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Monday, 30 September 2019

Drastic Action

From Blushes Uniform Girls 12
Spelling had always been her weakness. Judy Drake knew it and admitted it. The trouble was, now that she was coming up to her ‘A’s’, it was getting serious. It was pointless to be good at History, Geography and English Lit, if your exam papers were full of spelling mistakes. Mrs Stokes, her form mistress had pointed this out time and time again; Mr Barnard, the Assistant Head emphasised it, in no uncertain fashion. Then her parents had joined in. They had begun to realise that, after an expensive education at her public school (boarding), their daughter may well fail the first step on the ladder to university. And they had set their heart on her getting her degree. They knew she was a bright girl… but there was just this ‘blind spot’ about spelling.
Letters flew to and fro between the Assistant Head and themselves. They emphasised the importance of something being done about it and Mr Barnard agreed. The girls referred to him as ‘Old Barney,’ but in fact he was no more than in his mid-thirties. One or two of the more senior girls declared openly that they quite fancied him.
Mrs Stokes gave Judy special tuition but still things did not improve. Finally the Assistant Head wrote to her parents, more or less in desperation. ‘I have come to the conclusion,’ he stated, ‘that the only way to solve this problem is to take drastic action. By that, I mean your daughter should get a shock. A physical one. That may jerk her out of this mental block which is so seriously impeding her education. It will be unpleasant for her but for her benefit in the long run. What I propose, reluctantly, is corporal punishment for repeated spelling failures.
Of course, I must have your approval for this. If you say no, nothing on those lines will take place. Say yes, and I think I can guarantee results. I say this because I have had to deal with two similar cases over the last two years. I was successful in both of them. Please let me have your views.’
By return, a letter winged its way back to John Barnard.
‘It certainly is drastic action but, if you think it will get results, please proceed. Tell Judy you have our permission to chastise her if she does not make rapid improvement in her spelling.’
John folded the letter and placed it in his pocket with a sigh of satisfaction. He recalled that he had used the word ‘reluctantly’ in his letter to the parents. In all honesty, he had to admit to himself he hadn’t been exactly stating the truth. For, on the previous two occasions when special measures had seemed to be called for, he had found himself far from reluctant to apply them! However, white lies were sometimes necessary. To reassure his conscience, he told himself again that Judy would benefit in the long run. Why, one day, with her B.A., she might even come and thank him!
That day was, however, some way off. Meanwhile he would have to go and see the Head and tell him what was afoot. He was sure he would encounter no difficulties there.
She stood behind the small desk; it was rather like a lectern. Blue-grey skirt with split-pleat at the front, light grey pullover over skirt, and school tie; white socks and strapped shoes. Very conventional. Very charming thought Old Barney. Her hair was short and bunchy, quite curly; eyes blue. The tension in her was very evident and she looked at him with wide, glistening eyes.
‘You know why you’re here, Judy?’
‘Not really, sir…’
‘I don’t think that’s true, Judy,’ he said. ‘This matter has been discussed many times before. Your spelling. Something positive has to be done about it.’
‘I’ve tried, sir… honestly. Mrs Stokes and I have been working…’
John Barnard held up his hand. ‘The time for talking has passed,’ he said. ‘We must now have action. The school wants it… and so do your parents. If we don’t take action now, your academic career will be in ruins.’ He handed the letter from Judy’s parents across.
There was a long silence. Then several gasps. Those glistening green-blue eyes slowly came up to him. ‘It… it can’t be true,’ she whispered.
‘Perhaps you would like to contact your mother and father,’ said John easily. He watched the girl closely. It was soon obvious she realised the futility of that suggestion. Her parents were far more keen on her succeeding than she was herself.
‘I’ll never forgive them,’ she said in a small voice.
‘In time you will,’ opined John. ‘Believe me. In any event, Judy, this is a course that must be tried. You won’t like it. No, not one little bit. But it must be tried. Do you understand what is going to happen from now on?’
‘N-no… no… sir…’
‘I think you do,’ he said, trying to stay calm; and sound it. ‘From now on, Judy, you are going to be punished when you make stupid spelling errors. That may make you activate your mind a great deal more than Mrs Stokes’ admonishments, or mine.’
He saw her looking frightened. Very frightened. As well she might. ‘W-what do you… m-mean, sir… exactly?’ What a pathetically young voice it was! Quite enchanting.
‘Not to put too fine a point on it, Judy,’ said Old Barney, ‘if you do not very rapidly improve, I shall cane you.’
A great heaving gasp. ‘C-cane me! Oh… no… no… ooo…’
‘Oh yes, Judy. And don’t forget, not only does the school approve of these measures, but your parents also…’
‘Uuugh… it’s s-so… awful…’
‘Maybe, but sometimes in life, drastic measures have to be taken. Now, can we get on?’ John seated himself on a chair some way in front of the lectern-desk. On it lay a large volume. ‘The book on the desk has been specially prepared for you,’ he said. ‘In a way, it has been designed to make things easier for you. But also to help you spell correctly. Each page contains 20 words with definitions. You have to read the word, and its definition, and tell me if that word is spelt correctly. That’s easier than being asked to spell a word, isn’t it?’
‘I s-suppose so, sir…’
‘Of course it is!’ He was sharp. Important to be fully in control from the start. ‘Now, I have to tell you, Judy, that for every mistake you make, you will receive one stroke of the cane…’ A horrified gasp. ‘…I think that knowledge may help you to concentrate your mind quite remarkably!’
‘Oh… oooh… sir… please you know how b-bad I am at this…’
‘Precisely Judy. That is why we are having to take these measures. Now, open the book at page 10… and read the word and its definition. Then tell me if the spelling is correct.’
The girl was gulping. She had gone quite pale. Quite a test of nerve was in front of her. On the other hand, if she did not know, there was always an even money answer on every word. Really, thought John, he was making things quite easy for her. But she was sure to make some mistakes!
Slowly and laboriously, Judy worked her way through page 10. He could see her brain working overtime. Never before, quite obviously, had she concentrated so hard on her spelling… which showed how powerful the threat of punishment was. John marked each answer with a tick or a cross, but made no comment. As far as the girl was concerned, she could have been right or wrong. As she reached the end of the page, her nervousness increased, and he saw she was almost in tears. She looked up at him, running hands through her hair.
‘H-how have… have I d-done… sir? He could see she was taut as a bowstring as she awaited his answer.
‘Not bad, Judy. But remember, I have started you on an easy page. You got only three wrong…’
‘Oooohhh… threee!’ It was an anguished cry. It seemed that even three strokes of the cane was too much to bear!
‘Now, Judy, we will take on something more difficult. Turn to page 20, please… and concentrate your mind even harder. Don’t ever forget what awaits a mistake. That may help you.’
She looked at him with a mixture of horror and pleading. How aware she was that there would be even more mistakes this time! Unless, of course, she could activate that quite able brain of hers. That was the object of this exercise. So the Assistant Head told himself, anyway.
Breasts heaving under her grey pullover, Judy turned to page 20. Her mounting distress was evident. Already she had earned herself three strokes of the cane; how many more might she earn this time? It was a quite petrifying prospect. She looked at the page and almost burst into tears. Most of the words were twice as long as those on page 10. Oh it was so unfair! He was deliberately trying to make it too difficult for her! So unfair!
All the same, with a sudden and frightening clarity. Judy realised she must concentrate her mind as never before. Far more than she did at History, Geography or English Lit.
In short, without realising it, she was being educated. Albeit, in a subject which did not come naturally to her. The most unpleasing kind of education of all!
Even more slowly she went through the page, while the Assistant Head looked on impassively. Steadily the mistakes mounted, until by the end of the page, Judy had got half her spellings wrong.
‘Ten mistakes, Judy’ he said, feeling a pulse of pleasure beginning to beat inside him. Horror filled the young face.
‘Oh… that can’t be true!’
‘I’m afraid it is, Judy. That makes thirteen strokes in all.’ A very unlucky number for her, he thought ‘A bad start, indeed. But, in time, I know you’ll improve.’ Yes, he said to himself, the cane is a great improver.
‘Oh no… not thirteen… oh no…!
‘That’s it Judy. Now let’s be sensible about this. Otherwise you’ll only make matters worse for yourself. If necessary I can call in Mrs Stokes to assist me.’ He saw at once that the fact that force could be used, if it were required, was not lost upon the girl. She had gone pale and was trembling.
‘O-ohh… it’s so unfair…’ she wailed.
‘It’s not unfair. It’s to teach you. Now, Judy, go to that cupboard and bring me what you find there.’ There was another gasp of dismay as the cupboard was opened; then, mouth quivering, she came across the room bearing the cane across the palms of her hands. She handed it to him, stepped back, and held out both palms upwards. ‘Oh no, Judy,’ he said, ‘you don’t get it there, you get it on your bottom.’
‘Yes, you must,’ he said gravely. ‘Don’t forget what I said about Mrs Stokes. If I have to send for her, it will mean extra strokes.’ He saw her flinch at that. Then he watched her move and place the cane across the desk and slowly lift her skirt to reveal a pair of green serge school knickers. Her bottom, he saw, was well-formed for a girl of sixteen. He stood up. ‘Now push your knickers down,’ he ordered firmly.
‘Oh… s-sir… no please…’
‘Just do it, Judy. I won’t warn you again!’
She had begun to sob. Then, as she reluctantly pushed her knickers down to her thigh tops, he walked across and picked up the cane. ‘Since you are new to this, Judy,’ he said, ‘I am going to make things easier for you. But that won’t necessarily always be the case. On this occasion, I am going to give you your punishment in two parts. Six strokes now… and a further seven strokes in half an hour’s time.’
There was a long sobbing groan. It wasn’t exactly one of relief; merely one of dread.
‘Bend forward…’ She bent slightly, looking back up at him in terror as he raised the cane. ‘Bend more than that, Judy. And I think it would be best if you placed your hands on the desk.’ Sobbing incessantly now, the girl obeyed.
‘S-sir… mmfff… mfff… not h-hard… please!’ The girlish nates were twitching with dread. In fact, John did not intend to be too hard on her. Even a light caning, at this stage, would be painful enough. Later, if there was still no improvement, he could take sterner measures.
He gave her a wristy cut across the centre of her bottom. There was a breathless squeal and a hand flew back. ‘Keep your hands on the desk!’ he rapped out.
‘P-please, please… oh that hurt!’
John regarded the light pink weal he had raised. Nothing too serious. Still, as he had reckoned, Judy had found it quite adequately painful. He laid on the second, a little higher, and got similar reactions. ‘Didn’t I tell you to keep your hands on the desk?’ he snapped.
‘O-oooh… I c-can’t… it hurts so!’
‘If Mrs Stokes were here, she’d hold your hands on the table.’
Quickly the hands were replaced. That idea was not at all pleasing!
Number three fell a little lower and, although she squirmed left and right with pain, Judy managed to keep her hands in position. John nodded with satisfaction. Some girls learnt quite quickly.
The squeals grew louder and the squirming became more frantic as John laid on the remaining three strokes, leaving a goodish interval in between. He was, to be honest, quite pleased with the way Judy was taking her punishment. She seemed to have more spirit and guts than he had assumed at the outset. After all, she was still very young… and the whole thing must have come as a dreadful shock to her. Having to bare her bottom in front of a man! Then enduring the pain of a cane for the first time!
‘You may stand up, Judy,’ he said, looking at the light weals with satisfaction. He reckoned he had judged things to a nicety. ‘I am now going to leave you for half an hour. To think things over. You will keep your knickers where they are. And your skirt up. That will act as a potent reminder for what is still to come. Seven more strokes…’
‘Oh please, sir… pleeee… eease… let me off those… this first time… ooohhh… pleease!’ How appealing she was! Such a sweet girl.
John shook his head sorrowfully. ‘That would never do, Judy,’ he said. ‘If I went easy on you whenever you asked, you’d never learn.’ And, with that, he strolled from the room, locking the door behind him.
I must get out of this awful room. That cane is too awful… I just can’t stand any more. Oh how it bites and stings! And he says he’s going to give me seven more. Oh Mummy… how could you let them do these awful things to me! How could you shame me so? Did you know I was going to have to take my knickers down… and be caned by the Assistant Head? A man! It’s too utterly shaming! How could you? How could you?
I must get out. I must run away. But how can I get out? And if I did, where would I run to? They would only catch me. Then I’d get a worse caning. Oh, is there no one who can help me?
I think I’ll drop my skirt, pull my knickers up. It feels so indecent with them down around my thighs like this. But supposing he came back unexpectedly? Perhaps he’d be angry. Perhaps he’d cane me even harder. No, I daren’t risk it. I shall have to put up with the awful humiliation of it. Thank goodness no one can see me. None of my friends. Do they know about this, I wonder? I bet word will get around. Then it will be even more shaming.
Oh how hot those weals feel against my cool palm! How they sting! I cannot believe I still have seven more to come. What a cruel way it is to eradicate a girl’s only weakness. I’ll never forgive them. Never!
John unlocked the door and opened it swiftly. The girl swung round. He saw the neatly trimmed pubic mound as she faced him briefly. Then, colour flooding her cheeks, she swung back again, to show him her lightly-striped bottom. He was most gratified she had continued to obey him, even in his absence. It showed that, already, he was gaining mastery over her. That was important under the circumstances. For it was evident that these special measures would be going on for some time.
‘Back over the desk, Judy,’ he ordered. He intended to start laying on rather harder. Over her shoulder, she looked at him imploringly, but said nothing. She must have realised, from the harsh look on his features, it would have been useless.
With a dry sob, she bent, hands going down on the desk, bottom curving, nates flinching and quivering. Oh… sir… s-sir…’ she whined.
‘Seven more to come, Judy,’ he said relentlessly. The girl had to learn, didn’t she? That’s what everybody wanted, wasn’t it? This was no time for weakness; for sympathy. John cracked down the cane considerably harder across the bare behind presented to him.
There was an anguished gasping-shriek… and Judy writhed almost to her knees on the floor, hands clasping to a far brighter weal. ‘No… aaagh… no… ooo… I can’t stand any more… I can’t!’
John looked at her grimly, as she knelt there. She’d really felt that one alright. ‘Back over that desk, Judy,’ he said firmly.
‘No… no… ooo… I can’t… oooh!’
‘I’ll give you one more chance. Get up… and bend over again…’
‘Ooooh… I just can’t… ooh… I won’t!’ She was in utter despair; half-hysterical. By no means as tough as he had begun to assume.
The Assistant Head shrugged. ‘Very well,’ he said. So it would have to be Mrs Stokes after all. No bad thing, really. He could give it to her good and hard, he thought, as he walked to the house-phone.
The question was, should he give her any extra, while he was about it?

Sunday, 29 September 2019

Letters — Dutch Courage & Impressive, Delightful and Psychologically Insightful

From Janus 42
Dutch Courage
Hereby you’ll find a new series of spanking pictures which you may use the way you like in Janus magazine.
May we remind you of the fact that my wife volunteered already to figure in one of those exciting spanking and caning scenarios you print in every issue. Many of your readers expressed already they want to see a gorgeous pair of buttocks of a mature woman displayed and my wife just loves to show hers turn red as hell! You may be sure she’d do a good job and would come over to your public as ‘a natural’!
We’re so very interested in the Privilege Club we’d even love to perform for them. Wouldn’t that be terrific?
Anyhow when we read through your fascinating Janus and find a story as The Dinner Party in Janus 33 or hear about G.C.J.’s ideas about ‘a girl being punished in a pig sty’, or ‘her bottom being mauled only inches in front of a man’s face’ (Janus 35), we start wondering why you didn’t make use of our (her) proposal to model for you. These scenarios would suit us you know.
We hope somewhere we catched your attention for this exhibitionistic spanking-minded couple.
K. & L. de R.,
Hengstdijk, Netherlands
Well, what do our readers think? Should we use Mrs L. de R. in one of our photo fantasies? And if so, what sort of scenario would you like to see her perform in? — Photo Ed.

Impressive, Delightful and Psychologically Insightful
I would like to use this opportunity to thank you for your magazine, the quality of which continues to impress, and in particular your illustrators. Baldur Grimm’s leggy schoolgirls (c.f. Poor Julie) are a constant delight. Paula’s drawings, in contrast, are probably not as technically accomplished, but this is more than made up for by her amazing psychological insights. For example, some time ago, in Janus 18, page 3. There is, in truth, no need to go back this far to illustrate what I mean, but the drawing in question is, in my opinion, a minor masterpiece of the genre. Paula could have shown just one or both the schoolgirls in the picture bending over, getting their punishment. Instead, we see one girl walking away from a cane, held in the immediate foreground, knickers round her thighs, her bare bottom well striped, her pretty lower lip almost visibly quivering on the edge of tears. This lass is passing another who is moving towards the cane. She has clearly been watching carefully as the other was punished, and is now looking sickly at her co-punishee’ s stripes.
Such pictures are the very stuff of harmless fantasy, and are repeated over and over again by Paula in the pages of your publication. I hope that the appearance of several drawings by Hardcastle, Janus 39 and 40 does not betoken a change in your previous policy of publishing drawings by Paula and Grimm.
West Midlands
No, it simply means that we now have three superlative artists working for Janus instead of two. — Ed.

Saturday, 28 September 2019


From Blushes Supplement 13
Sandra drew back the curtains and looked out. A bright, shiny morning, the early sun slanting across the dewy lawn. It looked perfect, peaceful — peaceful because there were no girls. But then there wouldn’t be any in the school grounds at 8 o’clock on a Saturday morning. No girls at school except herself. Gated for the weekend.
‘General ill-discipline.’ That was what the Head had said and then written in the note to Sandra’s mother. ‘I think a weekend gating would be most salutary in teaching Sandra the merits of disciplined behaviour.’
She hadn’t really done anything much, a number of small things but nothing that you could call serious. But Mandy had said a couple of weeks ago, ‘Watch out. I think he’s got his eye on you. If you’re not careful he’ll have you back here for the weekend.’
It happened now and then, a weekend gating. The Head had a flat at the school and Matron lived in as well. So did Mr Ducker, the school caretaker, for that matter. So there was no problem and there were those two rooms above the library where girls could be put for the weekend. Fifth and Sixth Formers. It was only Fifth and Sixth Formers who could get a weekend gating.
‘Well of course!’ Mandy said. And rolled her eyes and gave a little laugh.
‘What happens?’ Sandra had asked her friend. ‘I mean is it thousands of lines? And clearing up and stuff, I suppose?’ Mandy had laughed again and said, ‘Oh yes, of course.’ Saying it in a way that made you think she knew something else. Mandy probably didn’t know anything but was just trying to pretend she did. Mandy had never had a weekend gating. Nor of course had Sandra until now.
There were rumours but there was no point in paying attention to rumours. It was rumoured that Peggy Collier had got a look at last year’s History exam paper by letting Mr Ormorod do you-know-what to her. And that Mr Melchett, Maths… And of course rumours about Mr Ducker and what he would do to you in his little room. There was no point in taking notice of such rumours. The rumour about weekend gatings was that you got your bottom smacked.
Sandra looking out of the window of the little room above the library shivered slightly. She knew it was stupid to take notice of silly rumours but you couldn’t help… One rumour of course was that he took your knickers down and smacked your bare bottom. Not once but kept on doing it, throughout Saturday and then Sunday as well. So that by the time the weekend was over you just about couldn’t sit down.
Clearly that was so unbelievable that it was really stupid to consider it. Sandra didn’t consider it. Nonetheless it kept coming back into her mind. She turned away from the window. She had better go and see if Matron had any breakfast, not that she felt hungry.
Matron smiled, ‘Ah yes, our delinquent!’ Matron was all right, about Sandra’s mother’s age and pleasant enough. But it was the Head you had to worry about and Matron would always toe the Head’s line so you wouldn’t get anything out of her, although she probably knew what a weekend gating entailed. Sandra had some cornflakes. Matron said the Head had had to go out but would be back in an hour. Until then, when she’d finished breakfast, Sandra was to help Mr Ducker put the chairs away in the Hall.
Oh Cripes! thought Sandra. She would very much rather not help Mr Ducker especially if, as was presumably the case, it would be just the two of them. Those things girls said about Mr Ducker in his room might be just rumours but there was no doubt Mr Ducker was a bit… well, he had creepy-crawly hands for a start.
One creepy-crawly hand was immediately grabbing Sandra when she went reluctantly in search of him in the Hall. Only grabbing her arm but when she sort of shook it off Mr Ducker gave one of his cackles and simply reached behind her to grope at her bottom.
Stop that!’ she squealed, hot-faced. She hated that sort of thing but Mr Ducker unfortunately did do it if he had half a chance. You could try reporting him but it didn’t really get you anywhere. ‘Old Ducker can get away with murder,’ Mandy said. ‘He’s probably got the lowdown on the Head so he’s quite safe.’
Quite what the ‘lowdown’ was Mandy didn’t elaborate. Mr Ducker, cackling, said, ‘Now don’t you come the young lady with me, Miss. That’s nothing at all to what you’ll be getting from the Headmaster very shortly.’
What did that mean? Sandra could still feel that horrible hand which had managed to get a good grip at her lightly-clad rear before she squirmed away. Was he just trying to scare her. ‘Wha…what d’you mean?’
‘Don’t tell me you don’t know,’ grinned Mr Ducker, this time reaching out with two hands for Sandra’s trim boobs. ‘Get off,’ she yelped again. ‘No, I don’t know.’
He grabbed both her hands and put his face close to hers. ‘Let’s just say then that that pretty little bum won’t want you sitting on it for a bit afterwards.’
With that for her to think about he suddenly pulled Sandra close, twisting her arms behind her. Her slim body in the thin check dress hard up against Mr Ducker’s bulky, rather strong smelling, fiftyish shape. Sandra felt faint. One of the hands behind her took hold of her bottom again. Groping, jiggling one firm cheek. ‘This little item, young Miss.’
She eventually managed to struggle free, squealing, ‘I’ll report you, Mr Ducker.’ The caretaker only gave a mocking laugh. Shaking all over Sandra got on with moving the chairs. What Ducker had said of course was right in line with all those rumours. It couldn’t be true. She glanced at the clock. The hands seemed to be moving round at an alarming rate. Matron had said an hour…
‘Ah yes, Sandra, sorry I had to go out, though you may not be sorry, eh?’
He was smiling slightly, but not with his eyes, which were unblinkingly on her as she came forward into his room. Sandra was shaking, knees wobbly. That Ducker had made things worse of course, keeping on at her like that. She had said she was going to report him but now she was here in Mr Morgan’s room… well, Sandra could only think of one thing. It couldn’t be true, she told herself yet again.
‘You know what you get on a weekend gating, Sandra?’
Numb, she shook her head. It was coming now… but it couldn’t be true.
‘No, well, girls don’t know, not until they get it. A weekend gating is intended as a short, sharp shock. Something that a girl will remember so that whenever in future she is slacking or contemplating some improper act she will stop and think. And she will think: no, I definitely don’t want that again. You understand, Sandra?’
Sandra nodded.
‘I like to keep the nature of a weekend gating under wraps, as it were. Hush-hush. That way I think it is more of a deterrent. So girls who get it are requested not to discuss it afterwards.’ He smiled. ‘I say requested but the fact is that if a girl did choose to discuss it I would make things very unpleasant for her. In fact I would probably see she was expelled in disgrace and also her silly story would in any case not be believed because I do have Matron on the premises to deny silly stories. Do you understand all that, Sandra?’
Sandra, twisting her hands in her dress, nodded. Yes she more or less understood. Whatever it was you couldn’t tell. That was why no one said anything. Only those rumours. The Headmaster was getting to his feet.
‘So here it is: the essence of a weekend gating, Sandra, is that a girl gets her bottom smacked. Not just once but as often as I see fit over the two days perhaps seven or eight smackings, with her knickers down. On her bare bottom in other words. That is what a weekend gating is, Sandra.’
His room seemed to be sort of rocking about. Swaying, like that ship when she’d gone across the channel. No, the rumour couldn’t be true; he couldn’t really have said that.
‘Yes that is what is going to happen and we agree, do we not, that you will not disclose anything of it? So, we can make a start. Into the next room now, if you please, young lady. I will be with you shortly.’ Mr Morgan’s hand slapped at Sandra’s bottom.
The next room, off of his sitting room, was quite bare. There was a sort of bathroom stool and a full-length mirror but not a lot else. Was this perhaps where he always did it? That thing that was rumoured but even now Sandra couldn’t really believe could happen. But if it happened he might well decide to do it in a bare room like this because you didn’t need any furniture. Only a stool to sit on when you…
Sandra’s tense musings were interrupted by Mr Morgan coming in. ‘Right, young lady. Take the dress off please.’
Her heart thudded. She felt like she wanted to be sick. He had said it, there was not much doubt about that. But perhaps… if she pretended she was imagining, dreaming… No, that didn’t seem to want to work. Her fingers fumbling at the buttons on her cotton dress were all too real. As was Mr Morgan’s impatient voice: ‘Get on, girl, we haven’t all day.’
Underneath white vest and knickers as Sandra’s shaking hands opened the dress. She was slipping it off. ‘Now the socks and shoes.’ The Head going to sit down in the little stool. Her shoes and socks were off, she was in just her vest and knickers now. She couldn’t believe it but…
Mr Morgan taking her arm, pulling her down over his lap. ‘I take a girl down to her underwear Sandra, because I think that’s something more for her to remember, don’t you? And of course no one is going to know except the two of us.’
His hands pulling her right over, then arranging her just right. Her heart was going like a train and she was sort of gasping for breath. ‘Keep still,’ Mr Morgan said, Sandra’s writhing bottom now nicely positioned. Then with one hand gripping her still wriggling person the other began tugging down her knickers. She heard herself yell out ‘No!’ but they were coming down all the same.
His hand was suddenly there, smoothing over the silky cheeks, fingertips sliding briefly into the warm cleft. Then the hand came away. Up and heavily down. Mr Morgan gave a little grunt. Sandra a shrill squeal, as the hand jolted in to flatten a springy buttock with the force of its impact.
She squealed and gasped and writhed like a fish but the hand continued, metronome-like, a steady cadence of heavy, stinging smacks. She writhed and squirmed but Mr Morgan had a vice-like grip on her so there was no way her desperate bottom could avoid it. After not too long the tears came, and the squeals and gasps became mixed with the state of Sandra’s glowing rear.
‘How does that feel, Miss?’
Sandra, knickers still down but on her feet now, was incapable of speech and indeed was having difficulty in standing. The Head’s bright eyes took in the red, tear-stained face — and of course the silky slim hips with that neat brown bush at the centre.
‘Go and see Mr Ducker now,’ he told her. ‘And come and see me again at lunchtime. Let’s say 12 o’clock.’
She was still too shocked to know properly what was happening, but Mr Ducker was saying something about going into his room for a nice cup of tea. His hands were on various parts of her but Sandra was in too much of a state to argue. That rumour that she now knew was completely true.
She drank her tea and got a little more in control of herself. What was Mr Ducker saying?
‘Come and sit on my lap, then you’ll feel better.’
She shook her head but Mr Ducker was ready for that. If she was nice and friendly he could tell the Headmaster he had a lot of work for Sandra to do this afternoon. Keep her busy. Otherwise the Head would have her in there all afternoon. And all tomorrow.
There was no way of knowing if this was true or not. ‘Stop it,’ she said weakly. Mr Ducker’s hand was going up under her skirt.
He wasn’t stopping it. His wheedling voice: ‘Come on, you’ll feel better without your knickers on. After that whacking he’s given you, and you don’t want to be back with him all afternoon…’
Sandra didn’t know what to do… but Sidney Ducker knew exactly what he wanted. Sandra’s knickers, in spite of her distracted struggles, came down. And off… Mr Ducker going back to his large armchair. Taking Sandra with him. Sitting down…
She struggled weakly. It couldn’t be happening of course, not really. It must be an awful dream. In the dream she continued to struggle as best she could. But in that dream, notwithstanding those struggles. Mr Ducker commenced to do exactly what the rumours said he did.

Friday, 27 September 2019

The General and the Naughty Girl

Story by Elaine Smith from Kane 78.
Angie Davis was in a foul temper as she walked across the common. Her day at work had culminated in a stand-up row with her boss and even now, half an hour later she was still fuming at the injustice of it. Monthly targets showing the amount of post unanswered were a constant thorn in the side of the department she worked in and the office manager was determined for her own career to show that her staff were performing efficiently. Angie was a star performer and because of that she found herself every month having to bail out Mandy Robinson’s arrears. That would not have been too bad if she was shown some recognition for the additional effort that she put in but her boss was more concerned with securing her own promotion than with worrying about Angie’s position. Anyway, if Angie moved up to another department on promotion, who would she be able to count on to get the work done? Angie was in a classic Catch-22 situation. Today had been the final straw and the request to take on a little extra work as the month-end was looming had escalated into a public shouting match. In the end she had snatched her bag from the floor and stormed out of the office for an early weekend.
The bus ride home was short but gave her the opportunity to dwell on the detail of the argument and to replay in her mind the words she had and should have used as the situation got worse. These thoughts were still ricocheting around her head as she jumped off the bus and made her way across the common. Minding his own business in front of her was Jamie Thompson, who was unlucky enough to be kicking his new football around as she approached. He was only ten years old and terrified of Angie, who he had once seen in a fight with his elder sister.
Jamie’s ball control was not everything it might have been and with one kick, he sent it scooting over the grass towards her. As he focused on who she was, he froze in fear. The ball hit her gently on the ankle, but it badly disturbed her thought process and her reaction was to turn and boot it as hard as she could in the opposite direction. Her timing was perfect and the ball sailed into the air, over the adjacent fence and straight through the kitchen window of the nearby house. The glass shattered on impact and Angie, with the reality of what she had done rapidly becoming clear to her, panicked and ran. The occupant, a burly man in his late middle age, stormed out of the back door, up the garden path and through the back gate. Jamie Thompson was still frozen to the spot and Angie had vanished.
Her timing was perfect
‘Is this your football?’ bawled the man. Little Jamie nodded that it was, too shy and too fearful to try to explain what had happened. The man dropped the ball to the ground and let it bounce once, then he gave it an almighty kick that launched it into the clear blue sky. ‘Then I suggest you go and collect it,’ the man bellowed, ‘And make no mistake, boy. If it happens again there will be Hell to pay!’ The back door slammed shut and for a moment, the common returned to its previous summer tranquillity.
Angie had taken refuge behind a tree and shocked by the man’s reaction, she crept back to the rear gate. Even from that distance she could hear the sobs of the boy, their intensity rising and falling in obvious reaction to what had been said to him, and she felt her stomach churn with guilt. Thankfully, he soon reached where his ball had landed and quickly picked it up before scurrying back across the freshly mown grass towards Angie as he made his way home. Angie’s face was a picture of concern as she looked into his tear-stained face. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘Are you alright?’ Jamie nodded and said the shock of the incident had really frightened him. Angie clasped her arms around him in a hug of comfort and they sat for some time on the common until she was satisfied that he had recovered enough to make his way home without causing his parents anxiety. Fearful at the possible repercussions of her own part in the proceedings she quietly asked Jamie not to mention what had happened. His nod was the comfort she needed.
Suddenly the worries of work seemed a long way away, and as she made her way home, she became increasing distressed by the unfairness of little Jamie’s ordeal and her part in it. At the same time, another emotion was also fighting for dominance and her mind began to be taken over by a series of heavy sexual fantasies which, she slowly realised, this episode gave her the perfect opportunity to fulfil. That night and the next day too, she could not get these thoughts out of her mind and by the following evening she realised that she had to visit the house-owner to own up to her crime. She already knew him by sight and she had exchanged the odd friendly comment with him when they had passed in the street. He was a retired general, who had moved to the village after his wife had died. From her brief contact with him, he seemed a decent man although she could appreciate his annoyance at having his window smashed. As dusk fell, she called round to see him.
‘General Fitzsimmons, I have a confession to make. May I come in?’ The general’s eyebrows lifted in surprise and pleasure at the sight of his unexpected caller.
‘Of course you can, my dear. Go through to the lounge and make yourself comfortable. I’ll put the kettle on for some tea.’
Angie settled herself into one of the large comfortable armchairs and, without any obvious embarrassment, explained over a cup of tea just how the broken window had been caused.
‘So you see, General, when you shouted at little Jamie Thompson, it should have been me you were shouting at.’
The general put down his teacup. ‘It must have taken some courage to come here and tell me that,’ he said. ‘There are not many young people who would have done so. I suppose that I did act rather hastily in blaming Jamie, but what’s done is done. I have not had his parents round, so I assume that he has chosen not to tell them and I should be grateful for that. Let’s just forget it, shall we, and put it down to experience.’
Angie was not to be put off now that she had got this far and she seized the moment. ‘But, General, we can’t just leave it there. I know I can’t undo Jamie’s humiliation, but I can at least be punished for the crime as well.’
‘Punished, eh?’ said the General. ‘If young Jamie was your age, I’d have given him half-a-dozen whacks with my leather tawse, but I can’t possibly do that to you. You’re a young lady.’
Angie’s eyes narrowed. ‘So what is your objection, General? Is it that I am a girl or is it that I’m too old? If it is because I’m a girl, then you’re a sexist pig. Boys and girls should be treated equally, irrespective of sex. If a beating was the right punishment for a boy, it should be for a girl as well. If, on the other hand, you think I’m too old at eighteen, then you are just wrong. My mother still has to discipline me sometimes at home with a smack and really, if I behave like a child, then I can’t be too old to be treated like one, can I?’ The logic was powerful, not that General Fitzsimmons was anxious to debate the matter. It was not every day that a pretty young girl knocked on his door, insisting on a spanking.
‘Well, my dear, I can see that your mind is made up and I have to say that I shall be delighted to give you six strokes with the tawse.’
‘No, no, that’s no good at all. If that’s the punishment that you’d give to Jamie, then mine must be harder, because my crime was worse. Not only did I break your window, but I also let him take the blame, when I could have owned up on the spot. I acted like a coward.’
Angie, I can only punish you for what you did to my property. I do not have any role as a moral guardian nor any right to criticise you for letting Jamie take the blame. That is a matter between you and him.’ Even as he was speaking, the general could hardly believe the words that were coming out of his mouth. Of course it was a worse offence for not owning up, so why was he making this ridiculous speech? As he looked into her face, he knew — it was fear, fear of putting himself into a sexual situation with an attractive young girl.
‘But General, please. Jamie is only ten, I can hardly ask him to punish me and I daren’t speak to his parents. They’ll only blame you for acting hastily and the whole thing will get out of hand. You’re the only one who I can trust to be fair.’
The general pondered. She certainly had a point and if she went to the boy’s parents, that would put him in a difficult position if he was asked to explain his actions. He was conscious of his own guilt at the affair. He looked up at Angie’s anxious face and nodded. ‘I agree. What do you have in mind?’
With his acknowledgement, Angie’s face broke into a wide smile. What a pretty girl she was! ‘Well,’ she started, ‘if you’d give Jamie six strokes, I should have at least eight — and you must take my knickers down and give them to me across my bare bottom.’ The words raced out of her mouth indicating that she was perhaps not quite as calm as her body language indicated.
The general was momentarily stunned into silence. His initial reaction had been that she was playing a practical joke on him and that once she had led him on so far, she would laugh in his face and run out of the house. Now, however, her behaviour and language had taken things past that point and he realised that she was serious. She was clearly a very forward girl and although he was aware from his own past that woman often derived great pleasure from the tingle of a well-smacked arse, he had never had a request for one put to him in such direct terms before. Having seen through the flimsy excuse to the real purpose of Angie’s visit, the general threw himself into the role that he had been awarded:
‘Very well, young lady. Eight strokes it is and I shall not be lenient with you either. I take it you would like to be punished straight away.’
Angie looked him straight in the eye and nodded. Her face was still dominated by a wide and friendly smile. How could anyone be happy about letting themselves in for a dose of the tawse? No matter, if she saw it through, she certainly wouldn’t be smiling at the end of it.
The general walked over to a bureau and took a length of leather from the top drawer. It was about eighteen inches in length and split into two at one end. ‘Have you seen one of these before?’ he asked. Angie shook her head and he handed it to her to inspect. From the expression on her face and the closeness with which she scrutinised its every detail, he could see that she was fascinated by it.
‘How long have you had it?’ Her eyes did not leave the strap as she spoke.
‘It’s been in the family for as long as I can remember. My father often used it on my sister and I to try to keep us in line. My son and daughters have also tasted its bite, but it has been out of use for a number of years now, though I do oil it every now and then just to keep the leather supple.’
She handed it back and started to unbuckle the belt of her jeans. The General felt obliged to offer her again the chance to keep her trousers on. ‘No, we’ve been through this before, General Fitzsimmons. I deserve a thrashing on the bare and that’s what you must give me. It won’t be a proper punishment otherwise.’ With that, she unzipped the flies and, after kicking off her shoes, she tugged the tight jeans down her legs and stepped out of them. In her short T-shirt and lacy white knickers and with her ruffled hairstyle and tanned skin, she would not have looked out of place on the pages of any high fashion magazine. As he surveyed the vision before him, the General could not have been more astonished with the turn of events if he had been told that he had won the top pay-out on the Football Pools.
She tugged the tight jeans down her legs
‘Do you want me across your knee or shall I touch my toes?’ she asked. The General cleared his throat before leading her towards the bureau. ‘I think perhaps that if you rest your arms on the top of this, you will find yourself in a suitable position. Of course, it will also support you when the tawse starts to have effect.’ Angie leaned forward and rested her forearms onto the top, with her palms placed on top of each other and her fingers stretched out. Her legs were slightly apart and the flesh in her bottom filled as she lowered her head to rest on her hands. At the same time, she arched her back and felt her leg muscles tense at the position she had adopted. Her bum was thrust outwards provocatively and was decidedly ready for some attention.
‘You’ll have to take my knickers down for me, General,’ came a cheeky voice with a half giggle.
The general smiled and was certainly not going to turn his nose up at the offer. Reaching forward he gently and ever so slowly helped the panties down to a position around mid-thigh, where the spread of her legs kept them helpfully supported. As each inch of her gorgeous bottom was revealed, the general’s face blushed to a darker shade of red. He could feel the smooth skin of her hips brushing across his fingers to add to the excitement. With the knickers out of the way, he stood back to admire the view. Her arse was as beautiful as every other part of her delightful body and it was a privilege to see it. Her all-over tan betrayed her passion for nude sunbathing and the bronzed skin created a delightful contrast to the pure white cotton of her T-shirt and lowered knickers. Framed as it was by white material, her bottom made a sexy display and one, he thought, that could only be improved upon by a reddening of the cheeks.
‘If you’re comfortable, my dear, here comes the first one,’ he said.
He waved the tawse in the air a couple of times and whacked it down onto her bottom. Her body jerked slightly on impact, but quickly relaxed.
Her body jerked slightly on impact
‘How did that feel?’ he asked. ‘Was it too hard?’
‘Stop worrying about me!’ she remonstrated with him. ‘Just give it to me properly.’
Stirred by her arrogance, he instinctively raised his arm higher and thrashed it down for the second stroke. ‘Ooh!’ came the response as her bottom-cheeks filled with colour.
The third stroke was harder still and landed with a disturbingly loud crack. ‘Ooh. Ooh.’ Angie’s bottom was smarting badly now, but she was determined to see the punishment out. It was clear to the general from the colour of her buttocks the success he was having and inspired he delivered the fourth stroke with force, lower down to extend the coverage. ‘Ow!’ That one certainly hit the mark, he mused. Laying the tawse down for a moment he ran his hands across the reddened skin to feel the heat and to check for abrasions. Angie made no protest and probably she was glad of the respite. In a way the gentle touch of his hands was soothing, almost as if it was sucking the pain away through his fingers.
‘No real damage, yet, my dear. Looks like I’ll have to try a little harder,’ he said, and with that picked up the tawse to continue the beating.
The fifth stoke snapped against the glowing cheeks leaving a scarlet horizontal imprint across the already rosy hemispheres. ‘Ooh!’ Angie’s moaning started again and involuntarily her body jerked upwards, her hands reaching behind her to rub her buttocks. Immediately, however, she realised what she was doing and resumed her position. Number six landed even before she had a chance to take breath and struck directly on top of the marks of the fifth, to scold the already burning sensation. Angie jumped up again to rub the pain away and this time she was not so quick to bend back down.
‘Do you want to stop now?’
Angie looked up at him. Her eyes were no longer shiny and challenging and her expression had become demure, even subservient. However, beneath the veneer, her spirit remained strong, and despite the soreness, she was certainly not going to quit. ‘No way,’ she whispered. ‘Punish me hard.’ With that she lowered herself back into position. She’s certainly got pluck, thought the General and drew back his arm to deliver the seventh blow. It whipped in low and hard, as requested. Angie had clearly steeled herself for that one and her only reaction was a short period of heavy breathing as she struggled mentally with the pain. For the general, the red buttocks were a distinct turn-on and his problem now was to avoid showing Angie just how excited he had become.
‘Last stroke,’ said the general, and raised his arm high to thwack the tawse down for the final time. It was a powerful blow and landed with a resounding splat across those delicate cheeks. ‘Oh! Ow! Ooh!’ Angie could not contain herself any more and she sprung upwards to give her hands access to her burning rear. The general laid down the tawse and sat down to let her recover. She continued to rub furiously for about half a minute and still with her back to him, bent fully over to gather up her knickers, which had inevitably tumbled to the floor in the action. Not for the first time that evening the general found himself blushing and even averting his eyes momentarily. Angie scrabbled round for her jeans and with some difficulty inched them back on, the tightness of the material exacerbating the soreness she felt.
She turned to the general and bent low to kiss him on the cheek. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said. ‘I knew that I could trust you to treat me fairly.’ With that, she collected her coat from the chair over which she had thrown it and started for the door. The general stood to escort her out but even as the evening’s fantasy drew to a close, he was in for one more shock. In the entrance lobby, Angie turned and looking him full in the face said, ‘Now that I know I can trust you, can I come to you in future if I misbehave? Perhaps next time you can give me a long and thorough spanking?’ Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heels and disappeared up the path, leaving the old general open-mouthed and speechless at the door. Spanking, my eye, he thought as he watched her arse bouncing away into the distance. That girl needs a good dose of the stick for her cheek. His face relaxed into a smile at the prospect and he closed the door to make plans for her next visit.