Story from Februs 44 by Colin Weaver
Myra walked out of the courtroom and down the steps of the House of Justice. She felt grateful that the trial had been held in private, without the archaic mummery of bewigged barristers and the gaping faces of moronic jurors pretending to give wise verdicts upon matters they could not possibly understand. Just the three Assessors, considering the evidence against her and courteously listening to her defence.
Not that there could really be any defence. Even now that sentence had been passed and she wore the scarlet sash from shoulder to waist to announce her assessed guilt to the world. She was glad she had not tried to lie, to bluff, to make futile excuses for an offence which had been so blatant. The quiet, grave voice of the Senior Assessor had asked the only question that really mattered. ‘Myra Leverson, did you pollute the atmosphere and breach the climate control regulations by using an illegal petrol-engined lawnmower on the fourth of April, two thousand and thirty eight?’
Which of her neighbours had informed on her she didn’t know, and it hardly mattered. Whoever it was, she felt almost grateful to them. How could she have been so irresponsible as to tinker with that shameful relic from the Years of Waste, the antique machine inherited from her grandfather, and then bribe that sly, smirking man with the dubious reputation to obtain the petrol for it? As it was she could only be grateful for the compassionate laws which allowed consideration to be shown to her sex. A man convicted of the same offence would certainly have gone to prison. As it was…
Her friends were waiting for her at the foot of the steps, Lucille and Toni and Cheryl. It was plump, loquacious little Toni, incapable of discretion, who asked the inevitable question, ‘What did they give you, Myra?’
Myra licked her lips and swallowed, reluctant to say the words, as though to repeat the sentence would somehow confirm the awful reality of it. But it was real and somehow she must accept and endure her punishment as many a foolish woman had done before her. When it had happened to others she had laughed and made unfeeling jokes, as people did. She did not feel like joking now. She took a deep breath and said ‘Three-Two-One!’
‘Oh!’ That was Lucille, always tender-hearted, Myra’s cousin and oldest friend. ‘Oh, poor Myra!’
Myra shook her head. ‘I deserve it,’ she said. She managed the ghost of a smile. ‘Next time I visit one of you I hope you will find me your softest cushion to sit on!’
‘How long, Myra?’ asked the practical Cheryl.
‘The sentence has to be completed by two weeks from today. I-I suppose I better start as soon as I can.’
Three-two-one. Three sound spankings, two thrashings with a formidable tawse and one application of a supple stinging cane, at least twelve strokes on Myra’s naked, squirming buttocks. All of which Myra would have to arrange herself.
It was not considered desirable for the State to maintain official chambers of punishment as paid agents of correction. Instead the culprit, once sentence had been passed, had to seek out for herself those who would carry it out. It might only be a single spanking. It might, for serious offences such as tobacco addiction, amount to six months of regular exemplary chastisement, at the end of which the culprit would be utterly determined never again to offend against the law.
When the system had begun there had been attempts to evade it. Some women had persuaded or bribed people to merely go through the motions of punishment or to omit it altogether and simply sign the official form certifying that correction had taken place. In every case the deception had somehow become known to the Assessors and their reaction had been draconian. By the time that a dozen people had started long terms of hard labour it was generally agreed that only an idiot would try to beat the system. Even the slightest suspicion that any of the punishments had not been carried out with sufficient vigour meant that the culprit could expect an order for it to be repeated.
‘For God’s sake, let’s find a pub!’ said Myra. ‘I’ve never needed a drink so badly.’
When they entered The Grapes several of the other customers glanced with sympathy or amusement at Myra’s red sash, but only the buxom blonde barmaid commented. ‘Hard luck, dear,’ she said. ‘I got done last year for vandalising my boyfriend’s car when we fell out. Before the month was up I was sure I was never going to sit down in comfort again.’
‘If that was meant to be consoling,’ said Myra, when she had served them and left, ‘it didn’t work! It’s no use putting it off, I’d better take my first spanking today. Now who’s the best person to ask for a good smacked bottom?’
Parents and blood relations were generally ruled out by the law. ‘Not,’ remarked Myra, ‘that I would fancy going across my mum’s knee for the first time at twenty-four years old!’
Sometimes husbands or other male partners were called upon to execute justice. ‘The trouble with that,’ observed Cheryl, ‘is that once they’ve had the chance to tan your arse, they just want to keep on doing it. It doesn’t take much to give some men ideas.’
‘It doesn’t take anything to give my Gunnar those ideas!’ said Toni plaintively. ‘I’ve been spanked at least once a week the past year whether I deserved it or not!’
They all knew and liked Toni’s burly Swedish flatmate.
‘It’s because you have such a lovely spankable bottom!’ said Lucille. ‘Honestly, sometimes I’m tempted to put you across my knee! Anyway, when Gunnar spanks you, you know it’s not really punishment!’
‘Well it feels like it by the time his big hard hand has been smacking my poor bum for five minutes!’ pouted Toni.
‘I suppose you’ve been spanked, Myra?’ asked Cheryl. ‘I mean, surely we all have at some time, haven’t we? Who was the last person to turn you over and spank you?’
‘It was a man called Terence Sheldon,’ said Myra, thoughtfully. ‘I worked for him for a little over a year. He spanked me five — no six — times.’
‘Bare bottom?’ asked Toni with prurient interest.
‘The first time I got it on the seat of a tight skirt and he laid it on long and hard enough to make me very very sore! When he realised I wasn’t going to make a fuss about it — I had deserved it, after all — he promised to take my knickers down the next time — and he did! Yes, I think Mr Sheldon would be a good man to approach.’
When she phoned him a little later his voice was comfortingly matter of fact. Yes, he’d heard about the conviction. Of course, she could visit him that evening.
Had there been a trace of amusement in his voice? Myra hoped not; he was perfectly civil and good-natured when he welcomed her at the appointed time.
‘Come in, Myra, nice to see you again. You remember my wife don’t you?’
Yes, Myra remembered the tall elegant woman who smilingly greeted her. The family also included, she recalled, a teenage son and daughter. As though reading her mind, Mrs Sheldon said, ‘Michael and Fern are out with their friends. We thought you’d rather not have them here while….’
‘That was thoughtful of you,’ said Myra, blushing. Of course, Mrs Sheldon knew why she was there. Her nervousness and embarrassment increasing, Myra looked from husband to wife and stammered, ‘Shall we — can we —?’
‘You wouldn’t like a cup of tea first?’ enquired Mrs Sheldon. ‘Oh I suppose you’d rather get it over with. You won’t mind if I watch, will you?’
Of course, Myra did mind, but there was supposed to be a witness present during punishment. Anyway she could hardly banish Mrs Sheldon from her own living room. Myra gulped, ‘I’m ready when you are, Mr Sheldon.’
Mr Sheldon calmly removed his jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves and sat down. ‘Come here, Myra. I’m sure you remember exactly what to do.’
Remembering all too clearly, Myra went towards Mr Sheldon and went across his lap, wriggling until she was in the right position, keeping her balance with outstretched hands and toes. That afternoon, Myra and her friends, giggling nervously, had discussed the most appropriate costume for a young woman who was going to be soundly spanked. As a result she had ruled out anything provocative, despite Lucille’s suggestion of, ‘Wear your sexiest knickers, and perhaps he won’t smack quite so hard!’ She was wearing a plain white sweater, a short, pleated fawn skirt, white ankle socks and flat brown shoes. Now she felt her skirt being turned up, and her simple white briefs pulled down almost to her knees. She recalled the extremely unhappy occasion when she had last displayed her bare bottom to him. This time she was also displaying it to Mrs Sheldon which did not make her feel any better.
‘If it’s any consolation, Myra,’ said Mrs Sheldon, unexpectedly, ‘I know exactly how you’re feeling — and I don’t suppose it will be long before Terence has me in that position again!’
Myra was so surprised she almost laughed — until Mr Sheldon’s hand descended with the first resounding smack. As spank followed stinging spank it seemed obvious that Mr Sheldon had been keeping in regular practice. No doubt the graceful Mrs Sheldon had often gasped and yelped and wriggled just as Myra was doing now. Smack! Smack! Smack! Mr Sheldon’s hand slapped Myra’s bare burning cheeks with a relentless rhythm and her eyes filled with tears. She had always tried to take her punishment bravely, not to start weeping too soon, and though her bottom was stinging furiously she knew that the spanking was far from over. He hadn’t even smacked her legs yet.
When at last he commenced a methodical slapping of her soft white thighs it was almost a relief, momentarily, to have her suffering bottom spared the impact of his practised hand. By the time her legs had been thoroughly smacked, though, Myra was howling, sobbing and imploring as she writhed across his lap.
‘Oh, p-please, sir, please, I’m sorry! That’s enough, surely that’s enough?’
‘I must make sure, Myra,’ he said, ‘that the sentence of the court is adequately carried out. We’ll continue with something you haven’t had before, at least not from me. Jane, do you remember where that big wooden-backed hairbrush is?’
‘Where you left it last time you paddled me with it!’ was his wife’s reproachful reply.
‘Bring it to me, will you? It’s just what Myra needs.’
‘It’s not fair!’ wept Myra, wriggling. ‘The court only said sp-spanking. That means with your hand.’
‘It means with hand or slipper or hairbrush, as you know full well,’ said Mr Sheldon. ‘I really should have used the hairbrush on your delightful arse while you worked for me. How fortunate to have the chance to make up for missed opportunity!’
Myra did not feel at all fortunate when she heard Mrs Sheldon return and felt the smooth, hard wood of the brush resting on one roasting bottom-cheek. She stared at the floor with tear-blurred eyes and remembered that she was only at the beginning of her fortnight’s penance, that there was much worse to come. Then she shrieked as the hairbrush smacked into her bottom for the first time.
It was two days before Myra could pluck up courage to seek her next spanking, but she dared not wait too long. Girls who did not space out their corrections properly through the punishment period were liable to find the last few days sheer hell. Sometimes they failed to complete the entire sentence in time — and that meant the horror of getting it all over again.
Myra went to her former headmistress. Miss Nicholls was quite used to visits from remorseful former pupils who had fallen foul of the law. She was often sympathetic when a girl had been silly rather than sinful, but those who expected leniency soon found out how mistaken they were. Miss Nicholls used a short leather strap with a smiling ruthlessness which had Myra sobbing out desperate pleas for mercy as she writhed across the ample lap.
‘Please, Miss,’ said Myra afterwards, ‘shouldn’t that count as a tawsing?’
Miss Nicholls shook her head. ‘It most certainly should not, young lady! You’ll notice a difference when you feel a Lochgelly laid across your backside by an experienced hand. Come to think of it, I’ll give you a note for my old friend Mrs Macilse. Promise you’ll go to her, Myra!’
‘Yes, Miss Nicholls,’ said Myra meekly.
For her third spanking, Myra went to Gunnar who turned her over his knee and smacked her shapely bare rear to a blazing cherry-red while Lucille, Toni and Cheryl watched. They were her dear friends and they were very fond of her, but there was a secret delight in watching her howling and kicking in tearful disgrace as her well-deserved spanking lasted a full ten minutes.
‘One week gone,’ said Myra afterwards, ‘and three spankings taken. I think I’m entitled to a day to cool down!’ So it was the following Monday when she arrived at the suburban house and presented the note from Miss Nicholls. The handsome, grey-haired woman read it and smiled. ‘It’s a busy day for me. Come in, Myra, I’ll attend to you as soon as I can.’
There were already two girls in the room to which Mrs Macilse led her. One was tall and slim with long, glossy black hair tied in a thick plait by a red ribbon. Myra could not see her face, since she was standing in a corner with her hands on her head and her brown shift dress pinned waist high. Myra couldn’t help looking at the girl’s bare bottom and wished she hadn’t. ‘My God,’ she thought, quaking, ‘is that what the tawse does?’
Mrs Macilse noticed Myra’s shocked glance. ‘Jenny’s been a bad girl,’ she said casually. ‘I had to give her twelve, and, if she doesn’t mend her ways she’ll be back before the weekend for another dozen. When she comes out of that corner I’ll send her to Dot Nicholls for a good skelping. She’s only twenty but she thinks she’s too old to be spanked. She’ll soon find she isn’t!’
‘It’s the shame of going across someone’s knee that Jenny hates,’ said the other girl. ‘I think she’d rather be tawsed, even though it hurts more.’
‘I can guarantee her plenty of both,’ said Mrs Macilse. ‘Our well-connected Jenny will feel more at home with her knickers down than fully dressed by the time Dot and I have finished teaching her some manners. She’ll be the best-behaved girl in her social circle, believe me! Now, Angela, what did I give you last time?’
‘Six,’ said the girl, unhappily, ‘but I got one on each hand as well.’ She was a fair-skinned, auburn-haired girl with a pert, pretty face. She looked about nineteen.
‘That was probably a mistake,’ said Mrs Macilse. ‘You’ve got a nice, sensitive bottom and it responds beautifully to the tawse. I think I should concentrate on it, at least for the next three or four visits. Perhaps this time you should get twelve — all on your bottom.’
‘Oh no!’ whispered Angela. ‘Oh please!’ Her big grey eyes filled with tears.
‘You’ll have something to cry about in a minute,’ said Mrs Macilse. ‘Maybe twelve is too severe just yet, but you can certainly take nine. And so can you, Myra.’
Myra found herself shaking. Three sound spankings inside a week had taken their toll in physical pain and demoralisation. It was hard to accept that the most severe part of her punishment was still to come. But she had no choice; each stage of her penance must be endured in turn. ‘I-I’m ready,’ she said in a shaky voice.
‘Ready are you? My, you must be in a hurry.’ Mrs Macilse sounded amused. ‘You’ll be begging me to stop, soon enough. You can watch Angela’s leathering first and see what to expect.’ She pointed to the big sofa. ‘Over the arm, Angela, and we’ll have a look at your cheeky bare bottom.’
Over the arm went Angela. Her brief blue skirt was turned up and then she lifted her body a little to let Mrs Macilse pull down her knickers. Mrs Macilse ran an approving hand over the firm, round teenage rump. ‘It’s remarkable how soon your marks fade,’ she said. ‘Not much sign of the last lot. Still, you’ll soon have a fresh glowing set.’
The idea of watching Angela’s punishment, knowing her own would follow, did not appeal to Myra. ‘May I make a suggestion,’ she said. ‘Since there are two of us to be strapped, why don’t you punish us both together? I could go over the other sofa arm and you could strap each of us alternately.’
Mrs Macilse laughed. ‘Most of my visitors would rather postpone their tawsing than ask to have it sooner!’ she said. ‘I really should keep you in suspense while you watch Angela being strapped but — all right, Myra, over you go.’
Upended over the sofa arm, her head and shoulders next to Angela’s from the other end, Myra felt her own skirt raised, her own bottom bared. ‘Let’s hold on to each other,’ whispered Angela. ‘It will make it easier to bear.’
Myra put her left arm across Angela’s firm, warm back and felt an answering embrace. ‘Cuddles, eh?’ said Mrs Macilse, reproachfully. ‘Naughty girls! I shall smack your legs!’
Myra winced as hard stinging slaps punished the backs of each thigh, heard Angela gasp as she suffered the same fate.
‘And now,’ said Mrs Macilse, with unmistakable pleasure, ‘it’s tawse time!’
She took the tawse from the table then walked around to stand behind Angela.
‘Angela,’ she said. ‘You remember my friend, Mr Lochgelly, don’t you? He wants to meet you again.’ There was the sound of tough leather thwacking solidly upon naked teenage buttocks and a shrill yelp from Angela. Myra lay, shaking with panic, aware that Mrs Macilse was walking round to her end of the sofa. ‘Mr Lochgelly,’ said the amused voice behind her, ‘loves to kiss pretty girls on the bare bottom!’ Myra felt a sharp impact, and then a band of burning biting pain across the centre of her bottom. She yelled with shock, and if it had not been for Angela’s firm clasp she might have jumped up.
To and fro strolled Mrs Macilse, from Angela to Myra and back again, pausing to contemplate each squirming, suffering feminine bottom before raising the tawse and delivering another scorching stroke. Myra and Angela sobbed and writhed and howled out their full-throated duet of abject misery as they endured a long, thorough, agonisingly efficient tawsing. When each had taken nine of the very best, Mrs Macilse spoke again. ‘And now, because you were bad girls and I had to smack your legs, you’ll get a little something extra.’
‘Oh no!’ wailed Myra.
‘We’re so, so sorry!’ blubbered Angela.
Crack! Crack! Mr Lochgelly kissed each girl once more on the tender lower curves of quivering buttocks already desperately sore and incandescently hot. Then they were allowed to rise, and this time Mrs Macilse raised no objection as they clung to each other, weeping noisily.
All this time Myra had been on leave from her job. On the Thursday of the second week she was summoned back to work.
‘Miss Leverson,’ said Mr Brown, her immediate boss. ‘I understand you are undergoing a course of correction and that’s why you took leave.’
Myra blushed to the roots of her hair. ‘Yes sir,’ she muttered.
‘Without making mention of this conviction to your employer as you are supposed to do! This could be quite serious, Myra.’
Myra hung her head, regretting her bashful stupidity.
‘I have often thought,’ said Mr Brown, slowly, ‘what a remarkably attractive bottom you have. Maybe…’
Myra sighed. ‘Alright Mr Brown, I get the picture. I have to fit in another strapping from someone so it might as well be you.’
Myra had hoped for privacy but he pushed her into the outer office. In front of the whole staff, he put Myra over her own desk with her skirt up and her knickers in the waste basket. She was hotly aware of her shame, knowing that every eye was on the shapely bottom that Mr Brown so admired.
Then the tawse swung down and for the next few minutes Myra’s office colleagues watched and listened, fascinated, as the attractive brunette took a damned good hiding; the juicy smacks of leather on naked female flesh; Myra’s shrieks and sobs and heartfelt entreaties; the squirming body and flailing legs revealing to horny male clerks those secret valleys they had hitherto only fantasised about, and the awesome effect of the vigorously wielded tawse upon Myra’s defenceless buttocks.
Mr Brown did not have the experience of Mrs Macilse, but he had great enthusiasm and a strong right arm. After Myra’s punished rear had endured a red-hot dozen she wailed, ‘Mr Brown, I can’t take any more. I just can’t!’
‘Perhaps,’ said Mr Brown, ‘we could come to an understanding. If you agree that from now on you will go across my knee as an accepted form of office discipline.’
‘Yes, yes, you can spank me whenever you like! But no more tawse now — pleeease!’
‘Oh I think you can take three more,’ said Mr Brown.
‘Myra,’ said Toni, a couple of days later, ‘You still have a caning to come don’t you?’
‘Yes, it’s the last day,’ sighed Myra. ‘I’m not trying to avoid it — but who is going to cane me?’
‘Why not go to Mr Sheldon again?’
‘You’re not allowed to get punishment from the same person twice,’ said Myra, but she phoned Terence Sheldon anyway.
‘No problem, my dear,’ he said. ‘Come over tonight. Everything will be arranged.’
‘So,’ said Myra at 7.30 that evening, ‘Who is going to cane me?’
‘Jane!’ said Mr Sheldon. ‘She has a great deal of experience.’
His wife laughed at Myra’s look of surprise. ‘No I haven’t caned the kids — and certainly not Terence! I belong to an elite group of women who enjoy both giving and taking punishment.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘There might be an opening for another member. I sense something about you.’
‘That,’ said Myra, ‘is something to think about later. For the present I’d like to get my punishment over.’
Mrs Sheldon looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Trousers tonight I see. Well that was a bit silly. Very well, take them off — and your shoes, socks and knickers.’
A little later, Myra, blushing furiously and naked from the waist down was trying to avoid Mr Sheldon’s eye. Two chairs had been placed back to back.
‘Kneel on one,’ instructed Mrs Sheldon. ‘Bend over and grasp the seat of the other.’
In that position, Myra’s bare bottom felt horribly exposed and vulnerable. Which, she realised, was the idea! She closed her eyes. ‘I’ve learned my lesson,’ she told herself, ‘I really and truly have!’
And then the first expertly delivered stroke of the cane thwacked agonisingly across her quivering buttocks.
Much later, when she had been allowed out of the corner after a seeming eternity of weeping repentance, she reluctantly squeezed her throbbing bottom into trousers which had somehow become too tight.‘Jane,’ she said. ‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t make an immediate answer to your offer, won’t you? I have a very painful fortnight to get over first. Meanwhile — do you know anybody who wants to buy an antique lawnmower?’