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Friday, 7 June 2019

Damp Distress

From Blushes 47
The room is brightly lit from unshaded, starkly functional bulbs suspended from the ceiling. There is no natural light for the room’s window is shuttered to blank off anything of the outside world. To blank off also perhaps from anyone who might be out there what is inside this brightly-lit room. What is in the room apart from its bright lights is not a lot in the way of furniture. A splay-legged wooden trestle or horse in the centre and near one wall a high, round-topped stool also of plain wood. That is it. The cream painted walls are devoid of any decoration and the floor is of bare boards. There is one human occupant also present in this room.
A girl: a pretty blonde, of above average height and very well built. There can be no doubt as to this latter fact because of her clothes, or rather the lack of them. Standing next to the stool she is, wearing only a pair of ultra-skin-tight white shorts. The shorts mould her ripe hips and bottom and some four inches of upper thigh like a tight glove. The rest of her is nude: the slim, straight back and in front the full, firm, pink-nippled breasts; while below the shorts the slim shapely legs stand on feet that are also bare on the bare boards. She is standing at attention, as it were, hands at her sides. Motionless except for an occasional slight facial movement: a flicker of the long lashes on the big blue eyes… and now the tip of a pink tongue slips out to nervously moisten the soft, full lips. The expression in the large blue eyes is of apprehension, unhappy anticipation. The look of a girl who is not enjoying the situation in which she finds herself — but who can also imagine things getting worse. Perhaps a lot worse?
There is suddenly, without warning, a click from the door. The door handle is turning. The big blue eyes have widened, as in fright, and the soft mouth opens slightly. Fingers at the sides of the so-tight shorts tense. The slim bare shoulders are pulled perceptively back… thrusting the large, firm and splendidly nude boobs into even greater prominence. The door is opening.
A tallish middle-aged man, grey-haired and with glasses. He has an amiable expression — but he also has in his hand a cane. He is followed by a second per-son, female. A girl of similar age — 18, 19 — to the one already in the room, she is also similarly clad. Or not clad. A pair of tight and brief white shorts only. She is of a similar statuesque build but perhaps a couple of inches taller, with short dark hair. In front of her ripely nodding boobs she is carrying a large white jug.
The man with the amiable expression and the cane closes the door behind the girl with the jug. ‘Put it down, Sandra,’ he says. She places it on the floor, then does what the other girl has just done: nervously moistens her lips. She stands hesitantly, her hands at her sides like the blonde and likewise with an apprehensive look on her face. And now of course, with what the man has in his hand, there is perhaps cause for ap-prehension. As for the jug… it appears to contain water. Is that reason for apprehension too?
The man has sauntered over to the blonde, to stand close in front of her. She appears to have become more nervous, tense, with those fingers stretching urgently down at the sides of her shorts. Perhaps trying not to let even her eyelashes flicker. The man’s hand — the one not holding the cane —comes up and nonchalantly cups over one of the nude boobs. ‘You first, Andrea. Eh?’ he says.
His voice is mild, bantering almost; matching that amiable expression and those friendly-looking glasses. Not matching what he has in his non-fondling hand, though, or what his words evidently mean. The girl, Andrea, makes a weak little moan. ‘Please. Sir… No… No sir.’ A shaky voice.
The hand squeezes the bare boob. ‘It is really what we call a rhetorical question, Andrea. If you know what that means. It means that I wasn’t really asking you. I was telling you.’ The hand moves to squeeze the other swelling boobs. ‘These are really splendid, Andrea. Bigger than Sandra’s would, you say? What would you say, Sandra?’
Sandra, the brunette, who is also standing at attention on shaky legs in just the skin-tight shorts, says, ‘D… Don’t know… Mr Voxley sir.’ Perhaps she thinks neither yes or no are quite safe. The man, Mr Voxley evidently, is still playing with Andrea’s tits, the nipples of which have stiffened up with this no doubt unwelcome attention.
‘Don’t know,’ he muses. ‘I don’t know that I like to hear a girl say she doesn’t know, Sandra. I like to get a meaningful reply. So shall we say three extra strokes of the cane for that. Shall we?’
Sandra’s pretty knees squirm slightly but otherwise she remains at attention. She squeaks out a little ‘Yes sir.’ Fearful perhaps that any other answer, or no answer, may bring an even more unwelcome pronouncement from Mr Voxley.
‘Or perhaps an extra six might be more appropriate, Sandra. What do you think?’
‘Three please sir.’ The words slide breathily out.
‘Mmmm… What do you think, Andrea?’ He is still squeezing and jiggling Andrea’s nude tits which have now fully erect nipples. Andrea’s breathing is more heavy, from the hand no doubt and also from general fearful anticipation. This question does not help because all possible answers, especially the first choice of ‘Don’t know sir,’ are fraught with perilous possibilities. Andrea finally produces, ‘Y… You will decide, please sir.’
In the circumstances it is perhaps not a bad answer. Mr Voxley’s hand is still busy. ‘I see. Well shall we say five then? And also five extra for Andrea for saying she didn’t want to go first. Shall we?’
‘Y… Yes sir.’
‘Five extra for both of you. In the wet shorts of course. Mmmm…?’
His hand at last lets go of the splendid tits. It slides lightly down Andrea’s body, nude flesh and then the stretched cotton of the shorts. The hand comes to rest lightly cupping Andrea’s pubic bulge. ‘Not want to go to the bathroom first this time, Andrea?’ There is still that amiable look, a half-smile on his face.
Andrea has given a little gasp at this new position of the hand. Her body quivers but she remains at attention, controlling the urge to squirm away as she has controlled it while he was playing with her tits. ‘No sir,’ the pink mouth says. No sir because last time Andrea said she did, she had to, and amiable-faced Mr Voxley let her go — but gave her five extra strokes for her trouble when she got back.
The hand squeezes what it is cupping. ‘Not going to wet our pants, Andrea?’ A little laugh from Mr Voxley. ‘No, of course not. Big girls don’t wet their pants. I shall be doing the wetting, shan’t I?’
Andrea doesn’t answer. ‘Come on then, let’s have you over the horse. Are you watching, Sandra?’
Sandra stammers ‘Y… Yes sir.’ As the blonde girl steps forward, erect nipples bobbing, to the horse. It is a wide trestle, wide enough to accommodate two girls bending over side by side. Sometimes Mr Voxley will have two over it at the same time. More frequently though, as now, he prefers to work on one while the other has to watch. Mentally, emotionally, this is equivalent to a double caning because having to watch that cane zipping into another girl’s ultra-tight, wet shorts, watching her desperate squirms and jerks and writhings, listening to her frantic gasps and yelps, while knowing that you will shortly be experiencing this very same thing… Oh yes, it is as bad in its own way as the caning itself. And a girl’s caning is always in at least two parts so that there is always a session of watching before it is your turn. The cane on those wet-stretched shorts…
They are not wet at first. There is always an initial session before the water is applied. Half a dozen hefty thwacks as Andrea will receive now, bent double over the trestle. Head low, hands gripping the wooden leg, her bottom in this position the top-most part of her body. The strained cotton threatening to split at her crotch. ‘Get your legs wider,’ Mr Voxley instructs. ‘Let the dog see the rabbit.’
Andrea’s feet are spread but a tap-tap of the cane on the presented soft backs of her thighs gets them spread wider. ‘Are you watching every detail, Sandra?’ Mr Voxley asks.
‘Y… Yes. Yes Mr Voxley.’ Sandra is indeed watching like a mesmerised rabbit. Mr Voxley makes a ‘Mmmm’ sound. It is difficult to believe how a man who can look and sound so pleasant and mild-mannered can… he has momentarily transferred the cane to his left hand. While the right slides briefly, caressingly, over the silky backs of Andrea’s thighs. The hand comes up between the spread legs. Sliding on up in the cleft of the tautly-contained buttocks. Sandra, forced to watch, bites her lip. The cane is back in that right hand. It taps testingly across the crests of the tightly-trousered cheeks. And then…
A shocked gasp from Sandra mingles with Andrea’s desperate yelp. As the cane zips viciously in to that trousered seat. The thin stretched cotton, like a second skin, is no protection at all; indeed one can imagine that in a way it can make things worse. Andrea is struggling to keep her smitten bottom still but she can’t, there are desperate squirms, jerks, as her body attempts to absorb that red-hot pain.
‘Look at that movement, Sandra. Jerking about like a landed fish and only had one. You can keep nice and still, can’t you, Sandra?’
‘Because writhing about can call for extra strokes.’ The cane is back in Mr Voxley’s left hand. Stepping close he puts the right one in between Andrea’s spread thighs. Somehow she has kept her legs spread wide. His hand palms her crotch. ‘Can’t it, Andrea darling?’
Andrea is gasping for breath from those two stinging shots. She makes a strangled sound. The hand is stroking her pussy. ‘If you don’t keep it still, young lady, I shall give you a couple right here, between your legs.’
Mr Voxley takes his hand away. The cane is transferred back. Andrea is making whimpering sounds, her bottom quivering but otherwise still. Sandra closes her eyes, then opens them again. Watching is dreadful but she has to unless she wants to give Mr Voxley an excuse for doubling her own dose.
Another desperate, shrieking yelp. Mr Voxley at least doesn’t place a penalty on yelling out. Perhaps he enjoys the sound, evidence that the cane is doing its work.
‘Let’s have you right over, Andrea. You’re still not keeping it still. Come on, right over.’
He lifts her legs up and pushes the blonde head down. Andrea is upside-down now, her arms on the floor, her legs adrift but still spread, like a frog in full flight. Mr Voxley’s hand dips in between the spread thighs again, to the tightly-trousered crotch. His hand squeezing her pussy once more. ‘A couple more to get you warmed up, Andrea darling. And then we’ll wet you. Mmmm?’
The water!!
‘Hand me the jug, Sandra.’
Andrea has had her six strokes now. She is warmed up, there is no doubt about that. She is still upside-down over the horse, emitting strangled sounds: half gasps, half sobs. Six of Mr Voxley’s strokes of the cane will certainly leave a girl making strange strangled sounds.
‘Just stay in position, Mr Voxley says.
Sandra is handing him the jug of water, all too conscious of course that what Andrea had received and what she is about to get will all very shortly be coming to herself. At least then Andrea’s will be over, or at any rate the first part. It is an advantage going first, although naturally you don’t think so at the time.
A low moaning comes from Andrea. As Mr Voxley, holding the jug above her bottom, pours out a steady stream. The water splatters down on the seat of the white shorts, darkening them, soaking immediately through the thin cotton. Excess dribbles on down to Andrea’s knees, which are the lowest part of her on this side of the horse, and then drips off onto the bare floor below. The feeling is dreadful, exactly as if you have wet your pants. But in your upside-down position that is not primarily what is occupying your mind. What is occupying it is the thought of the cane. Mr Voxley’s cane shortly in action again, descending now on the drum-taut seat of the soaking shorts. Why it should be worse is not clear: perhaps it is because your bottom inside the shorts is also wet and more sensitive; perhaps it is psychological — you expect it to hurt more and therefore it does. Whatever the reason there is no doubt…
‘How is that? Should that suffice? Mmmm…?’ No doubt it is another of those rhetorical questions from Mr Voxley, not really requiring an answer. He puts the jug down and runs his hand over Andrea’s bottom. Over the soaking shorts encasing the ripe cheeks, throbbing still from those half dozen cuts, and then where his hand always seems to finish up: in between Andrea’s legs. ‘Mmmm…’ Stroking her pussy again. ‘Yes, that should do it.’
He steps over to Sandra. ‘All right, Sandra? Watching carefully? Not missing an iota? Not even a blink of the eye I hope. Mmmm…?’ Mr Voxley’s hand takes hold of one of Sandra’s nude tits as she stammers, ‘Yes sir… I am watching sir.’
‘Mmmm. Not long now and it’s your turn, eh? I’m just getting into the swing of things. My arm will be nicely loosened up when I come to you. So we’ll be able to do your pretty bum properly, won’t we?’ The hand lets go of Sandra’s boob and slides down. It stops, predictably, at the crotch of Sandra’s thin cotton shorts. ‘I hope you can wait just a few more moments, Sandra dear.’
And then he is back at Andrea, the cane again in his caning hand. To address the seat of those soaking wet shorts: or rather what the shorts contain. Andrea is still in her upside-down, frog-jumping pose. Hanging onto the legs of the horse as she awaits her ordeal. The cane-across-the-wet-shorts ordeal.
‘Ready then?’ Mr Voxley asks, happy to prolong and extend the agony. He flips the cane down onto a wet bare thigh. Not too hard but Andrea’s breath gasps sharply out. And then… he is taking careful aim at the real target. Swinging back the whippy bamboo… and bringing it slicing down…
At the last moment Sandra closes her eyes. She can’t bear to look. Andrea’s blood-curdling yell assails her ears. When the yell dies away into less noisy sounds she opens them again. Andrea is making a sobbing sound now. Mr Voxley is once more raising the cane.
Not looking at Sandra he says, ‘Are you sure you’re watching this, Sandra?’ The cane zips down…
Andrea looks up, at the ceiling, though it is dark and she can’t see the ceiling, just the darkness. It is just after 10, after Lights Out therefore, and so necessarily dark. You wouldn’t think of having a light on after that time with possibly a chink showing round the door or of course also the possibility that there is a secret spy-hole or a one-way viewing area into your room. Opinion is divided as to whether this is so. But in any case the door can burst open at any moment: Mr Voxley or someone else. No, when it is Lights Out you don’t dream of contravening that regulation. It would certainly mean another caning, perhaps a whole series of canings.
Under the blanket and looking up at the darkness Andrea shivers. Thinking of that awful cane across her wet shorts. The shorts, hanging on the back of her chair next to the bed, are more or less dry now. Dried with the warmth of Andrea’s body after the caning. You are not permitted to put on anything else after a caning. Mr Voxley says you can take the shorts off if you want to but you are not allowed to put anything else on. Wearing the wet shorts is preferable to being completely nude.
Will she get the cane again tomorrow? Mr Voxley never tells you beforehand. Not knowing is good for you, it keeps you on your toes. Keeping you alert and sharp is what Training Camp is for, to get you fit and alert. Andrea can’t think of any reason for another caning but that doesn’t mean that Mr Voxley can’t. Will Mr Voxley come in perhaps? Just as you never know when you may get another caning so you don’t know if in the darkness the door may suddenly open and then shut and it will be Mr Voxley. Coming in. Sitting on the side of the bed. Smiling his amiable smile in the darkness. Pulling back the bedcover. At least it won’t be another caning, not in your room after Lights Out. Andrea squirms her bottom. It is still sore.
But Mr Voxley won’t come in at the moment. Because he is at this moment in a room down the corridor. Sandra’s room. Sitting on her bed and talking quietly in the darkness in his friendly way. Sandra’s bedcover is pulled back and he is stroking Sandra’s nude boobs which in her supine position on her back do not stick out like they do when she is standing at attention waiting to be caned.


  1. Excellent story. I am particularly gratified that these wonderful pictures were used for the depiction of life in a 'Training Camp', as in a comment beneath another item which they accompanied (a 'reader's request' one) I specifically mentioned that I thought very thin and tight white shorts (and nothing else other than pumps and possibly socks) would make an excellent uniform for the 'reform and rehabilitation' training camps of the 'near future' extreme patriarchal society (those terrifying, whispered about places which young ladies fear more than anything and which act as a great incentive towards obedience and cooperation in the world outside). Girls made to go permanently topless, in other words, with only the tightest and skimpiest of clothing to preserve their modesty down below. For the spring and summer months at least. Yes, we can get inclement weather at such times of year (particularly in Britain) but nothing too bad. A bit of rain never hurt anyone and it's never that cold, especially if a girl is being kept busy with a healthy regime of exercise and running and such like. If she's feeling cold then she's simply not exerting herself hard enough in my view.

    The use of water was a very good idea. However, I think I'd have still had those shorts down for at least a final few cane strokes. I've also read that the increased 'stingy' effect of water is better realised with a more broad based instrument of punishment than a cane, so maybe this would have been an instance in which some form of paddle could have been employed? Again, a wettened BARE bottom would have been good for this.

    1. Although, thinking about it, maybe it would be a good idea to keep the thin wet shorts on with the wooden paddle use as the shorts retain the water. Nevertheless, I'd still have those shorts down eventually just because, well, just because!

  2. The brunette is a favourite Blushes girl of mine. Not pretty but asking to be dealt with.

  3. Is it Linda who starred in the photo sets for A Tutor for Amanda and Amanda Disciplined? Those are two really great sets of photographs (and good stories too). I agree. Not the prettiest but definitely a suitable case for treatment.

    1. Yes that’s her - from Supplement 5, Blushes 11 and these two photo-sets pulled together in Blushes 56 as Amanda. She also appeared elsewhere. Linda’s Column was prompted by general consensus that she had a look which attracted a desire to punish her.
      You can get that from her petulant expressions in the sequence above. Her face and breasts prompt one to deal with her, as do the pictures of her bush elsewhere.