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Friday, 31 May 2019


Story from Fessée 7 by Matthew Silk
The tinkling bells on the front door shattered the peace of the little antique shop where Arthur Sullivan was reading a book — Art at Auction. He glanced up at the nearest clock among the many which surrounded him. Four o’clock and his first customer of the afternoon.
He looked over his pince-nez to see who this rare visitor was and immediately closed his book. It was her — back again for the fourth time in a fortnight.
She was blonde, slim and pretty and he guessed she was one of the young wives from the new estate on the edge of the village where he had recently given one of his lectures. She was dressed simply in a flowered summer frock with straps over her bare shoulders. As she closed the door she gave him a quick, almost guilty, glance.
He smiled and began polishing a pair of brass candlesticks while secretly watching her progress in her soft plimsolls as she walked round the shop.
She pretended to be interested in several items, picking them up and examining them, but she didn’t fool him. He knew she had come back to look at one thing — the same thing she had looked at on each previous visit — the Victorian umbrella stand in the corner stacked with canes.
On her first visit she simply looked at the canes and crops he stored there, not daring to touch them. The second time she actually picked one cane up and examined its silver-capped handle. She seemed about to ask him a question when her courage failed her and she fled. On the third visit, a couple of days ago, she stayed in the shop a lot longer and ended up at the umbrella stand twice but moved away each time another customer came in. Now she was back again, hovering, examining, edging her way round to the corner where the umbrella stand stood.
Arthur opened his shop in the tiny village three years ago. He did not advertise his interest in CP but it was surprising how quickly fellow enthusiasts found him. The dedicated could always discover at least one classic Victorian flagellation novel on his dusty bookshelves or an erotic lithograph of a domestic discipline scene tucked away among the prints. And for the true regulars, perhaps half a dozen, he would always take orders.
He kept the canes as the one openly visible sign of interest. He liked to see the young couples giggling as they examined a yellow rattan or the reaction of men dreaming half-embarrassed dreams. It made him laugh and it made him sad. So many thoughts of if only… passed across the faces of the browsers.
From a young boy Arthur was convinced he had been born into the wrong age. Once he had discovered the Victorian era he was fascinated by every aspect of it. He studied History through school and went on to specialise in the Victorians at university.
His encyclopaedic knowledge made it inevitable that he would pursue his interest through his career. It had been his dream to own his own antique shop one day but it had taken him until a few years ago, in his middle age, to save enough capital.
Customers were few and far between but Arthur did not mind. He was not in the business to make a vast profit. His real interest lay in keeping the spirit of the Victorian age alive and the longer he lived in the confused, selfish, decadent, ill-disciplined twentieth century, the brighter shone the beacon of reason and ideals from the Victorian era.
The young woman had now edged her way round to the umbrella stand once more. She stopped, hesitated, then quickly darted her hand forward fingering the leather handle of the cane with the silver tip end. She replaced it in the stand and was about to flee again when he made his move.
‘It is a relic of Victorian domestic discipline,’ Arthur said quietly in her ear.
She jumped. He was close behind her leaning forward to pick up the cane. She looked as startled as a shoplifter caught red-handed by a store detective. Arthur ignored her embarrassment and held the cane in front of her so she could see its full length.
‘This is a particularly fine example of craftsmanship. Whoever had it made obviously went to a great deal of trouble,’ so saying he bent the cane between his hands demonstrating its continued supple springiness.
‘I think this shows two things,’ he continued. ‘Firstly the importance the Victorian family man put on maintaining discipline in his home and secondly that a cane like this would be intended for regular use over a period of several years.’ He smiled at her. She was still blushing guiltily at being caught showing an interest.
But Arthur was warming to his favourite subject and was encouraged by the fact that she was making no effort to leave.
‘It was probably made in this village for a local household. Canes were often used on servants but were also kept for wives.’
‘Wives?’ She spoke for the first time still looking away from him.
‘Oh yes, the Victorians were much less guilt-ridden about corporal punishment than we are today. They were able to accept it as a part of everyday life. They simply didn’t have the hang-ups we have invented for ourselves in the twentieth century with all our pseudo-psychology.’
He paused but she did not stop him. Indeed she seemed interested in hearing more.
‘For instance, take The Times of April 6 1855 commenting on a fine of £5 for a lady called Emilie Gordon for thrashing her horses too excitedly. It suggested that instead of a fine she should be sent to prison and given ‘a few private whippings by the stoutest woman in Hampshire.’
‘Can you imagine The Times advocating anything like that today? There would be uproar. But the Victorians saw no problems with the caning and whipping of adults, including women, if they deserved it. It is only in the twentieth century, and only in the West, that we have come to believe that there is something odd in people who believe in administering — and receiving — corporal punishment.’
‘Was it common, then, for wives to be… you know… er…’ she couldn’t finish the sentence.
‘Thrashed?’ He finished it for her. ‘Yes,’ she replied quietly.
‘Hard to say. But there is a lot of evidence in diaries and unpublished journals that many wives were whipped, or more likely birched.’
‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘They really were kinky then.’
‘No, not really. The Victorians, you know, had none of the problems we have with pleasure and pain. They would have found it absurd that anyone would have found pleasure in pain. A good caning hurt, they understood that. It was meant to. At the same time words like sadism and masochism with their sexual connotations simply did not exist in their vocabulary. The twentieth century invented those words and now any kind of infliction of pain, especially as punishment, is labelled sadistic. And because punishment to be effective invariably involves pain to some degree we have found ourselves barely able to punish. That’s why we have all these soft sentences today. The odd thing is we have created far more confusion and guilt complexes because we have failed to understand, as the Victorians understood, that some people need, indeed want punishment to help them distinguish between right and wrong. There is plenty of evidence from private diaries that Victorian wives who were thrashed when they played up respected their husbands far more for whipping them and were far happier themselves. That has nothing to do with sadism.’
He paused and smiled. ‘I’m afraid you have got me on my hobby horse, I tend to get carried away. I feel very passionately about the Victorians. I feel we malign them. We are far more sexually repressed than we think. We like to think of ourselves as living in an age of sexual freedom. In fact we are hopelessly constrained by our own moral and sexual prurience. We think we know ourselves much better because of all our clever psychological theories.
‘In fact the pseudo-psychology operates like a strait jacket. Anything which deviates slightly from the normal is regarded as a suitable case for treatment. We run away from most of our problems by trying to explain them. The Victorians with their birch and canes had a far more practical approach and those wives appreciated it. I love the Victorian age — that’s why I run this shop and give my lectures.’
‘I know’, she said. ‘I’ve got a confession to make.’
He raised an eyebrow.
‘I’ve been to one of your lectures.’
So, as he thought all along, she wasn’t just a casual browser in his shop but had been coming for some purpose. But what?
‘Which lecture did you come to see,’ he asked.
‘The Victorian marriage and household. You talked then about discipline in the home.’
‘Ah yes, the servants.’
‘And the wives,’ she whispered.
‘Yes, certainly, the wives as well. From the private diaries I just mentioned.’
‘That’s right. You said that in the Victorian household wives could expect to be thrashed. I remember everyone laughed.’
‘Yes,’ he said with a frown remembering his disapproval at the immature giggling among the audience.
‘What I wanted to know was… what I came here to ask was… what a wife might be caned for.’ She turned and looked at him for the first time and he noticed she had beautiful blue eyes. She was no older than her mid-twenties and very fair-skinned.
‘Well,’ he hesitated, unsure where this conversation was leading, ‘Neglect of duties, insubordination, carelessness, petulance, causing a scandal, that type of thing.’
‘Causing a scandal? What, like having an affair you mean?’ she suddenly seemed very nervous.
‘Yes, a Victorian man would obviously very much disapprove of any impropriety like that. He would take the most serious view of his wife even flirting with another man.’
‘You mean a wife could expect a severe whipping if she was in any way unfaithful?’ She was almost trembling yet seemed driven by a determination to have her questions answered.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘A wife could expect the severest punishment for disloyalty.’
‘How many strokes would having an affair merit, do you think? Say on a young wife, about my age, who like me had been married for only just two years and who still loved her husband dearly.’
He looked at her carefully. He could sense his reply was going to be very important for her.
‘Twenty-four strokes, I would say. That was an average number for a really serious offence,’ he replied honestly.
She bit her lip. ‘As many as that? Even though it was the first time she had been unfaithful and it was only a one-night stand?’
Suddenly, as if a dam had burst within her, she began to talk rapidly, the words pouring out.
‘What if the wife had just gone out once with someone at the office where she worked when her husband was away on one of his frequent trips abroad and she was lonely and she had a little bit too much to drink and had rather stupidly gone to a party with this work colleague and things had gone too far…. And what if she knew that if she told her husband he wouldn’t spank her silly little bottom like she deserved? What if this wasn’t the Victorian age when she could look forward to a deserved thrashing and then got on with her marriage but 100 years later when her husband would never dream of caning her but would be dreadfully hurt if she told him the truth about what happened? What could a young wife like that do?’
‘You’re right,’ she said with sudden anger. ‘It was easier for the Victorians. They didn’t have to live with this terrible guilt.’ She seemed on the point of bursting into tears. Taking a deep breath she continued in a quiet voice. ‘What if she loved her husband too much to tell him? Couldn’t the twentieth century wife go to a man who lived nearby who was interested in the Victorian age and how Victorian wives were punished? Would he do that as a favour to her do you think so that she could solve her dilemma and save her marriage?’ Her blue eyes were full of pleading.
‘Yes,’ he replied quietly. ‘If that was what she wanted.’ She drew the cane quickly out of the umbrella stand and placed it firmly in his hands.
‘It is,’ she whispered urgently. ‘My husband will not be back until the end of next week. He will never know. Cane me here, now, this afternoon, please.’
He took the cane from her and moved swiftly to lock the front door and turn the sign to ‘closed.’ Then he guided her up the back stairs of the three-storey building to the top floor. There were two locked rooms facing each other on the tiny landing. He unlocked the right-hand door and opened it for her to walk in.
The room was bare except for a chaise longue with a large cushion on the floor and a large gilt over-mantel mirror propped up against the wall. Built into the alcoves were two glass-fronted bookcases containing his private collection of leather-bound flagellation erotica. Hung on the white walls were various lithographs of domestic scenes.
She fidgeted as she looked around nervously. Everything in the room even the lamps and the long drape curtains were Victorian. It was if they had stepped back in time.
‘Take off your dress,’ he ordered crisply. She slipped the light cotton over her head. Underneath she was wearing only a pair of white briefs.
‘Have you ever been caned before?’ he asked.
‘No, never,’ she replied truthfully.
‘Kneel down on the cushion and lie along the chaise longue.’
She obeyed, placing her arms in front of her and taking hold of the walnut support beneath the velvet seat of the chaise. She rested with the left side of her face to the velvet looking at the mirror where she could see herself stretched out. Seeing herself, she realised the room had been furnished specifically for punishment and she was suddenly aware that others had knelt where she was now kneeling on the cushion. She found the thought strangely comforting knowing that others had experienced the same gnawing nervousness in their stomachs as they knelt for punishment. They, like her, were time travellers to a previous age, finding some escape from the confusion of the twentieth century by entering the locked punishment room with Arthur as their guide. In the far corner of the room she saw another umbrella stand stacked with canes and crops.
She watched Arthur as he reached forward and slipped her briefs down her thighs, flicking them over her ankles so that she was quite bare. He looked at her young back tapering down to the two firm white cheeks of her bottom waiting submissively for the cane. He was aware of her eyes watching his every move in the mirror as he measured the length of the cane to her buttocks. When he was satisfied he looked at her in the mirror.
‘You will remain in position at all times, counting out the number of strokes after every six only. In other words when you have received six, 12, 18 and 24. You will call me Sir at all times during the punishment. Is that understood?
‘Yes sir.’
‘Very good. Now arch your back and push your bottom out as far as you can.’ She complied, her pale unblemished buttocks swelling and opening into a round inviting target.
He steadied the cane behind her, once more catching her eyes in the mirror. She was now focussing intently on the cane as it hovered inches from her cheek.
‘You do not have to look if you don’t want to,’ he said quietly.
‘I would prefer to watch as part of my punishment, sir.’
‘Very well. By the way, what is your name?’
‘Victoria… naaargh!’ She cried out as the cane whipped down landing with a fierce smack which sounded like a pistol crack in the bare room.
‘Actually, nobody has ever called me Victoria I’ve always been known as Vicky… yeeeh!…’ A second time the cane rebounded like a recoiling spring from her firm flesh. To her credit she kept herself perfectly in position to receive its impact even as she watched it descend.
He sensed that she wanted to talk perhaps to take her mind off the stinging pain.
‘And where exactly do you live on the estate?’
‘Beaumont Roa… oahwoad.’ She wailed as the cane swished down for the third time.
It seemed odd to be holding a polite conversation with this woman who was a virtual stranger whilst thrashing her backside. Yet talking like this was strangely comforting to both of them, as if it made what they were doing the most normal thing in the world.
‘And how long have you lived there?’
‘Two years. Since we were marri… eed!’ she cried. The fiery pain was now becoming too hot for her to remain still as she fought to resist the cane.
‘And what is the job you mentioned you do?’
She was still trying to compose herself before she answered. He waited.
‘I’m a sec… heck!… retary’ she yelped.
He looked at her in the mirror. Her face was flushed and he saw the first signs of tears welling in her eyes but she was still bravely arching her back and pushing her bottom out as far as she could behind her.
He stopped asking her questions, concentrating instead on delivering each stroke square across her beckoning rear.
‘Six sir,’ she announced calmly and he realised that despite her cries he had barely dented her composure.
He took up the cane once more and they did not speak again. By the time she called ‘twelve sir,’ her buttocks were squirming and dancing to the tune of his cane. When she cried out ‘18 sir,’ her voice was choking and tears were running down her face and dropping onto the Persian rug on the floor. Her knees had sagged backwards and slid sideways so that she was no longer knelt over the end of the chaise but sprawled open-legged on it.
‘You can stop the caning any time you want, you know. The choice is yours,’ he said. He was aware that it was a choice a Victorian wife would not have had the luxury of receiving.
‘No, please carry on. I must go through with it, I owe that at least to my husband. If I cannot ask his forgiveness at least I can prove to myself that I still love him. I can’t explain but give me the last six, please.’
He nodded. She turned her head away from the mirror for the first time and looked straight ahead of her. The cane whistled down on its agonising arc. She let out a piercing cry her last pretence at resistance stripped away. The cane no longer seemed to spring back from her firm cheeks but clung to the soft under-curves of her buttocks as she absorbed the pain it brought along with the redemption she was seeking.
‘24 sir,’ she cried out at last sliding fully off the chaise and onto the floor.
He left her alone as she examined her stripes in the mirror and waited for her downstairs. It was more than 15 minutes before she joined him. She looked even more attractive now she was relaxed and the tension had drained from her. ‘Still stinging?’ he asked.
‘Like hell!’ she said with a rueful smile rubbing her palm over her still hot bottom. ‘But thank you, I got what I asked for.’
‘You took it well.’
‘Thank you,’ she blushed.
He looked at her carefully, measuring his words. ‘Now how would you like to be caned again, in exactly the same way?’
‘What?’ She could not believe she had heard him properly. He couldn’t mean it.
‘Let me explain. You came to me for punishment, remember? You asked me to cane you as a favour. You owe it to me to at least listen.’
‘Alright,’ she agreed, still shocked.
‘As well as running this shop and giving my lectures on Victorian life I also run a small Victorian Society for a select group of people with a particular interest in the erotic and sexual side of physical discipline. When I told you earlier that the Victorians would find no pleasure in pain that was only half-true. The Victorians believed in discipline but they were also very aware of the eroticism of corporal punishment and the sexual pleasure which could be derived from it. But unlike us they believed the two were entirely separate.’
‘In our Victorian Society we celebrate this other aspect of Victorian life to which they were so enthusiastically addicted. We concentrate on antique fairs and antiquarian bookshops searching for accounts and unpublished diaries by those men and women who enjoyed the sexual pleasures and fulfilment of submission and erotic discipline.’
‘And upstairs in the punishment room, where you have just been so delightfully caned, we re-enact passages from the journals we find. Our lady members eagerly and willingly present themselves before the society to receive the cane or the birch or the whip purely for pleasure and the general entertainment of members.’
Vicky suddenly saw a vision of herself once more stretched along the chaise in front of the mirror with her buttocks bared and pointing up to the poised cane held by Arthur. But this time they were ringed by a group of men and women dressed in Victorian clothes quietly and passively watching her. The vision of her humiliation brought the tingling heat back to the stripes across her bottom as if the cane had just struck.
‘Your caning will be written down, every stroke recorded in detail in our society journal which chronicles our meeting,’ Arthur continued. He lifted a thick leather-bound book from beneath the counter. ‘Written here are the accounts of our previous meetings and the descriptions of the punishments with the names of the victims, the number of strokes etc. In 100 years’ time readers will be able to read and re-live the accounts of your punishment, and enjoy it with us as if they were in the room just as we enjoy the journals of the wives we find. This is how you can repay my favour. I shall let you know when the meeting is.’
It was a fortnight later when her husband was away that the card dropped through her door. Opening it she read:
The Victorian Society requests the pleasure of your company tonight at Sullivan’s Antiques at 8pm.

Thursday, 30 May 2019

Private Practice

From Uniform Girls 31
‘Things are different in the private sector, Nurse. In addition to the salary of course. We like to think we can show much more concern for the wishes of the patient. Not like the National Health. With us the wishes of the patient are all important.’
That had been Mrs Keenlan yesterday. Mrs Keenlan was Matron. And now Mr Page was saying very much the same thing. Stressing it. Angela says, ‘Yes, Mr Page. Yes I understand.’
She is in his study. In his house, a quite grand affair standing in its own substantial grounds out in the country. Presumably this house is a sign that running a private nursing agency is not a bad thing financially. Mr Page is the Director. Of the Paramount Nursing Agency. Angela has just arrived, ten minutes ago, in her little Mini. ‘Every new girl has an interview with Mr Page,’ Mrs Keenlan has said. ‘He likes to see you at his place. Tomorrow at 5 o’clock.’
So here she is. In Mr Page’s study in her uniform dress of narrow blue and white stripes with a starched apron fastened up over the bodice with two safety pins. Fastened up over Angela’s firm, full boobs in fact. Because she is a shapely girl with a firm, ripe bust and slim waist and nicely rounded hips. A pretty girl with soft corn-coloured shoulder-length hair. Girls who are taken on in the private sector of course tend to be good-looking and shapely young women. With the salaries that can be offered — and the Paramount salary is very good — they can pick and choose. And if, as they state, the wishes of the patient are so paramount — as Paramount does — well, male patients, clients, at least will appreciate a pretty face, a well-turned ankle — indeed well-turned bottom and tits as well.
Mr Page is fortyish, tall with a neatly-trimmed beard. A welcoming smile, his hand held out in greeting. So pleased to meet her, etc. Welcome to Paramount. A drink? Sherry… Angela accepts a sherry. Mr Page seems very pleasant and she has been slightly dreading this. For some reason. Angela is somewhat shy. Not desperately so, a nurse cannot be that, but a little shy of new faces — and authority. But Mr Page… seems all right.
‘Yes I like to have a private chat at the outset, Nurse. Angela, isn’t it? So we know where we are. You’ll find there are… ah… different priorities. It’s not the take-it-or-leave-it business of the NHS. Oh no. That won’t do at all. Our patients, our clients, pay for a service, Nurse. So we have to ensure they get it. That they get full satisfaction.’
Mr Page is smiling a friendly smile at her. They are sitting on the couch with the sherry and he is half-turned towards her. Angela nods. It is what Mrs Keenlan said. Extra special service.
‘When you’re feeling under the weather, Angela, seeing a pretty face can work wonders. A pretty face and a nice shape under a girl’s uniform. So Paramount ensures that. All our girls are selected with that in mind. We take only very attractive girls. Like yourself of course.’
Angela can feel herself flushing slightly. She takes another sip of her drink.
‘Pretty girls who are charming and friendly, Angela. At all times. The client’s wish is your command. That has to be your guiding light. Not too difficult really, is it?’
Angela shakes her head. Mr Page reaches for her glass. ‘I’ll get you a refill.’ He stands up. ‘Come over here.’ He puts the glasses on the desk. Angela follows him over to the window. ‘Are you a gardener, Angela?’
She begins a reply but it doesn’t come out. Mr Page’s hand is on her bottom. His large male hand all at once at the soft cheeks of her bottom. She gasps. Jerks away. The hand goes round her waist. Pulls her close.
‘No, Nurse. That’s not what we do. If I were a patient you would not do that. Certainly not. That is not being friendly.’ Angela is hard up against Mr Page now. Her breath coming in short gasps. Mr Page has one arm round her waist… and the other is back at her bottom. Grabbing, groping, at the soft ripe cheeks under the thin dress. She cries out.
‘Don’t be silly, Nurse.’ He suddenly lets go. Angela stumbles, grabbing at the window sill for support. Mr Page eyes her. ‘And you’re wearing tights, Nurse. That won’t do. At Paramount girls wear proper nylons. With a suspender belt.’
‘Don’t be silly, Nurse,’ Mrs Keenlan says. ‘Don’t be a silly girl. Of course you can’t resign. You’ve signed a contract. You couldn’t possibly resign.’
They are in Mrs Keenlan’s office. Mrs Keenlan has just got in and Angela has gone immediately in to see her. She has hardly been able to sleep a wink all night. Thinking about yesterday, fearing what is coming today. Because she has been told to go back to Mr Page today. This time…
‘I can’t,’ she gasps. ‘I want… to leave.’
I’ve told you not to be stupid,’ Mrs Keenlan’s voice is brusque. ‘There is no way you can sign a contract and then immediately resign. The Agency would certainly take you to court. Now just be sensible. You’re being hysterical. If Mr Page said he wanted to see you again this afternoon then of course you go. And you’ll wear what he told you. I can find you something… ah… suitable.’
The road… and here is the house… Mr Page’s house. The mini slows… and turns into the driveway. Angela has told herself she wouldn’t, couldn’t… but the mini is heading up the driveway. Like yesterday Angela is in her uniform — only it is not the same as yesterday. The shapely legs beneath the uniform skirt are not in tights. Today there are sheer black-seamed stockings. Fastened with a sexy black suspender belt. And her knickers…
‘Let me see your knickers,’ Mrs Keenlan said. ‘Don’t be silly, I have to see…’ Angela’s sensible, virginal-white knickers. ‘Oh no. I am sure Mr Page won’t approve of that. He’ll want a bit more… mmm… snap than that.’ So what Angela is now wearing is a black nylon garment which is scarcely anything at all.
‘Put it on!’ Mrs Keenlan says, a hard edge to her voice. ‘Or don’t wear anything. Mr Page will think no knickers is all right, but otherwise what I’ve given you. I think you’ll look very cute in those, Nurse. And please stop being so awkward. You’ve got to be sensible and accept things now you’re here. Just remember that nice salary you’re getting. What is it, twice what you were on before?’
The mini comes to a halt at the side of the house again. Mr Page’s house. Where inside Mr Page is waiting. Another girl in the office had grinned, knowing where Angela is going again. A knowing look… but knowing what? That Angela has the sexy underwear on? Mrs Keenlan said all the girls had to wear that sort of thing, it is part of the Paramount uniform. The clients expected it. Why were they called clients, not patients? Weren’t they sick? They didn’t just want girls sent to them? Not because they were sick but because… pretty girls in a sexy uniform, with sexy black underwear underneath. ‘He won’t mind if you’ve got no knickers,’ Mrs Keenlan said. That had to be just an awful sort of joke. Didn’t it?
His housekeeper or whoever it was opening the door again. Ushering Angela in. To that study. Where yesterday Mr Page’s hand had suddenly grabbed her like that. His hand intimately groping the cheeks of her bottom. Reaching underneath. ‘Don’t be silly. I’m just testing. Some of the clients are sure to want to do this…’ The door again. She wants to turn tail and run, contract or not. Disappear somewhere. But that is only a dream. The door opens. Mr Page is coming towards her. With that smile. His Welcome-to-Paramount smile. Paramount where the girls all get those excellent salaries and all they have to do is do exactly what the client wants, allow what the client wants, in their sheer black stockings and sexy suspender belts and knickers which are hardly knickers at all, barely covering a girl’s pussy, certainly not covering the cheeks of her bottom.
‘Hello Angela. How nice to see you again.’ Mr Page is taking her arm. ‘Would you like a sherry?’ Angela shakes her head. No sherry, not this time, she can only think about Mr Page’s hand. Though maybe if he is going to do that again a sherry — or two or three — is what she needs.
‘No? You’re sure?’ Mr Page is closing the door. ‘Well anyway we must get down to business. Our little chat. Etcetera. You were a little nervous yesterday, Nurse. You’ll get over that I’m sure. Now there’s something I’d like to take you through today. Something that a number of the clients you’ll be seeing like to do. Acting out a disciplinary scene in effect. With their pretty nurse. It seems to be quite a favourite. Do you know what I mean, Angela?’
Angela shakes her head. Acting out a disciplinary scene? It doesn’t mean anything. At least Mr Page is not groping her bottom though. Not yet.
‘A little corporal punishment, Angela. For the pretty nurse who has omitted or overlooked something or other. Whatever they care to think of. Anyway smacking her bottom. And caning her of course, that goes with it. Smacking your bottom, Nurse. Giving you the cane.’
Is this some kind of bad dream? Mr Page is taking hold of her arm. ‘So we’ll go through that routine now, Angela. Give you a taste of it. I usually do that with a new girl. All right?’ And Mr Page’s hand is now at Angela’s bottom. Transferring his grip on her arm from his right to his left hand, so that she is now in front of him — so that his right hand can get at her bottom. Angela yelps out, automatically, as the hand gropes at her bottom-cheeks which now, today, are virtually bare under the uniform dress, those vestigial black knickers from Mrs Keenlan scarcely covering any part of the ripe roundness.
Angela squirms, gasping out, but Mr Page has a firm hold on her; on her arm and on her bottom. Groping, he says, ‘Some of them don’t mind you wriggling about a bit, as I understand, but some of them will. They like a girl to stand nice and still. You’ll have to learn to do just what they like, Nurse. I don’t want to get a lot of complaints coming back.’
Mr Page is now propelling Angela, regardless of her writhing and frantic little yelps, towards the desk. Close up to the edge and then pushing her down. ‘Stop struggling, Nurse. Just lie down flat over the desk. Keep still…’
Mr Page is pulling up her skirt. Angela can’t believe it but this is happening. That girl grinning, with the knowing look. This is what she was grinning about, guessing that Angela didn’t know. Probably now giggling about it to Mrs Keenlan or one of the other girls. The new girl being bent over Mr Page’s desk. Being taught what the clients like to do to their pretty visitors in the sexy stockings and knickers. What you get, what you pay for, in private medical care.
The sexy knickers are coming down. The sexy black knickers which make no attempt to cover Angela’s bottom are being yanked down. She is making her gasping, yelping sounds and jerking the delicious already-bare bottom but the knickers are coming down so that not only the cheeks of Angela’s bottom but the cleft between, and what else is between, everything, is bare, uncovered. Unprotected. Angela lets out an extra, extra-shocked, ‘Oooohhhh!’ As Mr Page’s hand slides right in between the writhing thighs. Grabbing her there. Her pussy.
‘Less fuss, Nurse. Remember you will be there to oblige the client.’ The shocking hand, which is boldly, unbelievably, holding Angela’s pussy, comes out. And… splats hard down on one of the shaking cheeks.
And again. And again. The left cheek… and the right. And the soft undersides of Angela’s thighs. SPLAT!… SPLAT!!… SPLATT!!!
Really stinging his hand in. Knocking the breath, and any spirit, out of her. Angela feels like a rag doll, flopped down over the desk, which is being beaten, given a good dusting-up, by its owner, a bored child perhaps. Except that she is not a rag doll, she is flesh, her bottom and thighs are ripe flesh which are beginning to feel more like raw meat…
‘Don’t get up, Nurse. Now we’ll try the cane. All the spankers like to use the cane as well. So I’m told. Hurts a little bit more of course.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Mrs Keenlan says. ‘Of course you can’t resign. Anyway you don’t really want to, Angela. That’s only a hysterical reaction. You won’t want to when you think about it. You couldn’t possibly get what you’re being paid here anywhere else, could you? And it’s nothing to get all hysterical about. Just because Mr Page made your bottom sting a bit.’
‘Sting a bit,’ must be the understatement of all time Angela thinks. The memory of Mr Page’s cane is still such that she can’t think of anything else. Bent over his desk and after the dreadfulness of the bare-bottom spanking that cane slicing into her poor bottom as if it was going to slice her in two. And after that even worse. Not bent over the desk but up on it. Lying on it on her back. Her legs right up in the air. The vestigial knickers still down (or up) round her knees. A sickeningly revealing position but all you could think of was that cane. Slicing in…
Afterwards, after seeing Mrs Keenlan, there is that grinning girl again. Her name is Stacey. She is grinning still but she is not unsympathetic. ‘He’s a bit of a bugger with that cane, isn’t he? He’s worse than some of the clients. Who’ve you got to see then? Has she given you any appointments?’
Angela has been given her first patients. Or clients. Two men, one for today and the other tomorrow. She has to go out and visit them. Presumably for them to do what Mr Page has done. Stacey takes the piece of paper from Angela. ‘Mr Norrish. And Mr Canterbell.’ Stacey makes a face. Shrugs.
‘What!’ Angela demands. The thought of having to go out to these two clients with whatever they want to do to her… she shakes her head. The thought is impossible… but she has to go. ‘What… are they like. M… Mr Norrish?…’
Mr Norrish is today. Ten o’clock this morning it says. Stacey hands back the note. Making another face. ‘Mr Canterbell… is keen on caning. A lot like Mr Page in fact. You have to expect a sore bum when you go to Mr Canterbell. Mr Norrish… well…’
‘What?’ Angela yelps again. Mr Canterbell will want to use the cane. That thought jangles in her head but she can’t think about that now. That is tomorrow. Tomorrow may never come. What about today? Is Mr Norrish perhaps all right then? Maybe he would simply like a chat with a pretty girl? Maybe he even has something wrong with him, a proper medical condition that needs a nurse. Not just a girl with a pretty face and a pretty bum that he can do things to. ‘What… about Mr Norrish…?’ pops out of Angela’s anxious mouth.
Stacey comes close. Puts her mouth close to Angela’s ear… and clearly enunciates a very basic word. She repeats it, equally clearly, in case perhaps Angela hasn’t got it the first time. ‘That’s what Mr Norrish likes.’

Wednesday, 29 May 2019

Reform School Discipline 1

A marvellous Roué video in two parts.
2M/3f; time:  51 minutes
This may be the most simplistic and perfect British schoolgirl corporal discipline video we have seen. It has been difficult to find, possibly because its stark realism makes it uninteresting in comparison to high velocity CP films these days. The spanking ritual and ageplay are exquisite.
The setting is a barren classroom, institutionally painted, industrial check-pattern floor tile, a few pieces of furniture, more like the classrooms we remember than those of FIRMHAND or REDSTRIPE. We’re not in that situation where furniture was pushed aside to make a set. An average-looking brunette, ‘Susan,’ not a bubble-butt CP model, wearing perfect school kit, reports to a smarmy ageplay guy who should be past retirement age. She and a confederate are accused of something and will be punished for it. She is sent away, to return later.
The old man looks at the punishment book and observes that Susan is really not a bad girl. He checks a cabinet for the spanking implements. He tries to appear weary and burdened by all this, but this must be a principal reason he waived retirement. ‘Betty,’ the confederate, knocks and enters, another perfect little schoolgirl. After a scolding, she hears “12 strokes of the strap,” and she has been here before.
She moves slowly and kneels up on a chair. She tucks her own dress up and the teacher pulls her panties down, and he doesn’t hurry. He lays on 6 strap strokes from each side. Not hard, but good ritualistic fuss. Nice facials, closeups, and surprising marks.
Susan returns for the evening session. She has been at this (reform) school for three months and knows what to do. It is made clear, it will be the cane. He makes her say the word. She objects just briefly when she is ordered to remove her jumper and knickers. To clear the table, the teacher sends her out of the room with a floral display. Surely the director noticed too late that if her blouse had been an inch of two shorter, we would have enjoyed her walk. But the diversion produces tension, because the cane awaits.
The teacher adjusts the table, a demonic device whose specifications must have puzzled the carpenter. He drops a large centre leaf, which produces a ramp for Susan to lie over, her bottom highest. She will receive 18 strokes of the cane. The strokes are harder than the cane was, and the teacher, a practiced caner, is careful to move from side to side. Desperate gripping hands, facials, tears. Noticeable marks and some skin pops. Betty is brought back to witness the final few strokes. She had better not avert her eyes.
Continued in Part 2 of the film next week…
Part 1a:
Part 1b:

Tuesday, 28 May 2019

The Headmaster

From Phoenix 3
The Headmaster’s door opens and a tall man, not young yet not old, closes it quietly behind him and walks unhurriedly across the wide entrance hall, his footsteps echoing up in the stairwell which leads to the upper floor of this the older part of the school. From above comes the clatter of feet along a corridor and the excited squeal of a girl being chased by another. The racing footsteps clump loudly on the stairs and a straw hat sails languidly over the bannisters and skids to a stop on the old varnished floorboards of the hallway.
A girl appears at the turn of the stairs and starts breathlessly down, the sound of her pursuer’s feet close behind her. Her voice is shrill, undisciplined.
‘You bloody cow!’ she squeals, and pounds down the stairs, skirt fluttering, legs bare to halfway up her thighs.
In one heart-stopping instant she realises who it is that is standing nonchalantly watching her precipitate descent. She stops dead within the space of two stairs. Another girl rounds the corner of the landing close on the heels of the first girl and plunges down the stairs. She cannons into her friend, who is jolted hard against the handrail, and then she too realises that they are not alone. As if stunned the two girls stand side by side and gape helplessly at the Headmaster, who looks up with an air of affronted dignity from below. The straw hat lies guiltily at the foot of the stairs.
Thus presented with this ready-made excuse to pinken a couple of girlish bottoms, the Headmaster allows himself an interval for its delectation then he strolls forward in a casual way and nudges the hat with his shoe. He speaks with practised gravity, a tone readily assumed from years of authority.
‘And which of you owns this?’ he enquires.
The girls stand helpless in their consternation. The shoe nudges again. A small voice floats timorously down from the stairs.
‘Er — I do sir.’
‘Indeed? And what is your name?’
‘S-Sandra Miles, sir.’
‘Sandra Miles. And you’re Margaret Hawkes, aren’t you?’
The other girl stutters ‘Y-yes, sir.’
He pushes carelessly at the hat once again.
‘Well now Miss,’ he says to Margaret, ‘since, as I presume, you threw this object, I think you’d better come and pick it up.’
The girl comes dubiously down the stairs. The Headmaster walks a pace or two away from the hat and watches as she stoops to retrieve it. Her gymslip rides up the backs of her thighs and then she straightens up again, hat in hand.
‘And now you can both come with me.’
He turns his back on their panic-stricken faces, walks briskly along the corridor, turns the corner with the sound of their hurried footsteps behind him, and turns through the door in the alcove below the stairs.
In anguished silence, and clutching their books, the two girls follow him into the little room.
Inside the girls find themselves standing almost at attention, the austerity of the depressing place seeming to demand some such demonstration of respect. They wait side by side, fright plain in their faces, as the door swings shut with a ponderous finality. It thuds against the jamb and the latch clicks loudly. Casually the Headmaster turns the key in the lock. Well-oiled, the bolt slides across, and then the key is placed prominently on the windowsill. Steely eyes flicker from one girl to the other, catching the one named Sandra unawares as she looks timidly around the room. She has never been here before, but to judge by the gas fire hissing in the grate it is a well-used room. She nips her lip between her teeth, and then notices the penetrating gaze which is now wandering undisguisedly down her body. She clutches her books more tightly under her arm and looks demurely down at the floor.
Margaret too glances uneasily around, the features of the room’s furnishing all too familiar to her.
The Headmaster brushes against the single chair as he moves over to the cabinet behind the door, and Margaret’s back feels suddenly damp and chill as the chair scrapes across the squeaky lino, the sound shockingly evocative to a girl who has paid tearful penances more times than she cares to remember across that very chair. Yet even she, whose name appears in that thick, untidy book on top of the chest half-a-dozen times every term, is near to panic. Though he must by now be the only male member of the school’s staff not to have relished the girlish twitch and tremble of her plumply smackable bottom suitably poised across his knees, a punishment at the Headmaster’s hands is something which the frequently-spanked Margaret has so far avoided. Until now. And now, the frightful moment seemingly at hand, it is Margaret’s soft blue eyes which dampen along their lower lids, whose lips quiver as she struggles to hold back the tears, while in her unknowing innocence Sandra keeps her fingers crossed and wonders why the Head gave her that funny look just now.
Not being blessed with Sandra’s naivety, Margaret finds that she has to hold her breath every now and then so as not to burst into frightened sobs, while her snug navy-blue knickers seem to be clinging with sudden intimacy to her round young buttocks, the almost certain knowledge that they and she are soon to part company making the feel of them temporarily the most comforting thing in the world.
Margaret’s unease is not unfounded, neither is it illogical, for whereas hitherto, being not yet seventeen, she has not been old enough according to the rules to have had her first taste of the cane from those members of staff who have found the firm succulence of her youthful bottom so tempting in the past, yet the Headmaster has the authority to ignore that and indeed any rule should he, in his wisdom, consider it necessary to do so. The girls’ universal dread of being summoned for punishment by the Headmaster himself is no mere whim of the imagination. His authority is absolute, and it is no secret that he uses the power of his position to the full. Margaret knows, she just knows, that she is going to be caned. The trickle of tears on her cheeks is nothing to be ashamed of. There is no girl in the school who would not have sympathy with her at this moment, had she been at St Evelyn’s long enough to have heard the stories about what it meant to be punished by the Headmaster.
Standing next to Margaret, Sandra is just about the only girl in the school who doesn’t know what it’s all about. She doesn’t even know that this is the punishment room. She has heard it said that girls at St Evelyn’s sometimes get punished on their bottoms, and some of her new form-mates have tried to kid her that a girl could even get her pants taken down. For herself, she is half-convinced that it’s just possible that a girl might get her bottom smacked if she’s very naughty, but it would have to be something pretty serious, like stealing or something as bad as that. As for getting her pants taken down, she simply refuses to believe it. Sandra has been at St Evelyn’s rather less than a week. She has a lot to learn. She wonders why Margaret is crying.
Leaning with one elbow on the top of the cabinet, flicking through the book to find the day’s date, the Head hears the half-stifled weeping behind him. It is not a sound which is unfamiliar to him, nor indeed is it unusual in this room. He wonders which of them it is. He resists the urge to turn round and see. He finds the page and under the entry which says: ‘Lucy Harris, 6A, idleness and unfinished prep. Twelve with the strap.’ he writes Margaret’s name and her form number. He speaks rather brusquely without turning round.
‘What’s your surname again Sandra?’
‘M-Miles, sir.’ Her voice sounds timid and breathless. The crying continues quietly as the girl speaks so it must be the other one who’s weeping.
‘Er — six B sir.’
‘Six B,’ he echoes as he writes. ‘Take ‘em down then,’ he says casually, still not looking round. He puts down his pen and picks up another with red ink. He initials the entry above Margaret’s name, the customary seal of approval, then out of speculative curiosity he turns slowly back through the pages, remembering that ‘Margaret Hawkes’ is a name which he has seen before, and not infrequently.
‘P-pardon sir?’ comes the little voice, almost whispering.
He runs a finger down a column, turns back another page.
‘Down, please,’ he says unemotively.
He finds Margaret’s name on the new page.
‘I’m s-sorry sir — I don’t know what you m-mean.’
The entry says, ‘— caught out of bounds, ten with the strap.’ It is signed ‘P.L.E.’ That’s Evans. Naturally. If there was a nice little bottom in the offing, and if its owner was one of those girls who let themselves get caught doing nice, punishable things, Evans would be there with his eager fingers tucked inside their knicker elastic even before the blush on the little sweetheart’s cheeks from being caught in the first place had paled to a maidenly pink.
‘I am about to smack your bottom Miles, so take your knickers down girl. Now that’s clear enough, isn’t it?’
Silence, save for the weeping.
He flicks back another page and finds Margaret there again. ‘— sky-larking in the dorm. P.L.E.’
Then, accompanying the sound of the other girl’s weeping, his ears catch the faint, hesitant rustle of clothing being rearranged, and then, after a pause, the slow, reluctant ‘Swoo — oo — ooosh’ as a pair of school knickers are inched down young hips and tugged dubiously down bare thighs.
‘And hold your skirt right up, front and back — right up to your waist now!’
Still he doesn’t look. A pleasure to come.
He finds the other girl’s name yet again, at the top of the same page, so that means the same day. ‘— late for registration, six with the strap.’ signed ‘P.L.E.’
‘R-ready sir.’ A very nervous voice.
He turns round, leaving the book open at the last, incomplete entries. Sandra’s eyes dart away, down to the floorboards, and her cheeks flush vividly. Her tummy sweeps down to a delicate ruff of golden hair nestling above her pubis, her knees are together, her knickers stretched across the tops of her thighs. Her knickers, for some unaccountable reason, are maroon.
Margaret is still weeping, though almost silently now, the unhappy tears rolling down her face. She manages to look pretty even so.
On the room’s solitary chair is a pile of schoolbooks.
‘Margaret —’
‘Oh — y-yes sir?’
‘Take those books and put them on there.’ He indicates the cabinet.
‘Yes sir.’ She goes over to the chair and scoops up the books, of which there are obviously too many for her to carry at one attempt. A book tumbles to the floor, her gymslip slides tantalisingly up her legs as she stoops to collect it, another book falls from her grasp, she scrambles about trying to retrieve both the books, manages to do so and at last gets up. As she does so two more books fall to the floor.
‘For, goodness sake child — those books cost money!’
‘Yes sir — s-sorry sir.’ She is as nervous as a kitten.
She regains the lost books and carries them all to the cabinet. They tumble noisily onto the wooden top. The Headmaster winces at the awkwardness of the girl as a couple of the books spill off the back of the cabinet. One seems to be wedged between it and the wall. Margaret leans over the cabinet to get them back. Her skirt is too short by a year’s growth. She can’t quite grasp the wedged book so she leans further across the cabinet. The tuck of her navy knickers as they disappear between the tops of her thighs teases with just a glimpse. She yanks at the book, the cover rips, she gasps a kind of strangled, hopeless cry.
‘For goodness sake —!’ Words fail him. The smooth, bare firmness of her thighs quivers as she reaches desperately again for the book. She squeals in a startled, anguished way as the Headmaster’s palm smacks in exasperation across first one thigh then the other.
‘You wretched child —!’
She wriggles backwards, her gymslip rides up, the plump knap of her knickers invites the hovering hand.
She’s got a lovely fat little bum. It shudders under the spanks and she wriggles it around frantically until she finally extricates herself, standing distractedly in front of him, her expression more one of surprise than pain.
‘S-sir — sir — sorry s —’ she gasps. He feels genuinely incensed at her stupidity.
‘Get across there!’
He half shoves her face-down back across the cabinet, pushing her gymslip up to her waist He spanks her solidly on the tight seat of her knickers a dozen times. She struggles half-heartedly, her cries out of all proportion to the sting in her bottom. He lets her up.
‘Get back there, you foolish girl! And get your skirt up!’
‘Y-yes sir!’ She scrambles back to her place beside Sandra, who looks utterly stunned by the proceedings.
The Headmaster draws a deep, calming breath, irritated with himself for losing his temper. He looks at Sandra, who is still clutching her skirt up to her waist. The out-of-place maroon knickers stick out like a sore thumb. Whatever does the girl mean by it? He asks her point-blank.
‘S-sir — I haven’t been here long sir — an-and my mum said that my old school’s knickers were too g-good to throw away sir — so —’
‘Well it won’t do my girl. It won’t do at all!’ He glares at the oddly coloured knickers a moment longer then walks round behind the girl as if to look more closely. Her young bottom is full and round, indeed the sweet innocence of its saucy charm quite distracts his mind from what else he was about to say. The cheeks are very smooth and naturally blushed with pale pink. They look tender and eminently smackable, as tender and tempting as the girl herself.
He paces up and down behind the two girls, his gaze on the delectably bare cheeks of the one and his mind’s eye considering the implications of the other’s apparently regular visits to the punishment room. She’ll need a taste of the cane — meanwhile Sandra’s cute bottom is simply pleading for his palm to pinken it a little more. He won’t keep it waiting any longer.
Sandra’s bottom wiggles coquettishly as he strokes a hand across first one cheek then the other. Her firm young buttocks resound crisply to an experimental spank, and then she bleats helplessly as he hooks a finger into the elastic of her non-uniform knickers and leads her like a sacrificial lamb to the slaughter.
He takes the chair in one hand and positions it away from the cabinet so that the girl won’t bump her head if she struggles too much. He sits down, Sandra’s warm bottom cupped partially by one hand. He coaxes her down across his lap. She lies stiff-legged, with the stillness of a small animal trying to avoid discovery. Her peculiar knickers slide helpfully down another inch or so, and her bum feels alive and vibrant as he pats it, teasing both her and himself.
Margaret is watching the performance with startled eyes, though she’s no stranger to such things herself. He begins to spank Sandra, quite lightly at first, though less out of consideration for her little bottom than out of a gourmet’s self-indulgent reluctance to rush the best bits.
A dozen crisper spanks later Sandra is rather more lively. Her bum bobs saucily as the smacks land, and already her naturally pink cheeks are blushing patchily. She makes little panting sounds between her teeth and her bare legs are beginning to kick spasmodically. Poor Margaret can’t drag her eyes away from the other girl’s reddening bottom and she twists a pleat of her gymslip frantically between her fingers.
The Headmaster slows the rhythm of his spanking, but gives each slap a little more impetus. Immediately the girl starts to react, the smart in her wriggling bottom making her bounce her hips with every smack. She gasps a few meaningless words: ‘Oooh — my-m — bot — bottom — sir! Oooooooo — oooow — please!’
He doesn’t want to punish her too much on this first occasion. Just so she learns who’s boss — and learns to take her knickers down when she’s told, like a good girl.
She begins to cry, then to sob. Her bum is brilliantly crimson and hot to the touch when his hand lingers a little to enjoy her involuntary wriggles. A spank — a caress — a spank and another spank. And now a Headmasterly word.
‘So in future my girl —’ Smack! ‘— you will not —’ Slap! ‘— indulge in —’ Smack! ‘— horse-play —’ Crack! ‘— on the stairs —’ Whack! ‘— will you?’ Smack, smackitty smack!
‘Oooh — n-no sir — OOW — honest sir — OOOOOGH!!’
‘And one more thing young lady —’
She stands, tearful though choking back her sobs bravely, beside his thigh. He strokes and pets her burning bottom up under her skirt, and tells her to take her knickers right off.
‘O-off sir?’
‘Yes. These are not part of our school uniform. Navy-blue my dear — or white in the summer.’
He helps her step out of them. It amuses him to notice that, though darker, the rich maroon colour complements the fresh-spanked glow of her punished bottom beautifully.
‘And tonight, before you go up to the dorm, and every night until you have arranged to have yourself dressed in the school colours, you will report to me in my study and we will consider the matter of your knickers, or indeed your lack of them, because if you are unable to modify your wardrobe to comply with the rules you will not be permitted to wear any knickers.’
‘Oh — but —’
‘And no ‘buts’ my girl. That is my decision.’ He watches her tear-dampened face. She seems to have recovered her composure quite quickly which might be a sign of a realistic approach to these matters. He adds: ‘I dare say there will be a little penance to pay, should you be slow in doing as I have said regarding the school colours.’
‘Oh —’
Having confiscated her silly pants he sends her off to her class. And now, as he relocks the door against the possibility of interruption, he drops the half-friendly bantering tone and assumes his ‘stern headmaster’ look.
Margaret meets his eyes for only a moment. Her bottom lip seems to be trembling as she looks away, still weeping quietly.
‘Now then —’ Her eyes snap back to his.
‘— looking briefly through this book, it seems you are one of our most frequent visitors to this little room.’ He looks her up and down, at her fiddling fingers and her firm, youthful breasts under her gymslip. ‘How do you account for that my girl?’
Margaret stifles her crying enough to say, ‘S-sir — I don’t know sir. I just seem to get into trouble all the time sir. Sometimes —’ She stops, regretting that she has started to say anything more.
‘Go on, ‘Sometimes —’’
‘Sir — sorry sir, but I was going to say that sometimes I think I get into trouble just because some — some teachers like to take my knickers down an-and spank me sir.’ Now she knows she shouldn’t have said it. She’ll get the cane for sure now. She swallows audibly and squeezes her bum-cheeks together under her skirt.
The Headmaster looks at her with raised eyebrows, indicating his displeasure, but he is thinking ‘How astute of her.’ She is quite right of course. That is exactly the kind of thing that goes through people’s minds when one of the senior girls lets herself get caught doing something to deserve punishment. Not ‘that girl ought to be disciplined’ but ‘I’d like to get her knickers down.’
‘What a disgusting thought!’ he says archly. ‘What a disloyal, childish idea! You ought to be ashamed of yourself girl.’
‘Yes sir.’ Margaret whispers ruefully, wishing desperately that she hadn’t said it.
‘With ideas like that in your head it’s no wonder members of staff have reason aplenty to punish you!’
Margaret starts to weep again, but he carries on.
‘And you have certainly confirmed my opinion that what you need is the feel of the stick across your backside!’
Margaret’s worst fears are confirmed. The Headmaster goes on.
‘And now, you will take your own knickers down — now — and get yourself over the back of that chair.’
He paces up and down in mock indignation as the wretched girl fumbles about under her skirt and slips her navy-blue knickers down.
‘Come on — over the chair!’
Her gymslip drags up as she sidles reluctantly towards the chair, first her lowered knickers, then her bare thighs, and finally her lovely, round, plump bottom coming into view to confirm her own dim realisation that she is punished for her desirability, rather than her disobedience. She certainly does have a beautifully smackable bum.
‘Sir — d-do I have to get the cane?’
‘Do as you’re told girl! Get across there and put your hands on the seat!’
‘Ooooh —’
Her firm, resilient-looking buttocks curve temptingly over the chairback, her knickers slithering down to her knees as she bends.
He goes to the cupboard and takes out a thinnish cane, which he swishes confidently several times while Margaret winces at the very sound of it.
The cane is rested lightly across both bending buttocks and tapped insistently. He gives her his usual warning.
‘No wriggling, no standing up, no bending your legs, and —’ Whack!! ‘no rubbing your bottom. Got it?’
The first gratuitous and unexpected stroke jolts the panicking girl into doing all those things she has just been told not to.
Smack!! The cane flicks across both thighs at once.
‘Get down girl! And stay down!’
‘Oooooh — oooh —!’
But she gets back down as instructed.
Her bare cheeks bounce as the cane delivers its first proper stroke. Margaret sucks in her breath and seems to hover on the verge of a piercing yell, and then the cane lands again.
Her pent-up breath hisses between her teeth in a long, pained sigh, and then the sobbing starts, shaking her body as the sobs come bubbling out.
He canes her methodically, not listening to her crying and relying upon the fact of her frequent spankings to have disciplined her into staying obediently in position despite her discomfort.
Her bottom well-caned she is allowed up, her pretty face contorted with her blubbering.
Pull your knickers up girl, and blow your nose!’
He sends her back to her classroom still sobbing, puts the cane away, and goes out into the hallway on his way up to the staff common-room as the break-time bell rings. It is only as he sips his tea and passes the time of day with Miss Frost, who glances rather oddly at him in between trying to pay attention to his words, that he realises that the ridiculous maroon knickers are dangling very obviously indeed from his jacket pocket. Nonchalantly he stuffs them out of sight and wanders away from Miss Frost and over to the window.
Down in the quadrangle he catches sight of Sandra leaning in a rather woebegone way against a wall, while a crowd of other girls chase each other in the sunlight. He smiles, understanding at once that she would not want to do any running around, especially in that short skirt of hers, if her new school-friends were likely to catch a glimpse of her freshly-spanked bottom — considering that under her skirt she is quite naked. Which reminds him — he must not forget to tell Matron not to be too helpful in the business of Sandra and her new knickers. It would be a pity to spoil what might become an interesting little adventure.