From Blushes 16
‘Right — let’s get on with it!’ The cane flexed in a menacing arc, was released and sprang back to quiver whippily.
The girl’s blue-green eyes flashed — a mingling of fear and defiance.
‘But, dad… surely not now… not with Mr Gordon here!’ It was a kind of pleading gasp. Joanne did not bother to mention her sister, Rosie, at 16 almost ten years younger than herself. It was a custom in their family, for as long as could be remembered, for each to be a witness of the other’s punishments.
‘Mr Gordon is here because he is the aggrieved party in this,’ answered George Bowers, ‘as you very well know, my girl.’
George nodded approvingly. George always thought of Joanne and Rosie as his actual daughters since he had been bringing them up since they were children. They were however his stepdaughters, children of his dear wife, Mildred, who had died some five years previously. Like himself, she had been a firm believer in corporal punishment in the home and had always insisted he carry it out, right from the earliest times. It had been simple spanking then but, once the older girl, and much later the younger girl, entered their teens, George had deemed it more beneficial to employ a slipper and belt as well. Also, when the matter was serious, the cane.
And this was serious!
‘But, dad, I’m a grown woman —’
‘In that case, my girl, you should know better. Come along, get those clothes off. All of them!’
‘But… I m-mean… in front of Mr Gordon…’
‘Joanne,’ said George Bowers sternly ‘as you are aware, whenever I have had to use a cane on you, I have insisted you remove all your clothes. It’s part of your punishment. I am not changing that custom now. Particularly in this most serious case.’
Still the girl hesitated, glancing at the couch upon which the grey-suited, straight-backed figure of Mr Gordon sat. As usual, with sleeked-back, greying hair, he had a complacent, oily look about him. Her sister Rosie was fidgeting with nervous apprehension, well aware that if Joanne didn’t very soon start doing as she was told, she would be earning herself some ‘extras’.
‘Dad? Couldn’t I just keep…’
‘Joanne, for the last time, get those clothes off!’
Those blue-green eyes flashed again — now a mingling of fear and fury. It was outrageous that she, at her age, should have to do this — should be treated like a child. But what else could she do? Years of discipline from her stepfather had conditioned Joanne into a state of submissive obedience. However, the older she got, the more difficult that state was to endure, and the longer she stayed at home, with the family, the less she seemed likely to move out and finally find a flat of her own. While she stayed, of course — it went without saying — she would be subject to her stepfather’s discipline just as she always was. What bad luck it had been that Mr Gordon had caught her with her fingers in his till. All the time, Joanne’s fingers had been undoing the buttons of her light-blue blouse.
With a resigned sigh, she removed it, not looking towards the couch. But that, of course, was the least of her worries.
‘How many are you thinking of giving her?’ enquired Mr Gordon, trying not to gaze too obviously at a pair of soft breasts bobbling about under a lacy white brassiere as Joanne pushed and wriggled her dark blue jeans down.
‘A dozen,’ answered George Bowers calmly… and there was a gasp from Joanne. She stood, with jeans halfway down her limbs, displaying the tiniest pair of white briefs imaginable. So tiny, in fact, that curly blonde down peeped out from the sides of a tight V. With the cane, she normally got six. The worst she had ever had was ten. Six to start with, two extra for rudeness before the punishment started and two more extra for interfering during its application. Now she was getting twelve right from the very start! Oh lord, she must make sure she didn’t get any ‘extras’.
This time it was Mr Gordon’s turn to nod approvingly. He watched the lacy brassiere being unfastened and removed. Those soft, bobbling apples sprang out and seemed to bobble even more. Mr Gordon swallowed hard and lowered his eyes. But only a little lower. Joanne was beginning to push down those miniscule briefs.
Perhaps conscious of the gaze, a spark of fury blazed momentarily through the girl. ‘Ohh! Oh this… this is outrageous!’ she cried.
‘Your behaviour was outrageous!’ her stepfather snapped back instantly. ‘You’ve disgraced the family.’
‘Quite,’ nodded Mr Gordon in agreement.
‘Two extra for cheek,’ said George Bowers.
‘Oh… oh Dad… please no! Twelve is enough… surely twelve is enough!’
‘That is for me to decide.’
Joanne had stepped from her briefs and kicked them away. Instinctively a hand covered that curly-golden triangle. Her cheeks had suddenly become highly coloured, shame now joining her fury. She saw Rosie give her a sympathetic smile from the couch. She also saw the eyes of Mr Gordon as hard and bright as polished pebbles, upon her.
‘Dad… please I’m sorry. Please understand a little. I’m so… so sorry’
‘I understand perfectly,’ said George Bowers. ‘You have behaved in a way I would never expect a daughter of mine to have behaved. Especially after the upbringing I have given you. But, since you have behaved in that way, you must suffer for it. Go to the chair.’
‘O-ohh… dad… I don’t d-deserve it…’
The chair to which George Bowers’ cane pointed was wing-backed and of average height. A girl five feet six inches high would be able to keep her legs dead straight as she bent over its back. That was what Joanne was going to have to do. It was the chair over which she had been punished for years longer than she liked to remember. Every punishment had been bad enough but to know that a virtual stranger was present made it doubly… no, trebly… worse!
Mr Gordon’s eyes followed the girl as she moved towards the chair. Those delicately bouncing breasts, that swinging-quivering bottom!
She was hesitating at the back of the chair. She was aware that it had been positioned so that it was three-quarters on to the couch. He would see everything. All of her ‘personal parts’… and all the results of her caning. He saw her blushing and wondered if she had realised how much of her half-naked body would be on view.
‘Bend over Joanne, and be quick about it. You’ve dilly-dallied enough already.’
‘Ooooh… dad… this is so a-awful…’
‘Maybe… but you deserve it.’
With sanctimonious satisfaction, George Bowers watched his stepdaughter bend over the back of the wing-chair. All her intimacies were displayed to him, as they so often had been before. Yet, strangely one might think, he did not lust after her in the ordinary sense. He told himself he loved the girl and had a sense of righteous duty to see that she was brought up in what he thought of as a clean-living fashion. When she was married, it would be a different matter. As it was, this girl was still single and still living under his roof. Therefore, she had to stick to the rules. His rules. If not, she must suffer for it.
And now she was going to suffer.
‘Get your head right down into the cushion. Grip the sides…’
‘Oh… oohhh… dad…’ Muffled moans came up. Rosie looked even more sympathetic than ever. Hadn’t she been through it all herself? Mr Gordon looked far too highly-coloured for his health’s sake. A nicotine-stained right hand was trembling and he would have loved to ask if he might have a smoke. But it did not seem quite the right moment to make that kind of request.
In almost military style, George stepped to the left of his stepdaughter’s curving body. How tightly her thighs were pressed together, how snug was the crease between her buttocks! He tapped the taut flesh and saw it flinch. Flinch and clench.
The hook-handled cane rose and then lashed down hard. It bit, ah yes, how it bit! There was a sucking intake of breath and a shuddering-quivering of the whole body. But no more. Joanne had been hardened over the years. Mr Gordon was impressed.
The second stroke whiplashed down, biting an inch below the first. Again came that intake of breath and this time that curving bottom performed a bouncing squirm along the back of the chair. As always, George was admiring of the girl’s fortitude. He’d given her two really good crackers and her hands had not yet left the side of the chair.
Normally, Joanne would have been thinking — only four more to go. Now the whole painful business was but beginning.
Cracckk! Came the third stroke. Then, swiftly following, Craaccckkkk! came the fourth.
‘Oww… aaghh…’ Joanne had lost her grip and was up off the back of the chair. Her hands flailed but she managed to stop them pressing to her bottom as she, and they, so earnestly desired. It was something forbidden during a punishment. Just one more little family tradition!
Strokes five and six had Joanne not only squirming more violently but kicking wildly. A succulent cleft widened, golden down was openly on display. Mr Gordon’s forehead was now beaded with perspiration. She deserves it, he kept telling himself… yes… this wicked young lady deserves all she is getting!
‘You may stand up for the moment, Joanne,’ said her stepfather. It seemed to him the girl had shown excellent fortitude so far; she deserved some kind of break. He turned to face his other stepdaughter, Rosie. ‘You see, my dear, what happens to girls who succumb to temptation?
‘Yes, father,’ answered Rosie meekly. She was not envying her sister one little bit. Still eight strokes to come! Oh dear, oh dear, she knew just how awfully painful each single cut of that cane was, even though, up till now, she had only received four as a punishment.
Oh that cane, it was so awful!
Mr Gordon was examining the erect, shuddering figure circumspectly. Joanne had guts without a doubt. She was still dry-eyed. Breathing fast, quivering at the lips, but not weeping. It showed the value of repetitive discipline.
‘Mr Gordon…’ George Bowers was suddenly standing in front of him. ‘I am going to make a request of you. Since it was you who was the injured party. I am going to ask you to complete Joanne’s caning.’
A mouth opened and shut, goldfish-like; pebble eyes bulged further. ‘If… if you think that’s… right, Mr Bowers.’
‘Oh I do Mr Gordon…’
Joanne was as rigid as a statue and almost as pale as one. ‘D-dad you can’t do this… to me…’
‘I can do what I like in my own household, young lady. Bend over that chair… and get ready for what you thoroughly deserve!’
Sobbing, groaning, Joanne bent. It had been humiliating enough to have Mr Gordon watching. Now… oh God… to have him do this!
Holding the cane, Mr Gordon was actually trembling through and through.
‘Sh-shall I start now?’
‘Whenever you’re ready, Mr Gordon…’
Ready? My God, wasn’t he ready! Ready and most eager. No wait… he mustn’t feel like that. This girl was only getting just retribution. And with that compassionate thought, he lashed down the cane just as hard as he could. It sliced diagonally, raised a piteous shriek, and had those slim, filly-thighs playing quite deliciously. This was not good for his blood pressure. No, definitely not! Again the cane hissed and bit. Another shriek; more frantic contortions of those youthful hindquarters. It seemed that Joanne was reaching the end of her tether. She was about to disgrace the family again, but in a different way.
George Bowers rose from the couch and removed the cane from Mr Gordon’s trembling grasp. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that this little matter should be concluded in private in a day or two’s time.
‘Yes… yes… I suppose it should be…’ Mr Gordon gazed upon that weal-striped bottom still presented over the back of the wing-chair. Frustration twinged through him. He would have loved to have given that little darling another six. Loved to have made her shriek and twist even more violently. Still, it might happen yet. In a day or two’s time.
‘Joanne,’ said George, ‘you can put your clothes back on — but don’t forget we haven’t finished with you.’
‘Oh dad… dad… haven’t you done enough. It was only a fiver…’
There was a snorting sound from her stepfather and a derisive twist of the lips from Mr Gordon.
‘Time for a quick one down at The Bird in Hand?’ asked George.
‘A good idea,’ said Mr Gordon.
‘We might have a chance to discuss the rest of Joanne’s punishment.’
‘An even better idea,’ nodded Mr Gordon.Joanne, struggling back into jeans — made even more difficult on account of a hot-sore bum — cried softly, and began to dread already her bottom’s next encounter with Dad’s cane.