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Saturday, 4 July 2020

Military Discipline

Photo-story from Janus 129 featuring Lucy Bailey as Juliet Tessler.
Juliet Tessler had once been a top secretary with a high opinion of her own skills. But during one extraordinary job interview she had been introduced to stern physical discipline and found her unclothed bottom on the receiving end of a cane (Janus 95). It had hurt, but the experience had made her realise how much she craved order and discipline in her young life.
Since then, tired of the difficulties of finding a job that gave full satisfaction in civilian life, Juliet had joined the Women’s Royal Army Corps. She had been a soldier for less than seven months now, but was already in trouble. Heavens, it was like being at school and getting caught sneaking out of the dorm at night! The sergeant-major had refused her a pass and she’d been determined to go to the dance with that particular young man. To then go back to his flat and fall asleep in his arms after a bout of passion had been complete folly. Juliet had no doubt she deserved everything that was coming to her: it was not knowing quite what that ‘everything’ might be that was making her quake.
With trepidation, then, she approached the gateway of the house she’d been instructed to report to: an old house in a remote part of the town where her regiment was stationed. A house where punishments of an unofficial kind were carried out and where she was to be the recipient of whatever corrective sanction it was found necessary to inflict on her. Juliet’s heart beat faster as she reached out and pressed the old-fashioned bell-push.
Regular readers of Janus will be aware of the disciplinary exploits of Mrs Hilary Hanbury-Boyce, widow of the late Brigadier who in his day was also wont to wield the rod rather than mince words when a balance needed redressing or a solecism settled. But few know that the good Brigadier had sired a son some thirty summers since with his first wife, Jane. The boy’s name was Roger. Like his father before him, he had opted for a career in the Army. Having imbibed the values of discipline from an early age, it was perhaps no surprise when Roger joined the Military Police.
Now he was a corporal, and today he had a solemn duty to perform. For Corporal Hanbury-Boyce, R. was the applier of ‘unofficial’ punishments.
Grimly he re-read the charge sheet for the latest miscreant to be sent to him. After he had read it, he took out his red pen and wrote something at the bottom. A young WRAC private had been charged by her platoon officer for breaking out of camp without a pass, and failing to return in time for morning parade. As she was fairly new to the service, the offender had been offered the option of going on Commanding Officer’s Orders and possibly being discharged with ignominy, or of being dealt with ‘unofficially’. This girl soldier had opted for the latter course, and Roger had no intention of making it easy for her. She had by her irresponsible actions merited the soundest punishment, and he intended to carry it out to the best of his abilities.
The front door bell jangled and he glanced at his watch. Well, at least she was on time. Moments later she stood before him. Corporal Hanbury-Boyce tried not to notice how pretty the girl was, how long and blonde her silky hair, how trim her figure. It didn’t do to show favour on account of good looks, but to mete out punishment impartially.
‘Well, Private Tessler,’ he began in a deep grating voice his father and stepmother would have been proud of. ‘We have been naughty, haven’t we?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Juliet bit her lip. The man looked and sounded terrifying.
‘I am not commissioned,’ Roger barked, so loudly that it made her flinch. ‘I am a non-commissioned officer — a corporal! You will therefore address me as “Corporal”. Is that clear?’
‘Yes Corporal.’
‘I have read the charge sheet. Your behaviour was utterly disgraceful. If it was up to me, you’d be out on your ear. As it is, I have the duty of meting out a punishment sufficiently stringent to make you see the error of your ways and to learn never to transgress again in such a manner so long as you remain a member of Her Majesty’s Forces.’
Juliet shuffled uncomfortably.
‘Stand up straight!’ continued the roaring voice. ‘Eyes front, arms to your sides!’
Juliet did so, straining every sinew to ramrod her spine, stiffen her legs and tuck in her seat. She quailed as the military policeman then proceeded to carry out an embarrassingly thorough inspection of her person, checking that her uniform was correct in every detail. He even checked her fingernails and looked into her ears. By the time he had finished, Private Juliet Tessler felt utterly degraded and insignificant. ‘Stand up straight — straighter,’ he bellowed, standing so close behind her she could smell his polish and aftershave. ‘Head up, shoulders back! You’re a WRAC, not some slovenly drop-out!’
The corporal then crouched behind her and hoisted her skirt up over her hips. Juliet’s normally efficient mind was in turmoil. Should she object to this unorthodox action, or grit her teeth and suffer it?
‘Are these army issue drawers?’ he enquired in deceptively mild tones.
‘Not exactly, sir, Corporal,’ she found herself saying meekly.
‘Not exactly? Not at ALL!’ he roared. ‘Keep that skirt up round your hips. I want to see the target area.’
‘T-target area?’
‘Your backside, young lady. You’re here for summary punishment. Some people call it “corporal” punishment. As I happen to be a corporal, that makes it entirely apt, don’t you think?’
‘Y-yes, Corporal.’
‘But let me assure you, Private Tessler, it’s more than two stripes you’ll be getting across that pretty arse of yours this afternoon. Bend over, hands flat on the table!’
There was a cane in his hand. Juliet hadn’t seen him pick it up, but it was a fearsome-looking object, very long and whippy with a crook handle. The power of his voice and personality had her responding to his every command. Every inflection carried authority. When she felt him hoisting the skirt even higher up her back to fully expose her bottom in its skimpy panties she gave a groan.
‘Silence.’ Roger looked at the lushly curved behind it was his solemn duty to attend to, noting how the skin-tight knickers sank into the buttock-cleft and clung to the rumpy globes. He strove manfully to remain dispassionate and objective, but it was one of the most beautiful arses he had ever seen.
For Roger, when a behind like that belonged to a transgressing female it became even more appealing as a target for chastisement. It was with a sense of righteous well-being, then, that Corporal Hanbury-Boyce drew back a well-muscled arm and brought the cane whooshing sternly down.
Juliet felt the first stroke of the cane across the softness of her bottom as a streak of intense heat that made her gasp: painful but not unbearable.
Another followed almost at once, the cane singing through the air to bite smartly across her bottom again, harder, jerking her forward with the pain of it and eliciting a squeal.
Four more strokes followed, each a little stronger than the last. Firm, crisp, impacts that jolted precise lines of fire across each bottom-cheek until she began to gasp. Juliet’s eyes were moist — with humiliation and shame rather than the pain per se — for to find herself bent over like this being caned on her intimate parts by a man who only a few minutes ago was a stranger brought back lurid memories of a businessman called Nicholas Dixon who had done the same to her, and she had always felt guilty that she had masturbated over the memory of it many times since.
Whack. Whack. Thwack.
Once she realised what her fate was to be, Juliet had somehow thought it might end with a swift six, a ticking off, then dismissal. How wrong she was. The gusset of her panties was moist, and the realisation embarrassed her. Perhaps it was perspiration, she told herself as the jolting smarts startled little shrieks from her throat like larks from the corn at the crack of a gun. Well it was rather warm in the room.
Another three hard hits of that flashing shaft struck flames into her rumps so that Private Tessler felt she had just sat on a griddle. She shook her hips as though shaking off sparks. The pain was becoming considerable, coalescing in each bottom-cheek like vortices of sizzling hurt.
‘Stand up!’ Roger stepped back, tucking the cane beneath his arm like a drill instructor’s baton. ‘You may have broken your father’s heart,’ he went on harshly, ‘but I can assure you won’t break mine! You’re a scurrilous, unprincipled little madam who deserves the thrashing of her life — and is going to get it! Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, sir, Corporal,’ said Juliet with a whimper, her scorched rear prickling and glowing.
‘Call yourself a soldier? I can’t even stand to see you wearing the uniform of Her Majesty’s service! Take off your tunic!’
Juliet fumbled with buttons and dragged her tunic off.
‘And the skirt. Off! Look lively, girl!’
Juliet unzipped, pushed down the skirt and stepped out of it, almost falling over in the process.
‘Now the knickers.’ He pointed at them with the cane. ‘Off.’
Juliet felt a flush travelling from her throat to the roots of her hair as she peeled off her panties and stood, humiliatingly bare-bottomed, before this terrifying man.
His voice was coming at her again, but quieter and deeper. ‘You will place a hand on each arm of that chair and bend right forward, presenting your naked buttocks for the thrashing they have earned by your irresponsible and unsoldierly behaviour.’
‘Yes, Corporal,’ Juliet whispered. She began to feel a rightness about what was taking place as, once more, her sense of discipline rose to the fore.
Indeed, a part of her seemed to stand back and watch with approval while she did as instructed. As she bent over and felt her bare bottom rise to prominence, Juliet felt that what was happening was correct. Horrible while it was happening, yes — but she needed this as much as a train needed a track to run along.
‘Head right down,’ continued the unrelenting voice. ‘Arch your back.’
‘Push that arse out!’
Juliet shrieked when the cane struck full across her naked flesh. The flash of fiery pain was repeated. With the regularity of a metronome the whippy shaft rose and fell, rose and fell, biting and burning, the cracks of impact echoing about the walls in time to her grunts and whimpers as she strained to push her bottom backwards and her head ever closer to the chair-seat over which she was leaning.
So immersed was she in the constant jolts of pain, it was almost a surprise to find that the blows to her bottom had stopped. Corporal Hanbury-Boyce was a strong, fit young man, but even he was panting from his exertions as he stood back for a moment.
‘I think that’s warmed your bottom up a little,’ he observed. Roger was sweating slightly — it was warm in there. ‘Now let’s have the rest of your clothes off. I don’t want you wearing any service issue till your punishment is completed!’
Trembling, buttocks blazing, Juliet fumbled to unfasten her tie, then stripped off her service blouse.
‘What’s that you’re wearing underneath?’ enquired Corporal Hanbury-Boyce as the lethal cane quivered in his hand.
‘My underwear, sergeant,’ she whispered.
‘Well it certainly isn’t army underwear,’ he growled. ‘Off! All of it except the stockings and shoes!’
Moments later Juliet was naked. Roger was getting even warmer. She was an extremely attractive girl, and he had the same appetites as most men.
But self-control was an important part of the disciplinary code. He saw the girl blink as he took off his own tunic. To hell with total discipline!
Frankly, Roger wanted a closer contact with that warm female body with its hot, cane-streaked arse.
He picked up the leather paddle he used for close-quarter work, lifted his leg and placed a highly-polished boot on the chair seat.
Juliet gave a moan of protest as he pulled her down across his muscular thigh. It wasn’t much of a moan, and could easily have been mistaken for a sigh. Roger felt her warm, naked body trembling against him as he held her firmly in place with his left hand and brought the paddle smartly down against the twin moons of her bare buttocks, crimson from their punishment so far.
Whap. Whap.
Whap. Whap. Whap. Whap.
As the leather surface struck home, the sensation for Juliet was different than from the cane. It was fuller and richer and deeper somehow, stinging and burny, appallingly painful, like puffs of flame jetting against her bottom. The girl’s wriggles, hisses and groans as her buttocks were profoundly slapped and pummelled aroused a most unprofessional tumescence inside Corporal Hanbury-Boyce’s trousers.
He continued to paddle the girl’s luscious rear till her buttocks were a seething mass of fire and ice that prickled, throbbed and flared as if hot coals were simmering just beneath her silky, scarlet skin.
‘Stand up, Private Tessler!’
It was over. As Roger put his tunic back on and fastened the glittering buttons, he allowed her to rub her extremely painful bottom.
‘As far as I’m concerned, you’re a fully-fledged soldier again, and no further action will be taken against you,’ the military policeman told her, handing her the charge sheet on which her offences had been typed, with a space left for comment by the punisher.
As Juliet squeezed and rubbed at her burning bottom, she stared at the text. At the foot of the page were the handwritten words in red ink: ‘Punishment completed. Private Tessler, J. to return to normal duties.
Juliet frowned in puzzlement, feeling her bottom begin. to smoulder in that delicious post-punishment way. Those words must have written by him before she arrived today.
‘Corporal Hanbury-Boyce,’ she began, turning to him. ‘I don’t understand…’
‘Not a word more, Private Tessler,’ barked Roger. ‘Not a word more.’

Friday, 3 July 2020

Letters from Roué 5

Dear Sir,
Isn’t it odd how easily one can read things in newspapers and imagine that what one reads is somehow quite divorced from the kind of life that one leads oneself. It isn’t until something happens to bring it home to you that you realise that, but for the grace of God, the headlines in the paper could be you or yours.
As a father of a teenage daughter I was shocked when one evening a policeman paid a visit to our house. He had come, he said because of complaints of vandalism concerning my daughter. I was so certain that he had got his information completely wrong that I’m afraid I was rather rude to him. Eventually I was persuaded to call my daughter down from her room to confront our visitor. You can perhaps imagine my shocked surprise when she burst into tears and admitted that she had indeed been the culprit the policeman had come looking for.
That evening she was sent to bed in disgrace, but I had to face up to the fact that something had gone seriously wrong if she was going around doing exactly those things which I had previously condemned in others, supposing myself and my family to be in some way absolutely insulated from the evils of the world at large.
Having thought about the matter at some length I found myself no nearer a solution. In desperation I arranged to see the Headmaster of my daughter’s school.
We had a long discussion — he was most willing to help — but at the end of it I had to confess that I was no nearer a solution than I had been when I came in. I got up to leave, and then the Headmaster said something which made me sit right down again.
‘Have you ever thought,’ he said, that your daughter might need a well-smacked bottom occasionally, just to remind her that she isn’t quite so grown-up and important as she probably thinks?’
I didn’t know what to say to him. The thought had never entered my head before. Not that I’m pretending that the idea of smacking someone else’s daughter’s bottom hadn’t crossed my mind. It most certainly had, since I have to admit that I have had a fancy for that sort of thing for as long as I can remember. But my own daughter? No, that was one thing I hadn’t thought of. To me a girl getting her bottom smacked was a thing far more to do with sex than punishment. Thinking of doing such a thing to my daughter seemed almost incestuous. I left in a state of confusion and went and had a drink while I considered the possibility for the very first time.
I found myself having to re-think a philosophy which I had adhered to ever since I had become a parent; that kindness and example was the way to bring up children, not brutality. And yet —what else could I try? I had done everything I thought ought to be done — what other course was now open to me? In a few months’ time Yvonne, my daughter, would be taking her ‘A’ Level exams, and would then probably go off to university — and out of my control once and for all. If I was to do anything to put her back on the right path it would have to be done now!
When I got back home I ‘phoned the Headmaster, more or less to ask his advice on how to go about it I suppose. He didn’t seem to think of the idea of spanking a girl as being in any way anything to worry about. He said that I should simply explain the new situation to my daughter, thus giving her a chance to mend her ways of her own accord, and if the threat of punishment failed, why then I should have to see what actually punishing her could achieve. He seemed to think it perfectly reasonable to set about my girl’s re-education in what I could only view as a very drastic way indeed. But — I realised that I’d have to do something, and fast.
Oddly enough, having thought about it for a while after my ‘phone conversation with Yvonne’s Headmaster, I finally decided to go about it in the right way if at all.
For all that one hears about people going out and buying canes and simply coming back home with them and laying them across the offending child’s bottom and then suddenly everything in the garden’s lovely, one would suppose that every corner shop sold them. They don’t, at least not where I live. I got one, though I had to go all the way to London to find it.
That evening I had the conversation with Yvonne that her headmaster had suggested. She refused to believe that I was serious. ‘What, at seventeen?’ she jibed. ‘I’m not a kid you know!’ So I showed her the cane. She went very quiet then. Frankly I still hoped that I wouldn’t have to use my new cane so I didn’t push the matter any further. Perhaps I should have.
Two days later I got a ‘phone call from Yvonne’s Headmaster. She was in trouble — quite serious trouble. She had been caught with a ‘Certain Substance’ on her. Cannabis. Quite apart from it being illegal, the possibilities scared me stiff. The Headmaster said he thought the matter could be dealt with without involving the police. Worried to death I told him that that very evening I would deal with the business myself.
I left work so early that I got home even before Yvonne did. When she arrived I was not altogether surprised that she turned up in the Headmaster’s car. He brought her in and I at once sent her up to her room. He and I then had a long talk, and I repeated what I had said earlier that I meant to punish Yvonne that evening. It didn’t seem odd to me when he suggested that I might like him to stay and be present when Yvonne got her punishment. At the time it seemed a good idea. At least it would demonstrate to him that I meant business, and the way things were going I didn’t know when I might need him on my side if Yvonne landed up in trouble with the police.
Yvonne was given no tea that evening, and at about seven I took the Headmaster up to her room, having arranged that he should give her a damn good telling off and we would hope that coming from him it might have more effect.
She listened respectfully enough while she was lectured on the stupidity of her actions, and then it was time for me to do my part. I told her to take off her school skirt and get across her bed. She just looked at me as if she couldn’t believe that I actually meant to punish her. In fact, after a moment or two she began to laugh. I didn’t know what to do.
The Headmaster soon put a stop to that. In a voice that sounded like thunder her ordered her to do as she was told. To a mere father, used to back-chat and virtual anarchy in his own home, the effect was quite remarkable. She stopped laughing instantly. The Headmaster repeated his demand that she should do as she was told. Amazed, I watched her unbutton her skirt and let it down to her feet. It had been a long time since she’d worn school knickers, but the brevity of the knickers she was wearing was very embarrassing indeed, at least for me, being her father. The Headmaster more or less took over.
‘And you can take those off too.’ She looked at me, but I was past being concerned for her modesty.
‘Get your knickers off Yvonne.’ insisted the Headmaster.
It was only later that I realised who he sounded like. He was just like all those headmasters I’d read about in spanking magazines. In fact he was playing just that role, I suppose. But at the time those thoughts didn’t occur to me. You must remember that I was still very shaken that my daughter should have got into trouble with drugs. That her Headmaster should be standing there at that moment ordering Yvonne out of her knickers was the least of my worries.
Anyway, after a few words of protest which were quickly silenced her tiny little pants were at her ankles. The only things she was still wearing were her blouse and her socks.
‘Across your bed!’
She went over her bed without a word. Not at all sure of how to administer a caning I lined up and whacked her solidly across the fattest part of her bottom. She yelled blue murder. As she tried to get up her Headmaster shoved her down again, and between us, with him almost sitting on her and me wielding the cane, she got what I suppose must have been a pretty sound caning. Her bottom was covered in angry weals. She must have had at least twenty-five strokes. The next day she, literally, couldn’t sit down without getting up again within a few minutes with a look of anguish on her face.
But that was only the beginning. I suppose I could say that for a while I became slightly paranoid about the evils I was supposed to be saving her from. I cancelled all pocket money, all going out with friends, all extra-domestic activities of any kind. I invented rules.
She must clean her room every day.
She must burn all underwear of which I did not approve — like the knickers she had been wearing which so embarrassed me in front of the Headmaster.
She must wear only school knickers.
She must not wear jeans — too corrupting an influence.
She must show me her completed homework every night at nine o’ clock, and then go straight to bed, no reading.
She must become in every way the kind of daughter I had always thought she was — not like the rest of the girls at her school.
I even arranged with her Headmaster that she should be kept in detention three nights a week to catch up on all the work she must have missed while mixing with the wrong kind of people. That he agreed to this last idea did not, for some reason, surprise me.
There were penalties for non-compliance with all these new rules.
Hanging on a hook behind the kitchen door was a card, and on it was a list of all the things she was supposed to do every day. Every day I ticked off the things which had not been done to my satisfaction.
At eight forty-five every night, before the inspection of her homework, she would have to report to me in the downstairs back room. First she would have to fetch the cane from the cupboard under the stairs. Then, she would have to hoist up her skirt, bend across the table and take her school knickers down. I would then leave her there, bare-bottomed and waiting for whatever punishment I considered proper, depending on the faults I managed to find.
Failure to do the chores she had been set in a satisfactory manner; three strokes.
Failure to keep herself clean and tidy, including polishing shoes, pressing her school clothes daily, washing her hair, changing her underwear etc.; three strokes.
Failure to live up to the standards which I set for her; anything up to eight strokes.
If she was to be punished she would get her caning before she presented her homework to me for inspection. If she was not to be caned she would be left bottom-up over the table to remind her of the consequences of any lapses. Never a week went by without she had at least three canings, though by now I had moderated my strokes to the point where she could get as many as a dozen on say Monday evening and by Wednesday her bottom would be unmarked and ready for another dose.
Easter approached, and with it the imminence of exams at school.
I took to ‘phoning the Headmaster every week to check on her progress. I was taking it very seriously.
When it was suggested that she might benefit from extra tuition during the Easter break I jumped at the chance. The Headmaster very kindly agreed that he should come to our house three times a week to help Yvonne with her work.
He came in the evenings, about seven o’ clock. When he found fault with her work it didn’t seem unreasonable that Yvonne should be told to take her knickers down and have her bottom smacked for being so idle. They would work through her homework in the back room while I kept out of their way and told myself that I was doing the very best I could for Yvonne. Her weeping and wailing as the sound of her bottom getting its regular smacking sounded through the house ceased to bother me after the first few times.
After her homework session, Yvonne would be left across the table, reddened bottom sticking up in the air, while we had tea and she waited for whatever punishment she had earned herself for that evening. That her Headmaster should stay on a little and watch her canings, considering that he himself was smacking her bare bum three times a week anyway, did not seem unreasonable either.
What did seem unreasonable however, when at last I discovered it, was that between smacking her bum and watching her get it caned later in the evening, her Headmaster was also slipping her the length of his cock across my back room table…
I got arrested for what I did to him. My daughter left home and never did get to university. As I understand it the Headmaster is still a headmaster.
Looking back on it all it is easy to see that I was a complete fool. The stupid thing was that having dismissed my daughter from my mind as a sex object, quite naturally, I neglected to remember that, just as every other man’s daughter is an object of sexual desire to me, within reason that is, then my daughter is naturally an object of desire to every other man, potentially.
That I was also wrong in being so dreadfully severe with her, when all she probably needed was a little more understanding, is probably self-evident.
Isn’t it odd, how the things one reads in the papers can so often reflect parts of one’s own sordid life after all.

Dear Sir,
I have read your magazine with much interest and pleasure, and I must say that it has aroused in me great excitement in the field of spanking and girls’ bottoms! In the past my limited experiences of these pastimes has been restricted to watching my sister undressing, and the fascinating escapades she has had with some of her friends.
I would say at this point that she is eight years older than me, so I have grown up with her performances of girlish exhibitionisms as though it were so in all households. It has only been since I discussed one incident with a close friend of mine at the age of fifteen, that I realised just how unusual it was and how lucky I was to be an onlooker at these scenes.
Ann always had girls to stay, especially at Christmas and the summer holidays, sometimes the same girls, and sometimes two at a time. She had a very big bedroom, so there was always plenty of room in the house, and mum welcomed the company and help around the place.
This particular Christmas, I was ten at the time, and Ann had only started work the September before, so this was the first Christmas she had been able to buy us all some decent presents, and she was in the best of spirits all that week. As well as that, it was the first Christmas that she could go into a pub and drink spirits, and she came home with her friend Josie most evenings pretty giggly, although she did very well to conceal it from my mother, who was quite strict about drink. But she didn’t care what I saw her do, as we had always got on very well and never told tales on her. Well, it wasn’t worth it, she was a lot older than me, and she has always been a generous girl.
It was Boxing Day lunch time, mum had gone out for the day, visiting her brother and their family with their Christmas presents, and she always stayed the night, as Ann and Jo were grown up enough now to keep a watchful eye on me. I don’t think she realised it was me who kept the watchful eye on Ann and Jo!
We had an enormous lunch, which Ann and Jo prepared, with all the trimmings, plus a lot of cider to go with it. We were all bloated and tipsy at the end of the meal, so I went to bed.
When I woke up, the girls were screaming and laughing in the next room, so I went to join in with their games. They had obviously been sleeping too, as they were only half-dressed and very dishevelled. It looked as though they had been trying on some of Ann’s old school clothes, as they had her white knee socks and school blouses on.
Neither of them minded me being in the room, in fact they encouraged me to join in their silly game. They were in the middle of a jolly pillow fight, and I was soon in in the spirit of the whole merry performance, when it got rather rough and serious. Jo had accidentally ripped one of Ann’s favourite pillow cases, and Ann was furious. She tried to grab Jo and pull her onto the ground by the shoulders. Jo had been quick to recover and jumped up, surprising my sister, who was on her knees on the floor. Jo landed a cracking spank on Ann’s bare bottom, then another and another until her cheeks were a glowing pinky-rose colour. Ann grabbed a pillow and thrust it into Jo’s face and pushed her onto the carpet.
Ann jumped onto the bed and laughed, ‘I’ve won, I’ve won!’
The pillow fight became a private one again, on the bed, with Ann lying full length on the bed, uncovered from the waist down, while Jo knelt beside her resting one hand on Ann’s breast, and squashing her face gently with the pillow as Ann wriggled half-heartedly in response.
Jo’s swaying bottom faced me and I was bewitched with the beauty of its round smooth cheeks. I suppose I was tempted to join in the new game, but all I wanted to do was give her lovely cheeks a good slapping, like she had given Ann. But I don’t think it would have been a brotherly act, even at that young age.
However, I had learned never to interrupt Ann in her bed games, so I just made myself insignificant, and sat on the floor and continued to watch.
Their bare, long legs entwined and they played pillows and tits, Ann still laying on the bed, holding Jo’s dangling breasts, as they hung sweetly from her undone blouse, and she tickled Jo’s tummy while Jo still teased Ann with the pillow, banging it in her face and wriggling on top of her all the time laughing and giggling.
Ann eventually worked one of her hands round onto Jo’s wobbly bottom and started to squeeze and pinch it gently. It was then that Jo dropped the pillow and laid down further onto Ann’s near-naked body. They fondled each other’s smooth, round bottoms, and my sister gave her friend half a dozen sharp slaps, as Jo squeezed hard at Ann’s squashed cheeks. I could feel myself wanting to join in this part of their game, I was longing to give Jo a spanking, but they must have forgotten I was there, and rolled passionately, from side to side on the bed.
Their bodies merged together and made funny squeaking noises as they moved from side to side. their hands slid up and down each other’s bodies, concentrating mainly on the bottoms, or was I concentrating mainly on their bottoms?
I must admit that even though I was only ten, and didn’t really know what I was experiencing, I knew that if I had not left at that stage, I would be very disappointed.  So, I left discreetly, not that I thought they would notice my absence anyway.
That evening, when the two girls appeared for tea, they both came in and threw a shower of cushions at me, and I knew by their actions that I was still in their game, and their passions in the bedroom had given them a new lease of life, and we had a really good Christmassy evening together, playing with my presents and watching television.
This was just one of the many occasions I had watched my sister and her friends enjoy themselves, but it was one of the few times I was able to join in the jollity myself.
Yours faithfully,

Dear Mr Editor,
I hope you will find my letter interesting enough to publish. It might give some old friends of mine a laugh to read it, should they buy spanking magazines, which wouldn’t surprise me. The reason I buy them is that I find myself able to identify easily with the girls whom you show in position for spankings etc., and I have fond memories of occasions when I too used to be in such positions for the same reason.
Does that sound odd? ‘Fond memories’? Perhaps so, but if you care to read on I shall explain.
When I was a student at a teacher training college in Bristol in the early seventies I moved out of the Halls of Residence at the start of my second year and found a bed-sit with a couple who lived in a suburb of Bristol.
It didn’t take me long to find out that my landlords were both very nice people, and before long I took to spending the evening with them sometimes, when we would play cards or simply chat until the early hours.
There was one other bed-sit in the house, also occupied by a student from my college. Her name was Rosemary, though everyone called her Rosie. I didn’t see much of her except to say hello, as she didn’t often spend time with the Walkers, as I shall call them, we were in different years at college, and I was in the habit of going home at weekends to see my parents in Winchester.
Everyone got used to the fact that I wasn’t usually around at weekends, and when, one Sunday lunch time, I returned earlier than usual, my arrival was quite unexpected.
Having mislaid my key I went in through the back gate and along behind the house, intending to get in through the back door. Passing the semi-basement window of what was called the back parlour, I looked in and was amazed to see Rosie stretched out face down across a large whitewood table. She seemed to be more or less naked except for a pair of knickers which even then were doing little to preserve her decency, being around her knees. Of course I just had to look into this phenomenon further. Sneaking closer I discovered that Rosie wasn’t the room’s only occupant. Mr and Mrs Walker were also there, and from the tone of their voices, although I couldn’t make out the actual words, they were giving Rosie a damn good telling off about something. A moment or two later I was even more amazed to see that in her hand Mrs Walker had a leather belt, and this belt was then waved about airily before descending on Rosie’s naked bum with a smack which I could hear clearly even through the window. Rosie squealed a bit and then the belt was brought down again perhaps a dozen times while Rosie, her hands now held by Mr Walker, struggled about on the table while her bum wriggled around and turned redder by the moment.
Fascinated by this scene, and in retrospect I realise that even at the time I found it sexually very thrilling, I quite forgot the fact that at any moment one of them might look up and see me watching. Inevitably this is exactly what happened. Mr Walker suddenly caught sight of me outside. When I realised that I’d been seen I was overcome with embarrassment. I went in through the back door and straight up to my room. There I stayed, too embarrassed for some reason to face any of them, until the following evening. Clearly my embarrassment was that of someone suffering from a guilty conscience. The truth was that I had pictured the scene which I had witnessed, or something very like it, more times than I could remember in my fantasies, ever since, as a schoolgirl, I had been spanked by my maths master. The spanking of course was not in earnest, he had simply taken advantage of the crush I’d had on him to put me over his knee on occasions after school and smack my bottom over my skirt for supposed mistakes in my homework. I didn’t object. In fact I revelled in the attention I was given, and anyway the spankings didn’t hurt. It was just nice to be so physically close to the object of my girlish dreams. But it had left a legacy. From then on most of my daydreams ended up somehow with me over my hero’s knees getting my bum smacked. It was this ‘guilt’ which kept me in my room until, fearing that I had been dreadfully offended, Mrs Walker knocked on my door.
I need not go into the conversation which ensued. Suffice it to say that Mrs Walker explained that far from Rosie’s strapping being a genuine punishment it had been no more than a game which they often played. I was coaxed into going downstairs that evening and having the ‘game’ explained to me. In a sudden fit of confidentiality I confessed that I had been very excited by what I had seen. My confession led to an invitation to the next ‘game’.
Wednesday evenings, it seemed, were also ‘games nights’ as well as Sundays. The reason being, as I then realised, that on Wednesdays I usually went out to a club, leaving the coast clear for the fun.
On this first occasion I was introduced to the proceedings very gently, being simply an observer. I watched Rosie being divested of her clothes during the course of the evening, there being a number of refinements to the basic business of Rosie getting her bottom tanned which, if anything, I found even more exciting than the frequent spankings which she collected as the evening went on. Her final punishment, having her bum strapped by Mrs Walker while being held down over a chair by her husband, left her bottom glowing with strap-marks and tears rolling down her face, though within a few minutes she recovered her composure and seemed none the worse for her ordeal.
With a certain trepidation, I allowed myself to get talked into playing a more active role when the next session was to be held.
The following Thursday Mrs Walker intercepted me on my way in from college.
‘We’re having a little session tonight, dear.’ she said. ‘Like to come along?’
That evening I got my very first ever spanking. I was quite shattered to discover that it actually hurt! I was also amazed to find that, in spite of the pain in my bottom as I lay kicking across Mrs Walker’s knees, it was also the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me. The ‘session’ didn’t last long, probably because I was very much an unknown quantity and they didn’t want to pitch me in at the deep end all at once. When it was time to go back to my room they asked me if I would like to join them for a proper session the following Sunday. I said, of course, that I would.
The next Sunday I was introduced to the ‘rules of the game’. They were pretty simple. The first one was that Rosie and I would only ever be punished for doing something wrong, never simply for the fun of it. This might sound alright, but needless to say the Walkers could always find something wrong if they wanted to. The second rule was that, in order to give the game a framework we girls would be set various tasks during the day, with the threat of punishment ever-present should we fail to do our jobs to the satisfaction of our landlords. The best way to explain how this actually worked out would be to run through the events of a typical Sunday’s ‘game’.
We would all have Sunday lunch together. At about two thirty Rosie and I would clear away the dinner things and then go up to our rooms. There we would each change into something more comfortable, meaning something which would allow swift and easy access to our bottoms!
I hear Mr and Mrs Walker going along the landing to Rosie’s room and a few minutes later I hear Rosie squealing and the sound of palms on bare flesh. My tummy starts to feel funny.
They come to my room, which is as tidy as I can make it, though I know it won’t be good enough. It never is. Mrs Walker pokes around, even looking under the bed for some reason, while Mr Walker surreptitiously fondles my bum over my shorts so that his wife doesn’t see him doing it. Sentence is pronounced and I am ordered to get across the end of my bed. My shorts and my knickers are slipped down to my knees. My naked bottom waits uneasily for its first punishment of the day. I get twenty five or thirty hard spanks from an old leather slipper while Mr Walker holds me down across my bed. I am yelling loudly by the time they, let me up.
Downstairs I find Rosie, who is wearing only her little knickers, spread-eagled over the parlour table and waiting for more punishment. Her bottom, under her knicks, looks as sore as mine feels. I am sent to tidy the front room and see them taking Rosie’s knickers down as I leave.
From the sounds coming from the back parlour I can guess that Rosie is getting the strap.
Mrs Walker comes into the front room and sniffs around, looking for faults. She doesn’t find anything really wrong but she sends me out for some polish. In the parlour I surprise Mr Walker with his hand down the front of Rosie’s pants. He grins when he sees that it’s only me. Rosie looks rather red in the face and even redder in the bottom. It’ll be my turn later.
I polish the front room table, get several stinging smacks on the backs of my legs for leaving smears and then I am sent out to the kitchen to help Rosie make tea.
‘What did you get the strap for?’ I ask Rosie.
‘I had one of their towels. I’d forgotten the bloody thing!’
I get her to show me her bum. It is covered in wide, hot-looking strap marks. It makes me excited just looking at the weals. I wish they had let me stay and watch.
I am lying over Mr Walker’s knees without my shorts. My knickers are halfway down my thighs and there is a big hard lump under my belly. Mr Walker is going to enjoy spanking me. I feel excited and frightened at the same time because he doesn’t always know when to stop. I can see my shorts lying crumpled up on an armchair and I know I probably won’t be wearing them any more today, not if it’s up to Mr Walker.
My second spanking starts. My bottom is still a bit tender from my earlier punishment and it takes only half a dozen smacks before the warmth begins to spread like a slow fire through my bum. After a couple of minutes I am wriggling like mad, every spank stinging my poor bottom like angry bees.
Distantly I hear the phone ringing out in the hall.
‘Keep the noise down girl!’ says Mrs Walker as she goes to answer it, but Mr Walker still spanks just as hard. I try to hush my sobs but I can’t keep quiet.
‘If you don’t shut up she’ll have you over the arm of the settee for a caning,’ says Mr Walker.
I hate the cane so somehow I try even harder to be quiet while he goes on smacking, up and down my thighs as well. At last I have to beg him to stop. He stops, but doesn’t leave me alone. I come within half a minute, and then I feel very embarrassed.
Mrs Walker comes back. Her husband is the picture of innocence. He tells her he had to stop because of the noise I was making. He even suggests the cane.
I am told that I shall get eight strokes before tea. Mr Walker grins. He knows how I loathe being caned. A good smacking, and now a caning, all because I slopped some tea in a saucer.
Rosie is getting her bum smacked again. I am walking around in only my bra and knickers, getting tea ready. In half an hour I’ll be taking my knickers down for a caning. I feel terribly nervous.
Rosie comes out to the kitchen, her knicks in her hand.
‘They’re going to cane me, before tea,’ she says dismally. She hates the cane too.
Rosie and I are both bent across the arms of the settee, one at either end. My knickers are in Mr Walker’s pocket. Rosie is crying a bit but Mrs Walker doesn’t seem to have noticed. Then it’s my turn, as Rosie gets her last stroke.
Mr Walker whacks me pretty hard, right across the middle of my bum. I yell and struggle but he pushes me back down and canes me. Eight strokes and two for being a nuisance and wriggling.
Rosie is sent up to her room and Mrs Walker goes with her, though don’t know why. I am sent to the cellar as further punishment, still naked except for my bra.
I have been in the cellar only five minutes when Mr Walker comes down the stairs. I know what he has come for. I don’t make any fuss, mostly because I know I am going to enjoy it. I whisper that I’m worried about Mrs Walker coming back but Mr Walker doesn’t seem worried about it at all.
I get it out for him and then he pinches my bottom and makes me turn round, hands against the wall, hips pushed back towards him. I wriggle around as he fucks me and I come beautifully again. Then he sends me back up to the front room. When Rosie comes back she is knickerless too, but that’s not unusual on Sundays in that house.
We get our knickers back for tea-time. Both Rosie and I are given rush-seated chairs to sit on and because our knickers don’t really cover the bits of our bums which got the most ‘stick’ we don’t sit very still.
After tea we play cards. Pontoon, stick on seventeen, smacked bottom if either of us girls busts.
I am playing cards standing up. My poor bottom is stinging and my ribs ache from spending so much time across people’s knees. Rosie is no better off. She is sent to make coffee, and Mrs Walker says that people are coming at nine. The relief is considerable, but the two of us get another good smacking before we are allowed to go up to our rooms.
The people arrive. Shortly before ten Mr Walker sneaks into my room. My knickers renew the long- standing association with the carpets in this house. I take longer about it as he teases me again, but I come beautifully. And then the day is over. No more smacked bottom until Wednesday evening. I turn out my light but can’t go to sleep for the smart in my bum. And for thinking about the coming Wednesday.
Well, there you are. I hope you publish this letter, long though it is. My regards to my friends from Bristol, though I know they have moved since then. And my apologies to ‘Mr Walker’ for having let the cat out of the bag. But she did know what went on between you and me, and you and Rosie, didn’t she? Or did she?

Dear Sir,
In a recent edition of your magazine you published a story concerning games at a ‘spanking party’, and invited readers’ suggestions for other games. I’m afraid I can’t actually suggest a ‘game’ as such, but when I was at school some of the senior girls used to amuse themselves with a game called ‘Red, white and blue’.
The prefects used to play this ‘game’ with the younger girls, and it was really only an excuse to get their knickers down and have a bit of fun at their expense. The way you did it was to corner a couple of new girls in the playground and ask them if they wanted to join an organisation which might be variously called ‘The Union Jack Club’ or ‘Friends of the Empire’; anything like that. The point was that it was a patriotic organisation. In those days patriotism wasn’t so much out of favour as it is now, and of course no new girl, confronted by a couple of prefects, would want to admit to a lack of patriotism. Persuaded that they wanted to join, they would be told to turn up at some convenient place, usually the sports pavilion or some such out of the way venue, after lights out.
The point of it being after lights out was firstly, I suppose, that it added to the sense of excitement, knowing you might get caught, and secondly, when the ‘victims’ realised they’d been duped they wouldn’t be too ready to make a fuss about it because they would have to admit to having broken bounds when they should have been asleep. This last point was, of course, made perfectly clear to them when the time came.
Turning up at the pavilion, or wherever else it was to be, the ‘victims’ would be told that there was to be an ‘initiation ceremony’. Made to swear a solemn oath that they would not divulge any of the society’s secrets, they were then told to undress, except for their knickers, which they had previously been told should be the regulation navy-blue ones as generally worn by all the girls at the school. They would then be made to touch their toes, their knickers would be pulled down to their knees, and then they would be well spanked with whatever came to hand, from exercise books to plimsols to rulers.
These spankings would be very sound indeed, with a great deal of protestation, struggling to escape and inevitably, copious tears. Variations were many, ‘running the gauntlet’ being a favourite. The punishments didn’t end until every one of the victims, and I can remember occasions when there were as many as seven or eight younger girls being spanked by as many prefects, had been reduced to tears, at which point, if they were lucky, they would be let up, though made to keep their knickers down around their knees.
Quite naturally, having had their bottoms well and truly smacked for no apparent reason, the ‘victims’ would complain tearfully that they couldn’t see the point, and then they would be told that they had just been through their ‘Red, white and blue’.
‘What on earth is that?’ they would want to know. Gleefully the senior girls would explain that it was all a question of colour.
One of the ‘victims’ would be made to bend over again with her smacked bum on vivid display. Her reddened bottom would be explained as the ‘Red’, her unsmacked thighs as the ‘White’ and her knee-high school knickers as the ‘Blue’.
I think you’ll agree that it had a kind of logic, and more to the point it was damn good fun — unless you were cast in the role of ‘victim’ that is.
S. James. (Miss)
Thank you for your most interesting letter madam, and also for your delicately split infinitive in your second paragraph, which we would not ordinarily have even noticed except that your letter was proof-read by the author of this issue’s ‘Tutor’ story, a pedantic fellow who irritates us all with his constant twittering about English Grammar, which we get wrong as often as anyone. He has suggested that you deserve a little ‘Red, white and whatever colour you happen to be wearing’ as a penance.
Now don’t you think that’s very rude of him?

Dear Editor,
Regarding ‘spanking games’, which have been a feature of some of your issues, I would like to make a few points.
For any spanking game to work well, there has to be an inbuilt feeling of uncertainty. Two girls divested of their knickers and spanked by two teams, as in your Party Games Two, are not so interesting as the two girls playing dice in a previous issue. A spanking is a spanking, and undoubtedly fun for at least those who do the spanking, but if the girl with her knickers down knows she’s going to get spanked, come what may, there will inevitably be a certain air of resignation about her performance. By this I mean that she won’t be as much fun as if she were given the chance, by skill or by sheer luck, to avoid a spanking. In the later case her nervous excitement as she hovers on the brink of getting spanked, not knowing until the very last minute whether she might be saved in the nick of time, adds considerably to the fun of the spanker/s. Her squeals of dismay as she is finally hoisted across the waiting lap and her bottom is denuded will be entirely genuine and uninhibited, and her punishment will be that much more fun for the spanker, and perhaps even for her.
Although I have no particular game which I can recommend, I am quite sure that this principle is a valid one.
Yours faithfully,