we’ll have another piece of discipline. This time harder to take because she has her knickers down. Her shorts and her little knickers down and her pretty bottom nice and bare. So definitely harder to take. Some girls, if you give it to them on the bare they’re hopping up and down like a banshee. So let’s see how our Pam manages, shall we? I hope you’re enjoying this, Graham.’
The voice stops. The picture restarts. Yes. Pam over the table again, in the green transparent mac and now a pair of white shorts with little white knickers underneath but both of these garments have been pulled down close to her knees. Pam’s bare bottom is fully facing the camera and she is in that knees-bent position of the first video. Which fully exposes her pussy to the camera. It is there staring at the camera, staring at Graham. He gazes back, transfixed, hypnotised almost. The spell is broken as Mr Carling’s cane slices devastatingly in.
They didn’t go for a drink of course. When Mr Carling confronted Pam in the car park and then took her over to his car. They weren’t going to a pub for a drink, they were going to his cottage. He had a pretty cottage on the coast, not too far from Southcliffe in fact and that was where they were going. He was taking Pam off to teach Graham a lesson. A lesson in politeness and friendly behaviour.
Mr Carling told Pam this as they sat in his car. He had her coat completely unbuttoned now so that he could fondle her nice firm boobs. She didn’t object to this of course. But the thought of being taken off scared her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she stammered. ‘Really. About Graham being rude. He didn’t… really mean it. And please don’t take me off. It’s not just Graham, there’s my job. I have to be at work.’
Mr Carling said she could phone them in the morning. Say she was sick. She wouldn’t be off for too long, a few days maybe. Long enough to teach Graham a lesson. And of course long enough for him, Ronald Carling, to enjoy her for a little while. Was that OK, he asked.
Pam said an unhappy, ‘Yes.’
‘Good. So let me have a nice kiss.’
Pam kissed him. She was going to have to cooperate. That way it would be easier and hopefully he would let her go earlier. So she made it a nice sexy kiss to show she was cooperating. The kind of kiss Mr Forton at the office liked. Well, the kind Graham liked too of course. Pushing her tongue right into Mr Carling’s mouth.
‘That was lovely,’ he said. ‘Now what about a really nice kiss.’
He grinned… and unzipped his trousers. Then pulled out his erect cock. Red-faced, Pam glanced nervously around. Knowing what he wanted of course. He wanted her to suck it. But they were over in the corner of the car park and there was no one around. No one to see. So she did it. Lowering her head and taking it in her mouth.
The cane was the worst thing. At the cottage. Definitely the worst thing. ‘No! Not the cane!’ she yelped. ‘Not that. Please!
But Mr Carling said she had to have the cane. He was going to send it to Graham. Video shots of Pam being caned. ‘That’s part of his lesson,’ Mr Carling said. ‘A nice painful lesson for him.’
Of course they could send shots of other action, Mr Carling said. Other action of Pam with himself and with Mr Mamforth, Mr Carling’s friend who was staying with them at the cottage. Pam knew what action he meant and she couldn’t possibly bear having that sent to Graham, not if she had any choice in the matter. So in that case… she had to take the cane.
It was really killing. On her bare bottom. Or with just a pair of skin-tight diaphanous knickers on. Making her think she wanted to be sick. Feeling like her bottom had been sliced in two.
‘I’ve got to do it properly,’ Mr Carling said. ‘Nice and zippy. I don’t want it to look as if you’re not really getting it, as if we’re just playing around. Otherwise it wouldn’t be a lesson at all for our dear Graham, would it?’
Apart from that dreadful cane it wasn’t too bad at the cottage. Apart from the cane and worrying about Graham. Pam begged to be allowed to phone him but Mr Carling wouldn’t allow it. It would relax the tension, he said. And they couldn’t have that. ‘He’s got to have his little bit of suffering.’
Poor Graham! There was nothing he could do except accept his lesson. And suffer. He would know he had no choice but to accept what had happened.
‘He won’t be silly,’ Mr Carling said. ‘He’s a silly young man but he’s sensible enough to accept it and not make a fuss. If he tried anything silly he might never see his pretty Pam again. I could sell her off, to Arabs for instance. They would absolutely love her. Or perhaps the German trade. How about that?’
Pam gave a little yelp of fright. She was sure Graham would be sensible. And he knew she was alright. Safe and sound. He was getting the videos sent to him.
The third video showed Pam playing Ludo with Mr Carling. It was different from the game as normally played though. It was strip Ludo. For Pam at least, Mr Carling wasn’t doing any stripping off. But when Pam lost she had to take something off. She started off in her yellow dress, the one she had worn to the office the day Mr Carling had taken her. The dress came off the first time she lost a game. Underneath Pam had on a pretty pale yellow set of underwear: slip, bra and panties, a matching little suspender belt with her stockings. These items came off in turn one by one.
When she was down to just the little yellow pants Mr Carling took Pam over his lap and took down the yellow pants and spanked her bottom. Then he gave her a caning. Bending her over the card table with her hands behind her back. And slicing that cane zippily into her bare bottom.
That was the end of the videos. Mr Carling thought Graham would now have learnt his lesson. ‘Oh I’m sure he has!’ Pam exclaimed. ‘Please!’
Mr Carling gave her a quizzical look. ‘You’re keen to get back then?’
‘Yes! Yes! Well I… I love him. He’s my husband… and we’d only been married for three weeks.’ She felt a bit like bursting into tears. It really was a dreadful thing to have happened.
Mr Carling said sardonically, ‘So you don’t want to be sold to the Arabs? Or some German contacts I have?’ Pam shook her head. This time the tears did start. But he was only joking. He said she could phone Graham. Tell him she could come back. If he had learnt his lesson.
So Mr Carling drove Pam back home, on the Saturday afternoon. She had been with him at the cottage for just over a week. At the flat she asked him if he wanted to come in, for a cup of tea. Mr Carling said yes, certainly. He would certainly accept their hospitality.
It was a little embarrassing of course. After Pam had given Graham a big, relieved hug. But it passed off alright. Mr Carling said he hoped there were no ill feelings. He intended to keep in touch. And he hoped to have Pam come and stay with him again from time to time. If that was alright. Graham said a somewhat unhappy ‘Yes’.
They had the tea. It was time for Mr Carling to go. But maybe he thought Graham should have one more lesson. Not a video this time but real life action.
‘Ah… you wouldn’t mind if I took the lovely lady into the bedroom? For a few minutes. As we’re all friends now.’
It was an effort but Graham managed a stammered, ‘Noo… oo. That’s OK.’
In the bedroom Mr Carling screwed Pam on the bed.
And then it was life back to normal. Back to the office for Pam on Monday. Her little enforced adventure was over. Although Mr Carling had said he was going to want to see her again from time to time. But for the moment it was back to normal. Apologising to Mr Forton for being off all last week. She didn’t tell him of course, just said she’s been ill.
‘Maybe married life doesn’t agree,’ Mr Forton said. ‘All that screwing you’re getting every night is too much. Maybe we’d better put a ban on it. Mmm?’
Then of course he wanted it himself. In his office, with the door locked. Over the desk. Pam didn’t object or argue. In 1995 you didn’t argue with the way things were. Pam knew that. And Graham knew it too now. After his lessons.