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Monday, 1 July 2019

Punishment on the Menu

By Rebecca Walker from Roué 43
On her eighteenth birthday Elizabeth Rampling began work as a waitress in Frolics restaurant, an exclusive establishment with a clientele mainly composed of young eager businessmen and designers in a busy street in the city. It was well known for its pretty waitresses and exuberant host, Charlie Marsh. Recently he decided to exploit the assets of his girls and create some useful publicity for the little bistro by dressing them in various uniforms which would change from week to week. The first week at the job Elizabeth had looked quite stunning in an Edwardian maid’s costume with its long skirt, crisp white apron and rather low-cut neckline which compensated for her new-to-the-job clumsiness — when her hairpin fell into a gentleman’s bread roll and her long springy ringlets trailed through someone’s soup. Yes, the tantalising view of her dark cleavage and her breasts straining forward to fullness as she bent over quite compensated for any hiccups in her first few days at work.
The first week was over and Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief. Charlie told her that she had settled in well, and that she was the most attractive girl in his employ. ‘Little Raphaelite lady’ he called her because of her fair ringlets and pale skin, her enormous soft eyes and generous mouth. Elizabeth crimsoned, as she always did when paid a compliment.
‘Next week,’ he announced as they were all leaving, ‘I’ve got something different for you to wear. I think it’ll cause quite a stir,’ he chuckled like a fat child, rubbing his hands together.
‘What is it, Mr Marsh?’ asked Elizabeth with a sudden spasm of irrational anxiety.
Charlie beamed: ‘School uniforms!’
Elizabeth paled, feeling suddenly light-headed and unsteady on her feet. Oh! No! Not school uniform! She couldn’t bear it — on Sunday she had her customary appointment with Uncle Sean and that meant tell-tale red thighs which would be horribly visible under a short school skirt. She had no doubt that her boss would choose the most skimpy sexy one he could find.
She tried very hard not to think about the St Trinian’s week at the restaurant. It was so cruel, she thought bitterly, because her working costume would be a very uncomfortable and humiliating reminder of the very outfit Uncle Sean always insisted she wore for her Sunday afternoon’s ‘little lecture’ — namely her old school uniform which was far too small. Her punishment outfit — that she was spanked in!
On her way to work that fateful Monday morning Elizabeth gingerly rubbed her still-smarting bottom now and then as she walked slowly along. She hoped that the carefully applied calamine lotion had successfully camouflaged her red blotchy thighs but she felt extremely uneasy. The previous day Uncle Sean had spanked Elizabeth severely and thought it necessary to give her a few neat swishy strokes with his old school cane across her tender buttocks and thighs. This was because her mother had discovered a packet of contraceptives in her bag although Elizabeth protested that she didn’t know how they had got there. Mrs Rampling glared at her daughter and promptly dialled Uncle Sean who had taken over Elizabeth’s disciplining since her father had died.
Uncle cleared his throat in his usual declamatory manner and told Mrs Rampling to send the ‘wayward young woman’ round to his house on Sunday afternoon, when he would deal with her in a manner appropriate to her behaviour.
In Uncle Sean’s opinion, ‘appropriate’ invariably meant a thorough scolding and inquisition followed by the part of the proceedings that poor Elizabeth truly dreaded. A hand-spanking — either with her draped inelegantly over the back of Uncle’s settee, her bottom pouting roundly and ridiculously up, barely covered by her old school skirt — or, worse still, across his tweedy lap. Oh! The humiliation of being disciplined at eighteen in this manner! Elizabeth could tell no-one of her shame, not even to her mother could she stutter what happened every Sunday afternoon.
Uncle Sean, she thought was a tyrannical confessor, who would searchingly ask her blunt questions about her behaviour and then ask for an explanation for every misdemeanour. It was no use at all to plead or remonstrate with her strict but well-meaning uncle — he only succeeded in punishing her more severely for being cheeky. She meant to tell him that she was of age now, and she could do as she liked, that she was too old now for such a childish and humiliating punishment, but she knew that her uncle would probably hail it as being all the more effective. After all, a childish punishment for a child was nowhere near as effective as a childish punishment for a blossoming young woman; the increased humiliation she felt because of her age made it even more salutary.
Elizabeth arrived late for work partly because she dreaded facing Mr Marsh and the ‘uniform’ and partly because she clung to the wild idea that perhaps he would reprimand her for not being on time, and confine her to kitchen duties that week. At least that way she would escape wearing the wretched outfit.
Charlie, however, greeted her enthusiastically when she timidly pushed open the door of Frolics restaurant. He was red-faced, laughing and obviously enjoying himself in a silly game with the other three girls who were dressed in their costumes and giggling at each other. Elizabeth’s mouth fell open in dismay. Was she really expected to wear that? Each girl wore a tight white blouse undone at the neck, a short — Elizabeth blinked — thigh-high navy pleated skirt and black stockings and suspenders, which fastened on to the stocking tops way below the skirt hems. To complete the picture each wore a striped tie half-undone, a pair of ridiculous high-heeled black shoes and had hair scraped back into impishly school-girlish bunches.
Elizabeth stood transfixed in the doorway, a horror-struck expression on her pretty features.
Charlie bounced toward her, a broad grin on his face.
‘Like it?’ he boomed in her face. ‘Great idea of mine, eh?’
He gave Elizabeth a playful pinch on her thigh. She stared at him, wide-eyed. Seeing the girls dressed in school uniform had made him even more mischievous than usual. It had quite altered his behaviour.
She swallowed nervously and stammered in assent. She dreaded to think of the effect the schoolgirl waitresses would have on a restaurant full of men…
Throwing himself about like an over-fed porpoise, Charlie pushed between the tables back towards the girls, and disappeared for a minute behind the bar — pinching one girl on her bare thigh as he blundered past. Moments later he reappeared from beneath the bar waving something in his hand… a school cane.
Elizabeth stood motionless, her heart pounding, feeling short of breath as Mr Marsh walked deliberately towards the three girls in a huddle, brandishing the cane at them in mock rage.
‘O-h-h-h Mr Charlie please —!’ they shrieked in unison, enjoying the little scenario immensely.
Elizabeth nearly fainted at the sight of Mr Charlie tap-tapping the cruel rattan against his palm, and eyeing the scantily-clad waitresses with convincing malice. She leant rather heavily on a little table and sent it crashing to the floor, scattering the ashtray in splintered glass fragments and breaking the candles. She fell on top of it in her stumbling embarrassment.
Charlie turned and there was a moment’s silence before he exploded into wicked laughter. Was there no reprieve for poor Elizabeth?
‘Elizabeth,’ he said sternly, very much amused by her exaggerated reaction to the appearance of the cane, ‘you are a naughty girl. I ought to use this on your pretty little bottom…’ and so saying he whacked the cane down heavily on the nearest table with a resounding thwack! and set off toward Elizabeth in pursuance. Her friends fell on each other in their laughter as Elizabeth backed away, knocking things over as she did so.
‘It’s only a game,’ Elizabeth told herself through clenched teeth, ‘I must not let them all see that I’m upset. It’s not the same as Uncle Sean…’
Choking back tears as fresh memories of the previous afternoon’s spanking surfaced, Elizabeth nearly cried with relief when at last Mr Charlie stopped, out of breath.
‘Enough of this larking,’ he said between gasps, ‘we open in fifteen minutes.’ He turned to a very pale Elizabeth, ‘Go and put your costume on, Elizabeth, and look sharp.’
She scuttled through the kitchen to the cloakroom at the back of the restaurant. There was her costume neatly pressed on a hanger She inspected it with fingers that shook. Navy pleated skirt — very short as she’d predicted — white blouse… striped tie. Mr Marsh had also provided an old-fashioned suspender belt, with three wide ruched suspenders to each leg (more for male fingers to surreptitiously twiddle with and snap against her tender thighs), and a pair of black seamed stockings.
Elizabeth groaned and began to undress. Then she put on the suspender belt and stockings. To her dismay the stockings were the wrong size — far too short — and no matter how much she tugged and pulled at the flimsy nylon they barely stretched half-way up her shapely thighs. In consequence the skirt, when she wriggled into it, did not cover her stocking-tops and there were large bare areas of pale thigh fully exposed beneath the hem. The pleats fanned out provocatively over the shapeliness of her bottom. Clad only in her bra, skirt and stockings, Elizabeth scrutinised herself anxiously in the full-length mirror, vainly trying to tuck her bottom in so that it was less prominent.
Cautiously, hardly daring to look, she lifted up the skirt a fraction at the back. Sure enough, and to her horror, there were the tell-tale signs of a visitation by the cane! The calamine lotion which she had smeared over the weals had flaked off, leaving a fine chalk-like powder on her thighs, from which the plummy weals reared-up as angry as ever. Fortunately the rest of her tender behind was well covered by her ample white knickers, but surveying the obvious contrast between them and the rest of her uniform she decided that it would be better to put on the thick cotton navy-blue ones that Mr Marsh had provided for authenticity even if they were almost identical to the pair Uncle Sean kept in his desk drawer.
Of course, like everything else, the knickers were the wrong size. Too small. With a wail of desperation she tried frantically to stretch them; their tightness made her bottom maddeningly pert. Elizabeth began to feel exactly as she always did every Sunday afternoon —apprehensive, fearful, and maybe just a little excited…
Hearing voices approaching, Elizabeth reached for the white blouse and tie and, without warning, her bra strap snapped as she stretched up. It was too late to ask one of the other girls for a safety pin, so there was only one thing to do. Hastily she snatched at the bra and tore it off. High, firm young breasts shook free and Elizabeth caught sight of herself in the mirror, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and secret admiration. Quickly she donned the blouse, pulled it straight; set the tie at a rakish angle, hitched up her suspenders and wrenched her blonde hair into a pony tail. A final quick check, a desperate tugging down of her skirt at the back, and she was ready.
Blushing furiously, dreading what was to come, she made her way back into the restaurant, feeling every inch a schoolgirl… looking every inch a schoolgirl…
Mr Charlie was pleased with Elizabeth’s transformation. The dishevelled flustered appearance she presented — the result of her hasty last few minutes dressing — greatly enhanced the air of natural vulnerability and quiescent sexuality which she possessed. The fact that the blouse that she wore was… well… a little transparent, and the skirt a little too short… no matter, it was good to have such an attractive girl in the restaurant. It was good for business.
Because Mr Charlie had advertised the fact that there were to be ‘schoolgirl waitresses’ that week, the restaurant filled unusually quickly and there were well-dressed men queueing for tables.
Elizabeth had the misfortune to wait at the table of several young men in high spirits who looked at Elizabeth with unconcealed delight and lust. She found herself pulled roughly down onto the lap of one; her suspenders were snapped, her bare thighs caressed and her breasts, jostling under the semi-transparent blouse, were constantly referred to and ogled. And she could say or do nothing. The customer was always right. She was helpless and she had to tolerate them all.
Mr Charlie was thoroughly enjoying himself; drinking red wine and mingling affably with the patrons. Apart from Elizabeth the girls seemed to be having a good deal of fun — teasing and being teased, having their bottoms slapped as they bent over to pour wine, having their thighs squeezed and their suspenders toyed with. Elizabeth felt like a marionette with a wooden smile being pulled this way and that at the whim of the patrons. Vainly, she tried to catch Mr Charlie’s eye and communicate her distress with a pathetic look of appeal, but ‘mine host’ was oblivious to her sufferings, much enjoying himself in the carnival atmosphere of wine, food, lusty young men and scantily-clad girls. Elizabeth noticed that he was drinking quite a lot.
As the evening wore on things grew worse. Something of her fear and discomfiture had communicated itself to the table of five male business executives that she had the misfortune to attend to. They took cruel delight in summoning her as often as possible for trivial reasons: there was a dirty glass; someone had dropped a fork on the floor; a glass of wine had accidently been spilt in the middle of the table requiring Elizabeth to lean across and mop it up. They made her blush with their lecherous flattery, saying what delectable legs she had, what gorgeous breasts, how pretty she looked when she became embarrassed.
Elizabeth’s appearance grew more and more dishevelled rushing to and fro, her hair wisped out from the pony tail and clung to her face and the nape of her neck in long blonde tendrils, her blouse worked free of her skirt and one button popped open, intensifying the dark slit between her breasts even more. Her black seamed stockings were laddered at the back with the caressive flicks of eager hands and rough nails, and more than once someone had succeeded in undoing one of her suspenders while she was doing her utmost to keep a steady hand and serve coffee. All in all she looked the very essence of a St Trinian’s sixth-former. She was a natural choice to be teased unmercifully and made sport with.
Mr Charlie had produced the old school cane again and an air of eager excitement rippled through the restaurant.
‘If anyone here tonight…’ he began in a loud voice like a street crier, ‘has any complaints about the food or the service, may I invite him to register his displeasure thus…’ and with a flamboyant wave of his arm he brought the cane smartly down on the bar and looked around grinning triumphantly, to judge his effect.
There was a low rumble of approval which rose to a crescendo accompanied by applause and laughter.
At the sight of the hated implement of her nightmares, Elizabeth broke out into a clammy sweat and her hands shook uncontrollably. It was extremely unlucky that at that moment Elizabeth was pouring coffee. In one hand she held the coffee pot, in the other a jug of hot milk. She was trying to pour them both at once. In a jerky spasm of nerves she knocked the cup over, spilled the jug and poured hot coffee over the trousers of an immaculately dressed businessman.
All eyes seemed to focus on Elizabeth’s untimely disaster. Before the victim of Elizabeth’s clumsiness could give vent to his anger, Mr Charlie was there, spotlighting the incident with harsh laughter.
‘It’s a good job I brought my “little tickler”,’ he boomed at the man, ‘here… go on, please…’ and to Elizabeth’s utter horror Mr Charlie laid the cane on the table.
The room became full of raw, coarse excited laughter and goading shouts of encouragement.
Elizabeth stood dumbly, her hands at her sides, almost unable to believe what was happening to her.
Mr Charlie pulled a spare chair into a space between the tables and invited the gentleman to occupy it.
‘How do you want her, sir?’ asked Mr Charlie in a loud voice, ‘over the back of the chair for a good whacking, or …’
‘On my lap, for a good spanking first,’ interrupted the man, removing his jacket.
Mr Charlie ushered a trembling terrified Elizabeth over to the aggrieved customer for her ‘punishment’. As if in a dream she found herself on that familiar journey to a man’s lap — only this time it was not Uncle Sean, but a total stranger, and the spanking was to be horribly public!
Pulling her short skirt down over her thighs as far as she could and groaning with mortification in the process, she wriggled into position.
The stranger raised his hand and looked towards his companions who were leaning over, tense, expectant and excited.
Mr Charlie raised his hand in the air and held it there for a moment like a starter’s gun and suddenly dropped it. Taking this as a signal to begin, the gentleman lowered his hand swiftly and decisively onto Elizabeth’s barely-shielded buttocks.
SMACK!!!
The sound filled the smoke-filled air of the restaurant like a solitary thunderous clap.
Elizabeth hid her face as she felt the impact of his heavy hand shudder through her bottom-cheeks — still sore and smarting afresh from the proper punishment she’d received at the hand of Uncle Sean the day before. She hoped that the gentleman would have the decency not to lift up her skirt and spank her on the navy cotton knickers that were several sizes too small. She knew from the position she was in, with her bottom so vulgarly elevated over his knees, that he would be able to see the tell-tale purple lines visible below the tight cutting hem of her knickers. It would be obvious then to the man that she had been caned…
SMACK!!! Pause. SMACK!!! Pause. SMACK!!!
Elizabeth’s bottom heaved and wobbled, weaved and gyrated from side to side at each calculated palm descent. And not only was he spanking her bottom over her skirt but his hand was straying down to her bare thighs, covered only by her ribboned suspenders. She could feel the redness growing there — even if she couldn’t see it, and her face was hot too from her blushes — and wet with silent tears…
She did not need to look up to see the reactions of the restaurant full of people. Their wide-eyed lascivious interested stares filled her imagination. This would make news, she thought ruefully… Restaurant watches as Errant Waitress gets a Spanking! She could imagine the headline in the local paper.
So absorbed in her thoughts of further humiliation was she that when her skirt slowly rose further up over her bottom-cheeks she at first failed to notice, and it wasn’t until she heard Mr Charlie’s voice telling the company that his waitresses all wore a complete authentic uniform right down to the last detail, that she became aware that everyone present was gazing at her knicker-clad bottom, her reddened thighs AND the day-old cane stripes — inflicted by her uncle. She held her breath. She didn’t know what to do next. Scream? Bang furiously on the floor with her fists? Burst into tears…?
Instead she began to kick violently, her stockinged legs scissoring wide open, pert round little bottom vigorously humping up and down on the gentleman’s lap.
He laughed delightedly at this response to the sport and, quite carried away now, started to spank Elizabeth with determined relish over the seat of her knickers.
What a spectacle she made! Hair flying loose, blouse rumpled, skirt bunched up around her waist, and her beautiful long slender legs opening and closing as if they were engaged in some frantic exercise. In the middle of her wild, abandoned bottom surgings a flash-bulb filled the smoky floor with brilliant light as someone took a photograph of the occasion.
Mr Charlie, always glad of publicity, stepped forward with the cane in his hand and offered it to the young man punishing Elizabeth in the hope that the photographer would take another picture with him in it. Sure enough the room exploded briefly into brightness, capturing Charlie’s fat grin, the young man… sweating with effort… and Elizabeth’s bottom elevated in a very vulgar position.
Determined to produce even more astonishing revelations for the unseen camera, Charlie stepped forward and dealt poor Elizabeth a few light cane-strokes on her gym-knickered rear.
On the last WHACK! Elizabeth uttered a wail of utter mortification, and simultaneously the photographer took his last picture.
After this, Elizabeth was allowed to clamber stiffly and inelegantly off the exhausted gentleman’s lap and retire to the cloakroom amid a burst of applause. She had never felt so humiliated and ashamed in all her life.
----//----
Two days later, Uncle Sean picked up his local paper and stared at the front page with horror and astonishment. There, in the centre of the front page, was a bold headline in large letters:
WHACKO ELIZABETH! Naughty night lands Waitress in the Soup! Beneath these letters was a picture of a man with Elizabeth over his knee and beside him stood the restaurant proprietor wielding a cane. Although her face was partially hidden by her long hair, there was no doubt at all that the bottom — clad in dark gym knickers — was that of his niece, Elizabeth. He recognised it instantly — having seen it displayed in that position many times before…
The article underneath continued… Elizabeth Rampling, pretty eighteen-year-old waitress at Frolics restaurant club received her just desserts on Monday night. Under the aegis of the manager, Mr Charlie Marsh, every guest has the option to personally deal with any of the leggy, suspender-clad waitresses who might not provide tip-top service… the caning is only a game and the girls just love it, said Mr Marsh.
Uncle Sean’s expression became thunderous. So his niece actually found it funny, did she? She enjoyed the caning? Well, he’d soon change her mind about that! It was clear to him that he had not been punishing Elizabeth severely enough — she obviously thought it quite amusing in private, so amusing, in fact, that she was prepared to openly mock his disciplinary attempts and be spanked in public!
He immediately rang Mrs Rampling and told her to send young Elizabeth to him at once.
Meanwhile he did some preparations for his niece’s punishment session. First he propped the newspaper up on his desk so that it would be the first thing Elizabeth would see when she entered his study — he was longing to see her reaction. Then he positioned a cushion along the top of the settee and for extra good measure piled the settee high with heavy books so that it would not tip over in Elizabeth’s frantic attempt to evade the cane. On his desk he laid a large book which she would have to balance on her head during one part of the planned punishment ritual, and to complete the setting moved his favourite wooden ‘spanking chair’ into position in the middle of the room and neatly laid the well-used rattan cane across it.
Elizabeth arrived with a look of frightened anticipation paling her pretty features. Uncle Sean immediately ushered her into the study.
‘Well?’ he inquired tartly, as the colour of Elizabeth’s cheeks grew even paler at the sight of the newspaper.
‘I… I… I can explain, Uncle,’ she said in a strangled whisper. Wringing her hands hopelessly in front of her, she tried to stammer out an explanation, but somehow, under her uncle’s ferocious hawk-eyed stare, it all came out wrong. ‘It was a… a… a… j-joke, really. Oh! no! I didn’t mean that, Uncle…’ and she looked pleadingly at his stony countenance.
‘The family is in disgrace!’ he snapped. ‘Everyone has seen this ludicrous vulgarity… they couldn’t fail not to… it’s plastered all over the front page.’
Elizabeth looked miserably at her feet, knowing that her implacable uncle would never listen to her excuses, however genuine they were.
‘It’s plain to me that you have viewed my painstaking efforts to keep you on the straight and narrow as nothing short of a joke to be ridiculed in public!’ he finished hotly, slamming a book down heavily on the desk.
Uncle Sean picked up a carrier bag from his desk-chair, and handed it to Elizabeth. She knew only too well what it contained… her ‘punishment costume’. Without a word she left the room to change.
Five minutes later she returned looking every inch a schoolgirl. No stockings and suspenders this time, though, to complete the outfit. Instead, Uncle Sean made her wear childish white ankle socks and flat black pumps. The grey skirt cut into her waist it was so tight, and in length it ended some four inches below her bottom. Blouse, tie and old school blazer completed the ensemble.
‘Well Elizabeth,’ said Uncle in patronising tones on her return, ‘I can see we’re all ready… You can take your blazer off today because it’s hot.’
Elizabeth duly complied and dared to look up. It appeared that Uncle Sean had made some slight concession — perhaps he wasn’t going to be so strict with her after all… She clung to any hint of softness in his voice, any silly hope of reprieve…
Uncle placed the heavy book on her head and told her to keep it there. Elizabeth felt silly balancing a book, but at least he’d not asked her to come immediately across his horrible lap, as was usual.
‘Don’t move, girl… whatever you do,’ he commanded.
His next words came as a nasty shock.
‘I’m going to cane you, Elizabeth… on your bare bottom!’ Elizabeth wriggled in anguish. Was there to be no preliminary spanking to de-sensitise her tender bottom for the cruel flick of the cane? Apparently not.
Elizabeth felt her gym knickers being roughly yanked down over her bottom-cheeks, still faintly marked from the last occasion. She gasped at the feel of his hands on her skin which somehow felt so improper; so embarrassingly indecent.
Then Uncle Sean rumpled her tiny skirt up and tucked it firmly around her waist. He drew back to scrutinise his niece, naked from her waist to her ankles, her plump bottom jutting out so provocatively and just begging to be punished, balancing a heavy book on her head with obvious difficulty. A picture of subjection.
Picking up the cane he moved to the side of Elizabeth and with measured precision drew it back and swung it in to land SWISH!!! on her bottom.
Elizabeth immediately lost her balance and the book plummeted to the floor.
‘Pick it up,’ Uncle Sean barked acerbically.
She bent over to retrieve it, incidentally affording her Uncle a fine view of the other areas that she preferred to think he never looked at…
After half-a-dozen more strokes Elizabeth began to cry noisily. Every time the cane found its mark the book fell off her head, and she had to pick it up each time and return it there. Uncle told her how extremely vulgar she looked which only heightened her excruciating embarrassment.
Then Uncle Sean moved her over to the sofa and told her to bend right over it, sandwiching her tummy on the cushion so she wouldn’t move while he caned her.
Elizabeth was quite beside herself with crying, not caring how she looked anymore, but flinging her legs wide and squeezing them shut in futile attempts to ease the pain as the cane continued its job.
Uncle relented. It was impossible for him to redden her bottom any further, but he wanted an excuse to actually feel the heat of her well-punished cheeks.
Ordering Elizabeth to stand up, he promptly sat down himself on the ‘spanking chair’ that was positioned in the centre of the room.
‘Come on, Elizabeth. You know what you have to do now,’ he said severely.
Past caring, the naughty niece draped herself over her uncle’s lap and suffered his hands running over her hot flanks until finally he dealt her six hard slaps on the most tender part of her thighs and told her to get up.
Looking thoroughly miserable, tear-stained and penitent, she stood pigeon-toed before her uncle, aware by now that the colour of her face and the colour of her spanked bottom were probably the perfect match for each other.
Slowly, Elizabeth eased her knickers up over her burning thighs, trying not to wince. Then silently she turned to leave the room and salvage her clothes and her pride when Uncle Sean stopped her.
‘Elizabeth…’ he said reproachfully, ‘by the way, I think by all accounts that you need some practice in the art of waitressing…’ He paused, thoughtful, rubbing his chin. ‘You can stay to tea,’ he added, ‘and you can wait at table for me.’
Elizabeth groaned faintly, but loudly enough for Uncle Sean to hear. He frowned.
‘I can see this is going to be a long, tiresome evening, Elizabeth, so you’d better keep your uniform on. Then, if I’m not satisfied with the ‘service’ I can register my disapproval…
Elizabeth stifled a sob. Was she never to escape from her schooldays…?
It appeared not. Uncle was twiddling impatiently with the cane again…

18 comments:

  1. Quite right. Every young lady ought to have an uncle like this who is concerned with her behavior and discipline.

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    1. I quite agree - Elizabeth clearly needs more time with her uncle to learn to behave herself. I propose a series of weekend visits, with strict punishments doled out from Friday evening through Sunday evening. She’ll have to wait on him at mealtimes, do chores around the house, and show that she can be obedient. This weekend should include a trip to church on Sunday morning where she’ll have to squirm her way through the service on a well-spanked bottom. Sitting in a hard wooden pew - and not wanting anyone around her to know the state of her tender posterior - will be painful and embarrassing, and do a good deal to concentrate her mind. Perhaps a return to church for evensong as well - after some additional spanking in the afternoon.

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  2. Yes. Elizabeth should have work set for including lines (a good girl is an obedient girl') written out one thousand times for example. A small schoolroom should be set up to facilitate this. When Elizabeth is not required for anything else she stand in the corner, nose to the wall, skirt up, panties at her ankles and hands on head. If she winge at this she should be given a dummy to suck. When out with her uncle she should wear a sign round her neck, 'naughty girl in training' and curtsey to all she walks past.

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    1. Indeed. Sloppiness in her lines would result in further punishment. And uncle may invite guests over to see her standing in the corner or even receiving her punishment. She’ll be even more embarrassed but will have to be polite and respectful to his guests as well.

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  3. This is a great story, another of my favourites. Thanks Flea.

    Enjoyed your comments various Anonymous people. Are you last two the same person?

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  4. No ladies should escape their schooldays, uniform until the age of forty, mind numbing lessons by rote, humiliated and harassed at every turn, taught that their only purpose is to give sexual satisfaction. Spanked, strapped and caned at the drop of a hat. Lovely...

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  5. Plenty in this blog to reflect on. St Angela's, Green Gables, Burton Manor, all great establishments that provide the perfect model for a future in which recalcitrant young women would have much to occupy them.

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    1. Whilst the correction of recalcitrants is a most important matter and is due serious consideration and proper attention I'm keen that we also recognise that many girls are not miscreants but they still require schooling. Strict and painful discipline is essential in order to train them in sexual submission with all its attendant behaviours.

      In fact it is these, whose personalities need to be shaped, moulded and reformed, that I believe after more important. They, no doubt, will feel 'they have done nothing to deserve' disciplinary attention but that is the point. They are not to be trained because of what they have done previously but to address what they will do in future.

      This is not a matter of correction - though that is important - it is not about justice or reparation. They should feel a complete sense of injustice about it before they come to accept and even welcome their new station and their new identities.

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    2. I quite agree, my good fellow. All young ladies between eighteen and twenty-one ought to be trained and disciplined in this manner - in academic institutions, in employment, or in the care of guardians like Elizabeth’s uncle. Those who are most innocent and malleable need to be brought on rather carefully, but should nevertheless find themselves “looking thoroughly miserable, tear-stained, and penitent” just like our young Elizabeth. They should be set extraordinarily high standards, so that they inevitably fall short of rules and earn punishments, and should also learn that they may be punished at the whims of gentlemen not for particular infractions but to learn their place. This might mean a daily bedtime spanking, or a skippering at tea time, or weekly maintenance discipline where a girl receives a sound caning. It could also include demonstrations for the benefit of visitors, who ought to see how a young lady is disciplined even if she has been relatively well-behaved. A girl ought to learn that it is simply her place to be punished.

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    3. Every a girl is asked to do should be nearly impossible to achieve from rules of decorum, curtseying,putting a hand up before speaking, complicated rules of address; deportment, head up back straight, in the corner with her nose to the wall until required and dress, stocking seams straight when worn, gingham frock at exactly the right length. Young ladies should carry their punishment book with them at all times and anyone in authority should be free to make entries.

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    4. I'm not sure they should ever truly welcome their new identities. I would like them to feel sighted, bullied and harassed permanently. Also one eye behind them to see where the next threat is coming from, sometimes bursting into tears before they are even touched, broken of all self confidence and willpower, addressed by demeaning child (or pet) like names, utterly powerless

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    5. I prefer them to learn to approve of and find pleasure in their painful humiliations. They should still feel and fear the pain and shame but they should also be aroused by it - and they should be ashamed of that arousal!

      Shame should be an essential part of their sexuality.

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    6. I prefer the utterly powerless scenario - enforced sexual intercourse they never enjoy: in the middle of a chore, they might be come inside of there and then. Afterwards they are caned for stopping doing the chore even though it was for unwanted intercourse, leaving them in anxiety about impregnation.

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  6. Perhaps we should set up a private society and exchange daughters?

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    1. What do you suggest would happen on these exchanges?

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  7. A weekend when the selector decided

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  8. And what happens if I have no suitable candidate available?

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