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Wednesday, 31 July 2019

Miss Thorn’s Diary

A trip down Nostalgia Lane for UK readers here. If you cast your minds back to the summer of 2010 you may recall a hoo-ha over the antics of a housemate called Shabby Katchadourian in the Big Brother house.
During the usual (back then) BB media feeding frenzy it emerged in the Sun newspaper that as well as being a former child actress called Keeley Flanders, Shabby had also starred in some spanking films. See a contemporary article below from Female First:
Big Brother housemate Shabby might have seen her acting dreams get stolen by none other than Lindsay Lohan, but at least she had a kinky spanking video to fall back on.
New reports have emerged today that the lesbian squatter donned a sailor outfit for a fetish website called Spanking Dome where she was told to bend over by an older actor with long hair, then thrashed alongside another brunette. Nice.
Not only that, but Shabby has also been seen posing in a skimpy schoolgirl's outfit for lesbian fetish magazine Diva when she was in her late teens and felt that erotica was the only work for her once her early film roles dried up.
The 24-year-old former stage school pupil has changed her name from Keeley Flanders, the name that she used when she played the young Rachel Griffiths in Oscar-nominated 1999 movie Hilary And Jackie.
Crikey, what a long way to fall. Poor Shabby.
The Sun’s scoop wasn’t news for those of us who had always enjoyed her spanking movies — she was far and away the best-looking spankee at SIT-spanking, and had a lovely posh English accent to go with the looks and great figure. Here is one of them, with Xerotics’ Kirsten playing her boss, Miss Thorn.

Video:

Tuesday, 30 July 2019

A Slavegirl Atones

A reader’s fantasy by B.J.J. of London from Janus 44
Naked under her housecoat and slippers, her newly set hair wrapped in a towel for protection from the bathroom steam, trembling and heart thumping with anticipatory fear, Rosemary hurried out of the bathroom, along the thickly carpeted landing and into the bedroom. She closed the door behind her and glanced nervously at the clock, the accuracy of which she had carefully checked while her bath was running. Only then did she manage to relax just a fraction: better than she thought — she still had an hour before she had to report to her husband in the Punishment Room downstairs to receive her flogging.
Ever since their wedding two years earlier Robert had treated his beautiful 28-year-old wife with loving but firm and masterful domination. She didn’t mind that, indeed she expected it, his dominant nature had been one of the things which had first attracted her to him. Now she often received corporal punishment at his hands for minor peccadillos or household inefficiency, to which she submitted with ready and obedient acceptance of her just lot. On these more routine occasions appropriate justice was administered summarily and immediately in the bedroom, after which they kissed and made love and all was forgiven and forgotten. Occasionally, however, when Rosemary really stepped out of line — and particularly for offences involving disloyalty or disobedience to her husband, or for repetitions of offences previously dealt with summarily — she was sentenced to receive more formal and much more severe punishment.
Robert deliberately reserved the latter sessions for really serious offences in order to make the maximum impact on his erring wife when they did occur. On such occasions sentence was always passed at least 24 hours in advance of its execution so that Rosemary had ample time to think about what was coming to her — and why. She also needed enough notice to ensure that the prescribed regulation uniform which she had to wear for her thrashing was complete and immaculate, and to allow her to prepare herself physically and mentally for the coming ordeal.
Tonight was such an occasion. Robert had caught her red-handed in heavy petting with another man while under the influence of drink at a party. It had been, Rosemary admitted ruefully to herself, a ‘fair cop’ — she knew she would have been in bed with Bill in another five minutes if Robert hadn’t surprised them. To make matters worse she knew, and Robert suspected, that she had made most of the running and she accepted that she richly deserved everything that was coming to her. But that didn’t make it any easier to contemplate…
Now, alone in the bedroom, she quickly checked each item of her punishment uniform carefully laid out ready on the bed. Robert was a stickler for smartness: every item had to be perfectly prepared and correctly worn, and her personal grooming and deportment must equally be of the very highest standard. Her lord and master would thoroughly inspect her in formal military fashion as she stood rigidly to attention in front of him before she received her flogging, and an awesome special additional punishment lay ready in reserve if there were the slightest shortcomings in the high standard of turn-out expected of her. She nervously contemplated the lustrous black satin brassiere with the matching suspender belt and skimpy G-string which preserved her modesty at the front but offered no protection whatever to her bare bottom which was so soon to be the focus of attention. Then she examined the brand-new, sheer, fully-fashioned plain black stockings; the two-inch-wide polished black hide slave collar with its brass studs, to be worn with the matching wristbands which would be tightly buckled on over the close-fitting long black leather gloves.
Rosemary’s eye moved to the elegant sleeveless long shiny black leather cloak, to be fastened with a single neck-clasp and hanging over her shoulders open at the front, which she would wear initially over the rest of her uniform. Finally, at the foot of the bed stood the full knee-high gleaming plain black leather boots with their elegantly tapered toes and three-inch heels, fitted with gleaming brass dummy spurs. She had polished those boots over and over again in the last 24 hours in the traditional manner, with wax polish, brushes and hard work, afterwards breathing on them and buffing them to final perfection with a clean soft duster. Their spurs, and the studs of her collar and wristbands, had to be carefully polished with metal polish — and woe betide her if Robert found at inspection any trace of blacking on metal, or of metal polish on leather!
Quickly, but carefully and thoroughly, she uncovered her hair and put the finishing touches to it, and attended to her manicure, discreet jewellery and perfume. Then she slipped out of her housecoat and slippers and put on her uniform piece by piece, painstakingly checking each item in turn for smartness and correctness, both directly and in the mirror. She spent a long time over her stockings and boots, ensuring that the stocking seams were absolutely straight up the backs of her legs and that they in turn then ran straight into the back seams of the boots in a perfect, unbroken vertical line. Next, her gloved hands slipped the cloak over her bare shoulders, fastened the clasp and adjusted the hang of the elegant garment as it swung attractively across her bare buttocks and caressed with its hem the tops of the gleaming boots which fitted snugly around her stockinged legs. At last she was ready, perfectly groomed and smartly uniformed, a delinquent slavegirl ready to submit to her master’s discipline. As she gave her appearance a final overall check in the long mirror, pirouetting in front of it to examine herself from all angles, she felt a strange feeling of exultation in spite of her very real terror.
One more thing remained to be done before she went downstairs to meet her fate. Her instructions required her to carry in her gloved hands, ready to hand to her master with a curtsey at his bidding, an instrument of punishment of her own choice — although she knew that she would not necessarily be punished only, or indeed at all, with this. She went to the cupboard in the corner of the bedroom where Robert kept his considerable armoury of canes, paddles, tawses and whips. She trembled more violently than ever as she saw, alone in pride of place at the top of the carefully arranged display, the as-yet-unused sinister black leather cat-o’nine-tails, with its nine tough springy hide lashes, which it was her duty to keep well and regularly oiled so that it was always in readiness at the peak of condition. This was the instrument specifically reserved for lapses in turn-out, and so far by dint of diligent preparation she had thankfully managed to escape being punished with it. Quickly, with a shudder, Rosemary passed over the cat and selected a beautiful long thin riding whip with a little whipcord sting at the tip.
Whip in hand, head held proudly high but frightened inside, she marched smartly out of the room, along the landing, down the stairs, through the hall and at length stood trembling before the oak door of the Punishment Room where she knew that her husband would be waiting. Here she hesitated, trying to still her rapid breathing, literally quaking with fear. She raised her right hand to knock on the heavy door, but lowered it again. After an aeon of turmoil compressed into a few seconds her leather-clad knuckles did what they inevitably had to do and rapped smartly on the wood. She was just in time, she reflected, as she stood nervously awaiting his summons to enter.
The Punishment Room was a medium-sized room, bare and functional with white walls and ceiling and a plain black thick-pile carpet, lit by florescent strips. It was reserved exclusively for these rare special disciplinary sessions, and kept securely locked by Robert at all other times except when Rosemary was cleaning it. There were only two items of furniture. Right in the middle in pride of place stood the heavy four-legged whipping horse with its firm padded black leather top. It had been made precisely to measure for Rosemary by Robert himself, designed so that it would support her full weight when she bent over it with her feet still firmly planted on the carpet. The only other furniture was a king-size padded leather couch over against one wall, which doubled as an alternative whipping bench and as a bed on which a suitably disciplined and chastened slave would later be made to submit to her master’s will. Round the walls hung a comprehensive duplicate set of instruments of punishment.
ENTER GIRL!’ rapped out Robert in answer to Rosemary’s knock, after letting her stew for a few seconds. Rosemary smartly opened the door, marched into the room, closing the door behind her; then swept immediately down into a magnificent deep curtsey of submission to her master and remained down, head bowed, awaiting his pleasure. Robert secretly thrilled at the beautiful sight before him, and felt his manhood harden under the tight riding breeches he was wearing. He quickly controlled himself, however. He had work to do: his naughty wife required strong correction and she was going to get it. But by George, she looked wonderful!
On your feet, girl, at attention!’ he ordered sharply. She obediently complied; booted feet together, gloved arms and hands straight down by her side under the cloak, whip held vertically between the leather-sheathed fingers of her right hand, shoulders back and chin up. He scrutinised her for a moment, concentrating at this stage chiefly on the cloak, and then commanded: ‘Right, remove your cloak and lay it, neatly folded, on the couch. Then resume your present position.’
Smartly and quickly Rosemary obeyed, and stood before him again in brassiere, suspenders and stockings, boots, gloves, collar and wristbands, whip still in hand. Her beautiful full, tight round bottom stood out in its frame of uniform as if it knew what was coming to it. The inspection was long and rigorous. ‘Good girl,’ thought Robert to himself, ‘a first class turn-out.’ He sometimes wondered if she used a plumb-line to get her stocking seams so straight! But wait — what was this? He stiffened and his voice, which had hitherto been simply strict, firm and commanding, now held a new note of steely menace.
Rosemary sensed the change and quaked in her boots as he rapped out ‘Give me your whip, Madam!’ In frightened anticipation and with a submissive curtsey her softly gloved hands offered up to him the three-foot-long thin and swishy equestrian rod. ‘Now go and stand in front of the couch with your right foot up on the seat.’
Trembling, she obeyed. Whip in hand Robert strode after her and examined more closely the exquisite boot thus placed up for his inspection. Yes, there it was: a faint and small but now quite unmistakable smudge of powdery white on the otherwise gleaming jet-black boot leather, immediately below the point where the spur was fitted to the inner side of the boot. She had been careless with the metal polish when cleaning her spurs; it was so faint that she probably hadn’t noticed it (he had nearly missed it himself), but that was no excuse. He stepped back and raised his right arm, whip in hand.
SWITT…! SWITT…! The vicious whip whistled down at maximum force and thrashed mercilessly full across the crown of Rosemary’s as-yet-virgin buttocks, leaving two sets of fine crimson tramlines on the rosy pink globes. Although she had half expected some form of punishment during the inspection itself, Rosemary was still taken by surprise when it came. With one foot up on the couch she kept her balance only with difficulty and she gasped aloud in pain as she received both lashes.
‘Look at that, young lady!’ — he pointed with the tip of the whip to the minute offending smear — ‘How dare you report to me for punishment with your boots in that filthy state?’
‘I… I’m sorry, sir,’ faltered Rosemary lamely and quite inadequately, desperately wanting to massage her smarting bottom but not daring to.
‘You will be! Right girl, you have exactly four minutes to go back upstairs, clean that boot properly and get back here,’ he paused ominously ‘…with that cat-o’nine-tails in your hand! Move!
With a swift curtsey to her master Rosemary hurried out of the room and back upstairs to the bedroom. Oh hell, how could she have missed it? Now she was really for it. But worse than her fear was her feeling of shame over letting her master down in this way. Quickly she grabbed the duster and polished out the offending mark, after which she rapidly re-checked her overall appearance in the mirror — after one such fault it was absolutely imperative that she now be perfectly groomed and dressed. Then she went to the cupboard and gingerly took down the terrible nine-thonged whip. ‘Well, pussy cat,’ she said to it with a forced gaiety which in truth she was very far from feeling, ‘you’re going to be christened at last!’
Then, just in time, she was downstairs in the Punishment Room on her knees before her lord, offering the leather whip up to him in both gloved hands with her pretty head bowed and her eyes submissively fixed on the carpet as she uttered the ritual words: ‘My lord and master, I am a wicked and slatternly slave girl and I humbly beg that you will inflict upon me the punishment which I richly deserve.’
Robert took the cat from her uplifted hands and lashed it twice through the air before bringing the nine tails down with an awe-inspiring THWACK! on the firmly-padded leather top of the whipping horse. Rosemary nearly fainted at the terrifying sound. He then addressed her from a great height.
As you have not received the cat before I will be as lenient with you as I properly can be this time, but you will learn beyond doubt that I will not tolerate slovenly dress. For the offence of being improperly turned out for the receipt of punishment you will receive four lashes of the cat over the whipping horse. You will now stand in front of the whipping horse, feet one pace apart and hands on head.’
THWACK! The nine tough, springy tails lashed down full across his wife’s posterior, each making its individual telling impression. Rosemary jerked and gasped audibly, feeling the full effect as though a raging fire had suddenly been lit all over her bottom, and she gripped the legs of the horse even more tightly. Oh golly, how could she ever take three more of those?
THWACK! The second lash fell, and she began to whimper quietly and wriggle and squirm against the padded seat of the horse. It took all her public school training and discipline to prevent her from crying out loud.
THWACK! The third cut heightened the smouldering legacy of the previous two, and now she jerked violently over the horse and moaned more loudly. Robert lifted the cat for the last time, he would really give her something to remember with this one.
THWACKKK!… He brought the lash mercilessly down with the entire and considerable force of his strong right arm. As she received the nine simultaneous lashes Rosemary could no longer contain herself: she yelled and screamed at the top of her voice like a wretched little third form schoolgirl at her first strapping. At length gradually she subsided and lay limply across the supporting horse, gasping heavily. ‘Oh God, th… th… thank you, sir!’ she managed to gasp out dutifully in her agony. She remained obediently down, for she knew better than to move before she was told to do so.
‘Never let me catch you improperly dressed for a flogging again, my girl.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Now get up and go and stand in the corner facing the wall, hands clasped behind your neck. You have fifteen minutes to pull yourself together before your main punishment.’
As his uniformed slavegirl stood in disgrace in the corner, exhibiting her whipped bottom and trying to control her snivelling, Robert considered her further punishment. He had originally intended to give her a really severe thrashing with the heavy three-tailed leather tawse; her offence of grave disloyalty well deserved it. However, she had now already been memorably punished for the relatively minor dress offence and he decided that he could properly mitigate her principal correction just a little in consequence. After all, he didn’t want to do irreparable damage to that ravishing behind! He would use the medium weight two-tailed Lochgelly tawse instead, and finish her off with a good swishing from her own riding whip. That ought to be sufficient to bring her firmly back to heel.
At the end of the allotted quarter-hour she took down from the wall and handed to him at his command the beautiful craftsman-made tawse, humbly kissing it in submission before proffering it to him with the required curtsey. Then without having to be told she bent obediently over the horse again to receive her further correction. Although still smarting from the cat she was now once more composed and ready to take her medicine. She knew that her bottom would soon be stinging to hell and gone, but she was equally as sure that no matter how unbearable the pain became she would remain obediently in position as long training and self-discipline had taught her.
The fine-quality tawse began its evil-cleansing disciplinary work, swishing smartly and pliantly down again and again; the springy hide firmly and vibrantly chastising the proud buttocks of the naughty young wife with ruthless efficiency as she moaned, gasped, panted and pleaded ever more violently. Her bottom wriggled and cavorted on the padded horse as each new stroke fell, but all the while she submitted herself dutifully to the at once terrible and strangely exhilarating punishment from the hand of the one whom she worshipped and adored. Gradually the worst shock of the pain receded and sheer ecstasy and yearning gained the upper hand. ‘Whip me, darling master! Whip me well… please!’ she begged in gasps as the leathering continued at full pelt.
Now he threw down the tawse and, seizing the swishy riding whip, he began to flick her crimson buttocks with it — gently at first, then with increasing severity and swing as he thrashed the thin crop mercilessly down into her mortified breech. After about 30 whipping strokes he sensed that the psychological moment had arrived for both of them: the proper requirements of retribution and deterrence had been satisfied, and now her newly re-disciplined state needed to be consummated. Besides, she looked damnably sexy in her smart punishment uniform, unquiet and dishevelled across the horse in her ecstatic agony.
Rosemary was briskly ordered up to stand before him. Her master swiftly removed her G-string and commanded her to remove his breeches and riding boots. Panting and whimpering with lust, sore beyond belief but flushed and strangely radiant, she complied — her fingers working urgently at the zips and straps. Her soft, sensuously leather-gloved hands caressed his body as he compelled her firmly and masterfully to lie spreadeagled on the couch, bearing himself down on top of her and entering her forcefully as her gloved arms and booted legs entwined around him. Kissing him long and passionately, the delinquent and soundly whipped slave-girl gave herself up completely to receive the climax of her master’s discipline…

Monday, 29 July 2019

Fund Raising

From Blushes Supplement 7
The long corridor along which she had to walk was thickly carpeted, so that her black, buckled shoes made no sound. But she could hear her own fast breathing and the thumping of her heart. The palms of her hands were damp. I don’t think I can go through with this, she thought, as a kind of panic mounted. This was something that happened to other girls. Not to her.
Jane Martin was on her way to the Head.
She knew what that implied, for other girls who had taken that same long walk had told her about it. One, in rather bragging mood after it was over, had actually shown her. Jane, in her mind’s eye, could still see those vivid twin-tracked marks over the rounds of flesh. Horrifying!
When she had first come to Chartley Hall at 15, and heard whispering about canings, Jane had thought they were given on the hand. She could still recall the shock she had felt when one girl revealed the fact that they were given on the bare bottom.
There is still time to turn back, Jane told herself rather desperately.
She could sneak into the dorm, put a few things in a bag and run away. Then she wouldn’t have to face the Head. Nor that cane. Yes, I can run away, she told herself again, instead of turning right at the end of the corridor and seeing that polished, mahogany-coloured door facing her.
But where could she run away to? She had no money — well, less than a pound anyway — nor had she any means of getting any. She relied on the small allowance her uncle and aunt could ill afford. They were the only people she could run to — and Jane could not bear the thought of that after all the sacrifices they had made to send her to Chartley Hall. They were so proud of her. Thinking of the looks of disbelief and dismay when she told them she had run away — and why — made Jane Martin feel sick. But then, so did that door at the end of the corridor.
She stopped, torn between one awfulness and another, and looked out of one of the tall windows lining the right-hand side of the corridor. It looked out on to part of the playing fields. A game of hockey was in progress and Jane looked at the running figures enviously. At that moment she would have given anything to be one of them, even though she hated hockey as well as most team games.
Oh what can I do? Waves of self-pity washed through her, I could commit suicide, she thought wretchedly, but knowing the next instance she wouldn’t have the courage to do any such thing. In fact, Jane Martin knew she wasn’t very brave at all; certainly not like some of the other girls seemed to be. That was what was making that long trip down the corridor all the more dreadful. She turned from the window, eyes moist, and continued with slow, reluctant steps.
There it was, bright and shiny brown, with a large rounded brass handle. Jane had only stood there once before and that was when her uncle and aunt had brought her for that first interview. Miss Brinkley had seemed stern but kind, concentrating her attentions on the elders rather than on Jane herself — of whom she had asked a few rather pointless questions. Now one remark the Head had made towards the end of that interview rang in Jane’s memory louder than any other.
‘We are sticklers for discipline at Chartley…’
Smiling a little nervously, her uncle and aunt had nodded approvingly.
‘No bad thing,’ one or other of them had said. Had they any idea what they were letting her in for?
Jane’s arm felt weak as she raised it to knock. Now her heart was beating even more loudly. Silence. Should she knock again? Need she? She could say she had been there and knocked and nobody answered. So she had gone away. The futility of that pressed in upon Jane even as she had the idea. It was merely postponing the inevitable. She knocked again, a shade more firmly. A moment or two later she heard a voice, presumably telling her to enter. Jane turned the big brass handle and pushed.
The large, high-ceilinged room was much as she remembered it, with a bespectacled Miss Brinkley behind a wide desk highly polished like the door which led into it. The Head was even wearing the same — a crisp, white blouse and a black skirt. But then, she never seemed to wear anything else, except perhaps a black jacket on colder days. There was, however, one difference. A man in a drab, fawn-coloured suit sat to one side of Miss Brinkley’s desk. Obviously a parent come to visit his daughter, Jane realised. She even felt a slight sense of relief; nothing could happen for the moment.
‘Mrs Johnson sent me to you, Miss,’ she heard herself saying in a voice so feeble she wondered if it would carry across the room.
‘I’ve heard all about it, Jane,’ replied the Head briskly. ‘Come and stand in front of my desk.’
Head swimming a little, Jane moved across the room. It seemed to take a long time. She stopped about a yard from the desk but could not bring herself to look at anything but the faded picture on the wall behind. It depicted a bewhiskered gentleman in Victorian-style clothing. Could that possibly be Miss Brinkley’s father she wondered abstractedly? Her mind did not want to concentrate on reality. She was horribly conscious of two pairs of eyes focussing on her and felt herself colouring. Still, the parent would be gone soon. Jane forced herself to look at Miss Brinkley directly but her eyes flinched away as she saw the hard, bleak gaze behind a pair of spectacles.
‘A rather unpleasant matter this, Mr Dyson,’ she heard the Head saying. ‘Not the sort of thing we expect from Chartley girls.’
‘Is that so?’ said the man. His voice was bland, almost bored. Why oh why is she bringing him into this, Jane complained inwardly? Things were bad enough already without this Mr Dyson knowing. He must be the parent of a new pupil, she thought, suddenly realising she couldn’t remember any girl called Dyson.
‘This girl, Jane Martin,’ continued the Head, ‘has been caught out in a piece of gross deception. Or attempted deception. As you know, Mr Dyson, every girl has a Record Book for each term…’
How could he know that?
‘…and this has to be shown to parents at end of term and signed by them. Amongst other things, it lists detentions received.’ Miss Brinkley paused and looked down at a piece of paper on her desk. ‘It seems that Jane received an unusually high number and, believe it or not, persuaded another girl to exchange detention pages with her. I may say that the girl in question had no detentions.’
‘That is rather unpleasant,’ said Mr Dyson, uncrossing his legs. ‘How was this discovered.’
‘The Sellotape used seemed suspicious to this other girl’s parents and they pressed their daughter on the matter. She confessed.’
Jane’s cheeks were now glowing with shame. It was terrible to stand there and have this piece of deceit exposed to a stranger. She had only done it because she didn’t want to hurt her uncle and aunt. Oh it was all so beastly unfair! Jane heard Mr Dyson’s tongue click disparagingly. ‘How old is she?’ he enquired.
‘Sixteen. Just…’ came the reply.
‘Of caneable age then.’ Jane’s cheeks grew hotter than ever. This was terrible. It was a private matter, not to be discussed before others.
‘Precisely,’ said Miss Brinkley. ‘As a governor of Chartley, you would be aware of our rule about that. Also that, as a governor, you are entitled to be present while I cane this wickedly deceitful girl. As I say, I think it is most disgraceful for any Chartley pupil to behave in this despicable fashion.’
Jane felt as if her ears were on fire. Of course, he wouldn’t stay! It would not be right… no… no… it would be outrageous!
The governor gave a hesitant little cough. ‘Er… well… I suppose so,’ he said. ‘A governor has certain responsibilities.’
Jane heard her own disbelieving intake of breath and it seemed as if her knees would buckle at any moment. There was a buzzing in her head through which Miss Brinkley’s crisp voice came only indistinctly. ‘The alternative is to expel you, Jane. And, if you do not consent and co-operate in my punishment, that is what I shall assuredly do.’
Expulsion! Oh no… it wasn’t possible! Once again the spectre of her poor uncle and aunt arose. They could never bear the disgrace of their ‘little girl’ being expelled. It would break their hearts.
‘Oh please don’t expel me, Miss,’ she heard herself pleading, hands outstretched.
‘Very well, Jane,’ said Miss Brinkley, standing up and opening her desk drawer, ‘you will accept the punishment you deserve.’
The sight of that whippy, hook-handled cane seemed to turn Jane’s, stomach to water. A memory of those weals she had seen returned. ‘O-oh… please… I didn’t mean any h-harm…’ Was that not indeed the truth? But who would believe that she had done this for the sake of others and not her own?
‘I am going to give you six strokes,’ continued Miss Brinkley, quite ignoring the plea. ‘And, as you are probably aware, girls at Chartley are always caned on their bare behind.’
The governor raised his eyebrows slightly. He had expected rather more strokes than that in view of the nature of the case. Still it wasn’t as bad as smoking or drinking or stealing. Also, the girl was rather young, even if she didn’t exactly look it. Mostly puppy-fat, of course.
Miss Brinkley came round to the front of the desk. ‘I shall cane you, Jane, whilst you bend over my desk…’
It was going to happen! It was going to! The impossible… and now made all the worse than one had imagined because he was there! Oh the terrible shame of it!
‘Remove your knickers, Jane, and come and bend over here.’ The cane tapped the chair not the desk. To her horror, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Governor had a much clearer view of her if bent over the chair. It was unbelievable… how could she do that!
‘Unless,’ Miss Brinkley was saying in an icy voice, ‘you prefer to be expelled. This very day.’
‘No…ooo!’ It was an agonised denial from the heart. It would be too cruel to break their hearts. So she had to do it… somehow she had to. Shaking now, Jane put her hands up under her skirt and felt the elastic of her blue serge knickers. ‘Couldn’t I… please… just this once… because… I mean, couldn’t I keep…’ she stammered.
‘No, you may not,’ said the Head in that icy voice of hers. ‘And don’t try my patience, Jane, it’s on a very short fuse at the moment.’
There was no escape. The horror… the shaming horror… was here and now. With a sobbing groan, Jane pushed her knickers down to her knees, then felt them slide to her ankles. She stepped out of them. Again the cane tapped. ‘Bend, Jane…’
They had made Jane Grey bend, thought Jane Martin’s teetering mind, just before they executed her. She had recently finished doing the young queen’s short reign in History. That Jane had done it… and this wasn’t exactly execution.
Closing her eyes, gritting her teeth, Jane bent. ‘Oh… oh not h-hard… not t-too… hard,’ she begged as the tip of the cane pushed her skirt up high.
Shouldering his responsibilities the governor looked contemplatively at a pair of plump, tight-pressed thighs and a pair of plump, tight-clenched buttocks. However, for all the pressing and clenching, tufts of dark girlish down did little to conceal girlish charms. Yes… she was a big girl but would certainly fine down later into a nicely curvaceous one.
Jane heard the short, sharp whistle of the descending cane… then she felt it. It was far more painful than her imagination had let her believe. And that had been painful enough. In an instant she was up off the chair hands clasping frantically at the red-hot wire which seemed to have been fastened over her flesh. Twisting, turning, she performed a kind of involuntary war-dance up and down in front of Miss Brinkley’s desk… gasping out disbelievingly as she did so. The governor was impressed. Not only by the sights and sounds evoked but by the evidence of how remarkably and effectively punishing a simple piece of willow could be.
‘Noo… no… I can’t stand it…’
‘Bend over again, Jane.’
‘I can’t… oh I can’t…
‘Bend over, Jane. I won’t tell you again.’
‘Pleeasse…’
Somehow… she never knew how… Jane Martin made herself bend again and even as her bottom was twisting, flinching away in dread, a second red-hot wire was laid about an inch below the first.
‘Yyyeee…oooo…www…’ Once again the governor was treated to a war-dance of pain as Jane cavorted uncontrollably before the desk. The fact that she was displaying herself before a stranger — a middle-aged man — had become of minimal importance. Her whole being was absorbed by the pain… the pain… the pain! And the most intense desire for it to diminish.
‘I can’t b-bear any more… I simply c-can’t.’
‘Jane… haven’t you any spirit… any pride?’
‘I just can’t h-help it… oooh… it hurts so… no more…’
‘Jane, there are still four more to come.’
‘No… no… not f-four… just one… one would be enough.’
‘Four, Jane. Governor, I think, in order that we can proceed, you should hold this girl’s wrists.’
‘Very well, Head, whatever you wish.’
Frankly, the Governor would have preferred to be in his previous position — but duty came first. Miss Brinkley surveyed the twisting bottom before her with some satisfaction. There were girls who could take a cane and girls who couldn’t. Jane Martin was definitely one of the latter. There was no doubt in Miss Brinkley’s mind that the girl would never give cause to be sent to her study again. Thus, once again, proving the benefits a cane could bring when applied at an appropriate time.
Unhurriedly, she completed the caning she had promised, with the governor struggling hard to hold down those jerking arms, and Jane screeching her throat hoarse as the willow bit remorselessly into her soft flesh. Flesh utterly inexperienced at enduring such deep-searing pain.
----//----
‘You may now replace your knickers, Jane.’
Blind with tears, on her knees, striving to cope with those incessant-stinging stripes across her bottom, Jane found it difficult to carry out the permit granted. Only slowly, sobbing and sobbing, did she finally manage to get her feet through the holes in that blue serge and pull up…up…up. And, ooohhh, how that hurt too! Her skin seemed to have shrunk. But, at last, they were up and fitting snugly. At least, that was one kind of shame disposed of.
‘Well, Jane, I don’t imagine you’ll ever do anything like that again.’ Miss Brinkley was behind her desk once more and had replaced the cane in a drawer. ‘Am I correct?’
‘Mmmm… mmmfff… no… M-Miss… I n-never will…’
‘Good. I am glad to hear it. You have disgraced the school. On the other hand, you have paid for that. We will say no more about it. Your uncle and aunt will hear nothing of this.’
‘O-ooohh… mmmff… th-thank you, Miss… thank you. I…I’m so… sorry, Miss…truly…’
‘That’s good. I like a girl who is repentant. You may go now, Jane.’
Jane Martin wanted to run to that mahogany door. To get out of that awful room for ever and ever! But she didn’t run. That would have hurt too much. She walked slowly and stiffly, wincing at every step.
----//----
‘Sorry we had to go through that charade about your being a governor, Mr Drinkwater, but I think it eased matters.
‘I quite agree,’ beamed the Headmistress of Chartley Hall’s guest. Without doubt, he was the wealthiest of all parents of resident pupils. Outside, in a forecourt, a chauffeur-driven Rolls waited patiently. ‘But she did lead my daughter from the paths of righteousness.’ Mr Drinkwater had not only made millions from the manufacture of ‘surgical goods’, he was a Baptist.
‘Yes, quite so. It was only right that you should witness that girl get the correction she merited.’
The fact that Jane Martin’s guardians were as poor as church-mice and this oily entrepreneur had oodles might have been a factor in this little affair. Miss Brinkley, however, did not let that cross her mind. She smiled.
‘By the way, Mr Drinkwater. If there are other occasions when you feel you ought to witness justice done…’
‘Yes… mmm… yes, Miss Brinkley?’
‘Well, we could actually make you a governor, you know.’
‘Is that so. Mmmm… I think I could take on the responsibility.’
‘It’s just that we’re opening a new fund. For a chapel, you understand?’
Mr Drinkwater was already taking out his cheque book.

Sunday, 28 July 2019

Grandma’s Rocking Chair

Story from Fessee 5 by Paul Blakeney
Susan and Roger stood outside the pretty country cottage which for so long had been home to her Grandparents. It was a lovely English summer day and the quaint cottage garden, which Grandfather had spent so many years tending with loving care, was looking at its best.
The air was thick with the rich smell of the blooms and the whole garden, dominated by Grandfather’s pride and joy, his prize-winning roses, was ablaze with colour in the bright sunshine.
For Susan, standing there for the first time in ten years, the memories it brought back to her were overwhelming. She had spent so many childhood summers staying at the cottage and she had so many happy memories of harvest-time and blackberry-picking and picnics in the meadows with fully-laden hampers.
But her most vivid memory was of the last time she stayed at the cottage ten years ago when she was 21 and those few fateful weeks she had spent with Grandma and Grandpa in the summer holidays.
She was at university then, her parents had gone to America and rented out their London home. She could have stayed with friends but she needed money and Grandma and Grandpa had said Mrs Jenkins needed an assistant in the village grocery store for the summer weeks. She could stay with them and earn enough money for a holiday in Greece before returning to university.
How perfect it all seemed! She so loved to spend long summer days in the country she had no hesitation in accepting.
But times change, children grow up and the 21-year-old girl who went to live with her grandparents that summer was quite different from the little girl who had visited them before. Her grandparents found their favourite granddaughter, who they loved to the bottom of their hearts, had grown into a self-centred selfish wilful young woman who they found extremely hard to handle. Until, that is, Grandpa had started to take matters in hand with some old fashioned timeless and well-tried remedies…
And it was chiefly the memories of Grandfather’s remedies which he had practised so vigorously on her bottom during that long hot summer ten years ago which were flooding back to Susan now and making her tremble as she stood on the doorstep of the white cottage with her husband Roger and watched him insert the key in the little front door.
She had never really forgotten the extraordinary events of that summer of course. How could she? In many ways it had changed her life. If it had never happened it would have been unlikely, for instance, that she would have married Roger, or indeed Roger would have married her. She might have remained the same selfish, vain, self-centred person for the rest of her life. But in the passage of the years she had perhaps pushed the memory of the events to the back of her mind. Now, returning to the cottage for the first time, the details of Grandpa’s punishments were becoming as vivid as if they were happening now.
She had been thinking of little else for the last few days, ever since her mother had broken the news of Grandma’s will to her on the telephone.
‘She’s left you a half-share in the cottage. ‘To our favourite and only granddaughter because she spent so many happy times here,’ the will says. Isn’t that nice? And oh yes at the end she’s also left you her rocking chair, apparently it was the express wish of Grandpa that you should have it. I think they mean the one in the kitchen parlour. There’s no other explanation of why they want you to have it although it’s the only piece of furniture she has specifically left to anyone. I don’t think it’s worth anything you know, as far as I remember they bought it second-hand themselves. Rather extraordinary. Did you say something darling?’
Susan could not say anything in reply at first. The news of the gift of the rocking chair had so jolted her she was speechless.
‘Er, I don’t think so. I may have done, perhaps I did,’ she stammered in confusion.
But clearly in her mind she saw a vision of herself kneeling on the rocking chair, her bottom stripped bare and lifted high in the air awaiting her punishment from Grandfather’s cane.
After putting the phone down she went upstairs to her bedroom and lay on her bed recalling the events of that summer in detail and the more she thought, the more she remembered of how the punishments came about, of the boys in the pub, the row with Grandma and Grandpa and the sessions on the rocking chair.
She remembered she kept a diary and dug it out of a box in the loft and, yes, there in black and white were the dates and times and details of her canings:
JULY 4: Grandfather caned me again today on the rocking chair. As I write this my bum is still stinging but I am still going to see the boys down the pub on Saturday and go to the disco with them no matter what Grandpa says. A girl’s got to have fun while she’s young, Grandpa is just behind the times.
SUNDAY JULY 8: Twice in a week and real stingers tonight. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Grandpa so angry when he lectured me. I must admit I howled like a baby when he caned me but I couldn’t help it. Grandma has just bought me a cup of milky chocolate to help me sleep but I don’t think there’s much chance of that. My bum feels like I’ve sat on a hornet’s nest.
The same night after the telephone call from her mother she told Roger about the will. He was delighted at the unexpected bequest and suggested they look over their new property at the weekend. She tried to put him off — another weekend perhaps — but nothing would dissuade him and she could think of no valid reasons for not going, so it was agreed.
For two days Susan was in turmoil, strangely withdrawn. Every spare moment when Roger was out she got out the diaries and re-read them recalling fresh memories. How many times had she knelt on that rocking chair? It had seemed only a few but perhaps it was obviously more. Some of the punishments she had simply forgotten.
Saturday came and they packed their bags to stay the weekend at the cottage. As Roger drove his powerful Granada, which came with his executive job, through the country lanes Susan remembered more and more, recognising the countryside, villages and meadows where they had enjoyed picnics. The sun was shining just as it had always seemed to be shining when she was young.
She hadn’t visited since Grandfather had been taken ill. He was sent to hospital and never returned. Grandma had stayed on in the cottage for a while but later went to live in a home. Susan regretted now she had not visited them more often after that fateful summer. Perhaps she had taken the canings too much to heart. Grandpa probably had every justification to cane her the way she had behaved. Looking back now and reading those diaries she was a tart little madam. Roger would certainly never have been interested in such an immature little girl and it was only a year or so later she had first met him.
‘Why exactly have you been left the rocking chair?’ Roger’s question broke her reverie. She had never told Roger before about the chair and its purpose. She remembered Grandpa saying ‘This is between you and us. I won’t tell anyone not even your mother, if you don’t.’ And she certainly hadn’t told anyone. It wasn’t the sort of thing you rushed back to university to tell your friends about.
And it was one of her only secrets from Roger.
There had been no need to tell him up to now of course but she loved and respected him more than anything in the world. Perhaps he ought to know as her husband and in any case she hated lying to him. She took a deep breath and began telling him the story of that summer as he drove the powerful car through the country lanes towards the cottage.
Now standing outside the cottage Roger noticed her fingers were trembling as he inserted the key in the lock. He had to admit he was rather surprised that the memory of the events which took place ten years ago was still having such an obvious emotional effect on Susan. He had listened to her story with an amused detachment at least at first although he could not deny that as she told her story the image of his beautiful wife kneeling up on the rocking chair pushing out her gorgeous bared buttocks to be punished was arousingly erotic.
Susan was the most fanciable woman he had ever met. Blonde, with stunning looks and clear light-blue eyes, she radiated class and style. Roger was proud to boast that having such a beautiful woman on his arm gave a powerful boost to his ego. She not only looked gorgeous with an almost perfect body, she radiated taste and style. She was, as the Americans he dealt with in business would say ‘One classy dame’. And her devotion to him was absolute. She was in no doubt that Roger was the best thing that had ever happened in her life and their love, driven by intense and passionate sex, seemed to grow stronger every day.
Roger pushed open the green front door of the cottage and as Susan stepped inside it was as if she was stepping through a time zone. Inside, the cottage was almost exactly as it had been ten years ago. The staircase, with the red floral-patterned carpet, rose abruptly in front of her.
The familiar black wooden beams of the ceiling ran across the open lounge to the right. By the side of the front door, ticking loudly in the quiet air, was the old grandfather clock. Susan was surprised to hear it still going, then she remembered Mrs Greenaway had been coming in and cleaning once a week to keep the cottage tidy in case Grandma returned.
The rooms were tiny, slightly smaller than she remembered, but it was the smell which really brought the cottage back to life for her. It was an odd mixture of mothballs, floor wax, garden vegetables, must, pastry, leather and blossom drifting in from the garden outside. She had forgotten the smell but tasting it again now it was as if Grandma and Grandpa were in the room with her.
She walked past the stairs and down the step to the kitchen parlour, closed off by a wooden door. She pushed it open and walked inside, her heart thumping, just as it had been when she had been summoned from her bedroom ten years ago for an appointment with Grandfather’s cane.
And there, resting on the stone floor, by the fireplace where it had always been, was the rocking chair. It looked so innocuous, so ordinary unless you knew the purpose to which it had been put, but Susan was staring at it as if every moment she had spent kneeling on its cushions was running through her mind. For three days she had read and re-read her diaries imagining this room and recalling as much as she could of every detail of those canings. But now, with the rocking chair in front of her, she had no need to close her eyes and dig into her memory. She could remember as if it was happening to her all over again. And for the first time she really felt the anxious fluttering in her belly and the tingling anticipation in her buttocks as her body recalled the nerve-wracking moments before the canings began and the stinging smart as the cane left its fiery red imprint across her cheeks.
‘Is that the chair?’ asked Roger from behind her.
‘Yes,’ she said walking forward and tentatively touching its soft cushions. One cushion was tied by four ribbons to the seat of the chair and another, with the same silky yellowy-green colouring was attached to the upright bars at the back. Over the top of the chair there was an extra rectangular cushion which acted as a head — or as Susan remembered — hip rest.
As she fingered the material lightly she remembered how she had climbed onto the chair under the stern gaze of Grandpa. She hadn’t told Roger everything in the car, only how she had been caned on the chair and what for — staying out late and throwing herself at the rough boys down the pub.
Within days of arriving in the village she began gaining a reputation for being fast and was seen disappearing into the woods with first one boy and then another. Of course she hadn’t gone all the way, it was a game to her, she loved to tease the boys, they were so thick compared to her clever university friends. But to the sex-starved boys in the village pub, who had little to look forward to except a life of labouring and drudgery, just putting a hand up the skirt of such a gorgeous creature or fondling her naked breasts was a pleasure they could boast about for weeks.
It was all a bit of a shock to her grandparents when they heard the stories circulating the village about her, but they kept their peace and tried to be tolerant until the vicar came round and told them things had really gone too far and the girl needed taking in hand. She had laughed at Grandfather at first when he confronted her and told her she needed a good spanking but when she was caught stealing sandwiches from the village shop for her current favourite boy Grandfather decided it was time to act.
He went to see Mr Joyce, the local village schoolmaster, and came back with one of his spare crook-handled canes and that night an astonished Susan, instead of drinking down the pub, found herself bent over the rocking chair bare-arsed with panties round her knees while her apoplectic Grandfather, red-faced with anger, delivered six smart stinging strokes to her timorously presented backside.
Perhaps he hadn’t caned her hard enough that first time because she was soon out with the boys again but eventually she began to learn her lesson and came to respect Grandpa. It was as if she grew up in those two months.
Grandpa was a real man, you could look up to and depend on. She could never after that have married a wimp. Roger was strong, he protected her, supported her, guided her. She needed a man like that, a man she could truly love, honour and obey, that was the real lesson Grandpa had taught her with his cane.
As Susan rocked the chair back and forward she wondered how many other grown women, as she had been physically at least ten years ago, had been bent over and had their bare arses spanked to teach them a lesson. Perhaps more should… and suddenly a half-formed idea came to her which sent butterflies fluttering in her stomach and she heard a voice outside of her say to Roger: ‘Shall I show you how Grandpa caned me?’
A beam of sunlight was shining through the window lighting up the flecks of dust floating in the air which was now thick with erotic tension as husband and wife looked at one another. After a pause he said, clearing his throat: ‘Go on then.’
She dragged the chair out into the centre of the room. Grandpa always did it rather ceremoniously as if to indicate to her the punishment was about to begin.
Standing in front of the chair Susan then began slowly to strip.
She had deliberately worn one of her best suits with neat jacket and tight-fitting skirt because she wanted to show the vicar and Mrs Jenkins and any of the boys from the pub she might meet just how far she had come in the last ten years. They knew her as a wild and immature girl. Now she was an attractive and rich woman with an executive husband and £250,000 house. She wanted them to know how well she had done.
She slowly undid the buttons of her jacket and slipped it from her shoulders placing it neatly on the table. Then she moved her hands to the side of her hips and loosened the zip pushing her skirt and then her slip down her legs and stepping out of them. Next her fingers, with slow deliberation, reached to the tiny pearl buttons of her cream blouse one by one in descending order and with a shrug slid the silky material from her, placing it with the rest of her clothes.
For Roger the sight of his wife performing her striptease in broad daylight before him was unbelievably erotic. Anybody could have walked past the window at any moment but the daring nature of her strip only made it more arousing. She stood now in her underwear — white bra and pants, suspender belt and stockings — and paused slightly as if deciding how far to go. In the next moment she had made up her mind and pulled out a kitchen chair placing one stockinged foot on it, unclipping the suspender clips and rolling the stocking down her thigh in almost classic striptease fashion.
Then the other leg and the superfluous suspender belt was also slipped off.
She paused again, but once more carried on, her fingers reaching behind her back to unfasten the bra clips and her milky white breasts, their red-pink tips hard and erect, fell forward. She stood before him, her gorgeous body almost naked except for her white panties stretched across her hips, her long blonde hair resting lightly on her bare shoulders.
She turned to Roger and said: ‘At this point Grandpa would say something like: “Right Susan, up on the chair,” and I would climb on.’
She gingerly put one knee on the chair seat holding onto the back to keep herself steady and then lifted the other leg from the floor. As his wife knelt before him Roger could imagine the scene 10 years ago. She would have been thinner then but looking at the magnificent sight of his wife’s curvaceous form now he thought he would prefer the present. Over the years her hips had swelled slightly, even though she had not borne children, yet her buttocks were still firm and trim and she exercised to keep herself in shape.
‘As I knelt here Grandpa would lecture me all about how I had let him down, how my mother would be disappointed, all that. He would go on for about five minutes. I remember I used to hate him for it. I just wanted to get the caning over with. Then eventually he would say “right Susan over you go” and I think you will see now why he chose the rocking chair.’
She pushed her weight forward dropping her hands down the back of the bars of the chair. As she did so the chair slowly rocked backwards and the special quality of the chair for punishment became apparent. For as she went over so her head was taken down towards the floor and at the same time her buttocks were lifted into the air so that the soft underside of her buttock-cheeks where they each joined her thigh were now raised up.
Now the real beauty of the chair became recognisable. For Susan’s buttocks were not only raised high but they were still soft and relaxed because of her kneeling position. Ordinarily to raise her rear so high would have meant bending tightly over stretching and tightening her cheeks. By letting the chair do the work her body was simply tipped up and her buttocks kept their softly-moulded shape.
The erotic image Roger had imagined in the car as Susan had confessed about the canings was nothing compared to the reality before him now as his beautiful wife with her gorgeous body lay bent over before him, her proffered behind simply begging for a hand to spank and redden the pale bum-flesh. Apart from a few playful smacks to her bottom-cheeks during lovemaking he had never spanked Susan but as he gazed at his 31-year-old wife so submissively presenting her behind to him now he could not help thinking it was a sorely missed omission.
As for Susan, she had intended simply to show Roger the caning position she was made to adopt on the chair but as she tipped forward and the chair pitched her into this most vulnerable and submissive position it was as if she was really back in time ten years ago and she was about to be punished. The only difference was that instead of her Grandfather, her husband stood behind her. Ever since she had read and re-read her diaries she had been in an emotional turmoil. She had no need of course to tell Roger about the rocking chair in the car. She certainly need not have offered to recreate the punishment or to have stripped. She did not have to kneel upon the chair or to allow herself to be pitched forward.
But now as she lay upturned and vulnerable in the chair she felt the same flutterings of apprehension in her tummy, the same tightening anticipation in her bum-flesh. She had not planned this scene before her husband, it was as if something outside her was leading her on, a force which she was unable to resist. And this feeling was reinforced by another characteristic of the rocking chair which she had forgotten. As her weight was pitched forward with her head low down by the floor she was virtually unable to move her weight backwards. Nothing tied her to the chair and yet she was pinioned in position by her own forward-tilting weight. Grandpa had known that once the chair tipped back it was virtually impossible for her to get up until the punishment was over.
And now kneeling in the chair in the same way she felt just as vulnerable and helpless and submissive before her husband. And that voice, which seemed to be dictating events beyond her control, returned again and she heard it say: ‘Grandpa used to keep the cane in the cupboard by the fireplace.’
It probably wouldn’t be there after all these years, Grandpa would surely have got rid of it, but as Roger put his hand inside the cupboard and felt the hooks round the side he pulled out the three-foot-long yellow cane which Grandpa had ‘borrowed’ from the schoolmaster ten years ago.
There was no turning back now. Roger took the cane out and bent it between his hands, testing its flexibility. Then he whipped it a couple of times through the air, making the dust in the sunlight whirl upwards and he saw in the comer of his eye his wife’s buttock-cheeks involuntarily clench as he smacked the cane into the palm of his hand.
He took up position to the left of the chair in the exact spot where Grandpa had stood. She remembered how she had always stared at Grandpa’s boots. But she looked up at her husband now and said: ‘Grandpa always caned me bare-arsed.’
He was shocked by her language which was quite unlike her. Putting the cane on the table by her clothes he reached forward and grasped each side of her white pants stretched across her cheeks and pulled them off.
Now she was totally naked before him. The beam of sunlight shining through the window warmed her back and illuminated the tiny blonde hairs on her fair skin. He placed the cane against her bum-flesh, the two smooth pale mounds presenting a perfect target.
At that moment he would be the first to admit he did not know what had been going through Susan’s mind in the last few days yet perhaps now he was beginning to understand. For three days she had been imagining herself bent over this chair before her Grandfather. When he had punished her ten years ago she had been to all intents and purposes a woman and the discipline she had received had changed her life.
Buried inside her she knew that it was having the immaturity caned out of her which had made the difference and now she wanted to show Roger, her husband, that he too had the right to discipline her.
She was not attempting to simply re-live Grandpa’s canings but to show Roger he could take Grandpa’s place. It was because she had been caned by Grandpa that she felt Roger, her husband had an equal right to discipline her. And Susan, now feeling the light tap of the cane against her bared buttocks was experiencing exactly the same mixture of dread and vulnerability as ten years ago when Grandfather had stood behind her about to deliver another caning to her.
Roger took his time as she told him her Grandfather had done. He glanced at the window. If any of the villagers walked past now, as they were quite likely to do if they saw his Granada parked in the drive, what would they make of the Saturday morning scene in the parlour? Susan, a mature young wife, stripped naked, kneeling on the rocking chair with Roger, her husband, standing behind her, cane in hand obviously about to give her an old-fashioned thrashing just like she used to get off her Grandpa.
But Roger was not Grandpa and he felt a strong need to impose his own authority as a disciplinarian over her. He was being granted the same privilege — and it was a privilege — to punish her as her Grandpa but he also wanted her to know his love-caning was not simply a re-enactment of her Grandfather’s punishments ten years ago but a second, separate caning happening now. He wanted her to realise it was him, Roger, caning her and he decided to make the first two strokes as hard as he could so that she would know from the start that he was in charge of disciplining her now.
Taking careful aim at the pale moons of his wife’s behind he drew back the cane in the silence of the parlour and whipped it down through the dusty air across her white submissive cheeks.
Whurrp. Smack!
The yellow wand cracked across the centre of her proffered rear. Susan let out a yelp and tossed her head back, at the same time wriggling her arse to try to absorb the smarting pain. As she did so she leant back in the chair pulling it on its rockers so that it plunged back towards Roger. But almost immediately the balance of the rockers threw it forward again taking Susan with it. Back and forward she pitched in a crazy motion with first her head raised and then her buttocks which now had a single red stripe glowing across the centre of her twin orbs.
Gradually the chair stopped rocking as she steadied herself once more, hardly able to believe she could have taken six such strokes so regularly from her Grandfather. Just because she had volunteered for this punishment obviously did not mean her husband was about to treat her more lightly. He waited for her to stop clenching and unclenching her buttock-cheeks and to be absolutely still on the chair again before raising the yellow wand high once more.
Smack. Yow!
And once again her buttocks began their crazy backward and forward motion as once again the chair plunged and rocked on the stone floor. For three days she had been imagining being caned on the rocking chair. Now she had no need of her imagination. The two smarting stripes glowing and tingling across her bum were real enough.
There were differences, of course to ten years ago. Then she would not have dared to defy her Grandfather’s authority. Once he had decided to punish her she had to submit to the caning. Now she could get up and call a halt anytime. Or could she? Although she had the choice and the stinging smart of the cane was more painful than ever she imagined it to be, she had no desire for the punishment to be over. She wanted it to go on. She felt a kind of relief that the emotional turmoil she had suffered over the last few days was being resolved. Far from thinking of getting up she was calmly counting off the strokes and thinking: ‘Roger is caning me far harder than Grandpa’, whilst preparing herself for the next stroke.
For eight years she had kept the canings she had received from Grandpa secret from Roger. Perhaps that was reason enough for her to deserve this punishment from him now.
He stood behind her, cane in hand, confident now in his authority.
‘Arch your back Susan, push that lovely arse out.’
Instantly, she obeyed.