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Tuesday, 14 January 2020

Caning Tutorial

From Blushes Supplement 3
‘You realise that Miss Hatchard runs the place in a disciplinary manner?’ I asked.
‘Yes, but she didn’t say anything to me about that. Well — not very much,’ you replied, and there was a droop of your head, an easing-away of the pleased smile that had been hovering about your lips. Relaxed as you had been in the armchair facing my own, your legs re-crossed themselves with that faintly sensuous swishing sound that nylons make, and which seem always to offer the hidden promise of the smoother, subtly-swelling skin of girl-flesh, thigh-flesh, emergent from the tightly-banding tops.
‘You’ve been offered a senior-girl place with a promise of teaching-training to follow. Miss Hatchard will have expected that you have yourself received a certain — er — degree of training, and that it would follow…’
‘Yes, I know,’ you said — an edge of irritation in your tone. The top clip of a suspender made its appealing indentation in the thin cloth of your dark grey skirt that matched your charcoal-shaded nylons admirably.
‘And that it would follow’, I continued, as if you had not spoken, ‘that you will in due course — and more quickly than you think — be expected to take some of the younger girls in hand. How will you do it if you yourself have not been…’
‘Trained?’ you threw at me. A lifting then of eyes to mine. The swellings underneath your top seemed for a moment much more prominent. ‘Well — that’s the word you’ve always used,’ you said, a touch of self-excusing in your voice for having interrupted yet again.
‘If you wish the word, yes. Its connotations are of pride and not of pain, my dear. Take Avril now,’ I said, referring to my niece.
‘Oh Avril, yes. You caned her, and I know you did,’ you threw at me accusingly.
‘Did she complain to you?’ I asked.
‘She cried. The first time, anyway, she cried. I heard her from the garden when you sent me out.’
‘The first time, yes, but never afterwards. In a week or two, when you have taken up your place, you will hear the self-same wails, the cries, from Miss Hatchard’s study. Some girls squeal very loudly, and some do not. You have to weigh the cries, assess, receive them, understand the benefits,’ I said, at which you sneered and said ‘Oh, those!’ A flush was in your cheeks. You hated that flush, I am sure, and wanted me to take my eyes from you, but I would not. You had come to me for advice, I said, and I was giving it.
‘You seek that which you hope to find,’ I said. We often spoke in riddles and had done so for a full year now, but never with the effect that I had sought. I felt your mind to be a maze of words you could not bring yourself to speak.
‘In the application form you filled in, under the heading “Disciplinary Experience”, you wrote “Yes”, I said. ‘That was dishonest of you, Caroline.’
‘I know,’ you said, and said it broodingly. Tears welled into your eyes that in reality were tears of self-dismay. An inch of white wine swilled still in your glass.
‘You… you could tell me — couldn’t you?’ you asked, and I as one who sees a barrier break.
‘Both tell and show,’ I answered, then said more sharply, ‘Get up and come here, Caroline.’
Oh, and what a wail you uttered then, like the lamenting of a seagull’s cry! ‘No!’ you said pettishly, yet stood up all the same. Your eyes were haunted, looked towards the hall. Your fingers clenched, unclenched. You knew your hour at last was nigh.
‘You’ll sting me,’ you said peevishly, and I said, ‘Yes, the way you’ll sting the girls. The older ones eventually, too. You have to learn to coax, to handle, to command. Miss Hatchard will expect that at the least. The first time, probably, she’ll — shall we say — observe?’ and ‘Oh!’ you said and backed away.
That was the moment I got up and took your wrist — remember that? ‘No, no! No, please!’ you squealed and tried to drag away. Alas, I had to pull you to the sofa. You floundered, you protested. The first SMACK! descended on your skirted bottom, and you jumped. ‘Don’t! Stop it! I don’t want to!’  like a younger girl you cried, and I — much rougher than I wished to be — forced you then over and whipped up your skirt.
‘Oh God no!’ How your hands beat on the seat!
‘Yes, Caroline, they’re coming off at last.’ I twisted your right arm behind your back, groped at elastic, worked them down, unveiling the ripe glory of your cleft, untutored orb. You struggled more — sobbed real tears out at that. Peepings of maidenhair, the luscious fig that too long had concealed itself. I touched the pouting lips with a light fingertip.
GAAAR-AH! You DARE!’ you shrieked.
‘The first touch, Caroline — the very first — should be quite gentle, with new girls at least. Then the first smack, like THIS!
FEEE-OW!’ you shrieked. My broad palm had bounced off your too-proud globe at last, the reddened fingermarks that showed.
‘And the second — just a LEETLE harder, quite a training smack,’ I uttered ruthlessly and swept it in, bringing another howl from you. And then I really held you — held you tighter down, face smothered in the soft, flowered seat, and blasted in three, four, five, six until the heat irradiated from your cheeks, until your cries turned into whimpers, moans, and limp your lovely legs hung and your bottom glowed.
I stepped back, and you made to rise, receiving just for that an extra SMACK! that made my hand bounce back as if from off a rubber ball and brought a tearful, globbing bleat from you. But you hung limp again; I give you that. You would not, I said, get up until I told you to. Nor must a pupil under your control.
‘You understand?’ I asked. I palmed your throbbing bottom gently as I spoke. A squeak came from you then that I ignored. ‘You understand? The pupil rises when commanded, Caroline.’
‘Y…yes, I understand, I do. Oh, please can I get up? My bottom hurts.’
‘Not for a moment, Caroline. I want your knickers off — right off, or it will be the cane for you, my girl. All that is happening here will be repeated when you are in charge of some new girl. How will you then behave?’
‘Dunno,’ you choked.
‘Oh, I believe you do, my dear. Now, rise and take these silly panties off. Don’t pull your skirt down till I tell you to. All this is in the cause of discipline.’
‘B… b… b… b…’ your muffled protests bubbled out. Impatiently I pulled you up, held one arm at your back again, your face a tear-wrecked charm of loveliness, inviting kisses round your salty lips. ‘I can’t — can’t take them off like this.’
‘You can, you shall. Now reach down with your other hand and work them off your shoes. There — see? Stand up again. Hold your skirt UP, Miss, UP!
‘Oh-WOH!’ you burbled. Up again it slid. Reluctantly and inch by inch it rose above your stocking tops, your bush. So many curls, so dark, so trim — a shrouded plumpness of delight that swept down in between your thighs, the love-lips tight and guarded still as yet.
‘What have you learned?’ I asked. You were about to ask, ‘What are you going to do?’ I knew you were. I turned your words away, unborn and asked the question twice — looked sternly at you as I spoke. Your skirt dropped just a little, and your thighs received a smack that sent it up again, though dolefully.
‘To m…m…make the second smack quite hard,’ you said.
‘No, no — before that Caroline, before —’
OH-WER! To… to… to… g… g… give a gentle touch —’
‘Correct, and most important, too. As to the rest? Ignore the cries?’ You nodded, your eyes down. ‘No, no that will not do. I want to hear it from your lips,’ I said, ‘And look at me, please, when you speak. Remember that as well, you understand?’ My tone was gentler and placated you.
‘Y…yes. Ignore their cries, and make them stand up afterwards w… with their skirts up still.’
‘Good girl,’ I said. You blinked at that. Untouched, I yet could sense your bottom cheeks a-squeeze against the stinging there within. ‘You have learned pride by standing thus, and that is good. We’ll go upstairs now, Caroline.’
Ah, leaping fawn that you became! Released you sprang away, hand at your mouth, your skirt snagged by your suspender on one side. ‘You’re going to cane me! No!’ you gasped, ‘Mummy expects me back — I’ve got to go.’ Oh, wild excuse, and silly even to your ears, I thought. As well you knew, as well you knew.
‘No, not to cane you, Caroline — not yet. To show you, just to show you — that is all. I promise that. Now, will you come, or do I have to carry you?’
‘No, no, I’ll come,’ you blurted, swallowed, turned away, and nicked your skirt down over your warm bulb. The hall, the stairs received us. How uncertainly you walked!
‘I left the cane in Tina’s room,’ I said, and you said ‘Oh!’ and held back in the doorway while I fumbled in her wardrobe, got it out, your eyes wild all around the quiet room, a startlement of images, the bed, the chair — the tawse that hung limp over it and which I, too, collected. Then I eased you, coaxed you into my own room — the largest of the four, of course, and whose broad bed you gazed at in dismay.
‘Your tutorials have begun,’ I said.
‘You said — you promised — that you wouldn’t cane me, please!’
‘Not yet,’ I said, ‘You, too, will say the same one day to one who stands just as you do, her knickers off, her bottom warm, her thighs apart a little, all uncertain in her stance. A girl should keep her legs apart a little when you cane her, Caroline — and if you wish to SKIM the cane, you do it thus. Bring out that pillow to the side, now fold it up. Yes, good. Pretend it is her bottom, waiting for the cane. You twist the wrist — the cane skims thus, skims right across the orb or from beneath. A skier on the slopes, as you might say…’
I droned. I do confess to that. I had to quieten you that way. At last — uncertain still of my two hands — you took the cane and tried. ‘Too hard,’ I said, ‘The first time not so hard. There are three degrees of caning, Caroline. The first is a love caning — very light. Insistent, though, to bring the bottom up. The second is admonitory, stings more deeply, brings the message home. The third is harsh, and may be necessary when the girl refuses to obey. You will not refuse, though, Caroline.’ The statement fell; there was no question mark. ‘WILL you?’ I asked more sternly, and you shook your head, tried to produce a snivel, but could not.
‘I don’t want to learn,’ you bleated then, and desperation like a smoke-cloud in your voice. ‘Mummy expects me back; she really does,’ you said.
‘If I concede, will you?’ I asked.
You studied the carpet, moved a toe. ‘I dunno what you mean,’ you said. Your lips betrayed you, though — a certain twist.
‘Come back this evening, Caroline.’
‘No, won’t!’
‘Then I shall phone and ask you to come round, or — if your mother answers…’
‘Oh, no, no! All right, I will, but only for a half an hour. She’ll wonder why I’ve come again.’
‘Tutorials. Just tell her that.’
‘All right’, you said. I moved aside, you slouched out through the door. I know that slouch — the bottom-guarding one that never works. Young Avril was the same at first, the mulish little movements of the feet, the shoulders shrugging off the coming storm.
You rode the storm that night. Beneath it all, the coyness, apprehensions — yes, I knew you would. I took you straight upstairs without a word, glancing with wonder as you did through the open door to Tina’s room. She was away, I said. You knew, you said, then there came pleading — tears almost emergent but not quite as I made you strip down to your stockings, shoes — firm tits a-wobble, nipples starting out, sweet curve of tummy and the thatch beneath, the lips uncreamed as yet, but soon…
‘You d… d… don’t cane Tina like this…’
‘Caroline, be quiet,’ I said. I held the cane then underneath your chin, defying you to move it. You did not. And head upheld I made you stand, then tapped your thighs, your hips until you slowly turned, presenting your cleft orb to me — peach of delight, so plump, so round. I had to tell you how to dip your back, shuffle your timid legs apart — remember that? I tapped your bottom gently first, and even then you winced. Girls always do who come untrained to bedrooms with the curtains drawn.
The words I taught you: all the simple words. How to ‘present’ yourself — how to ‘display’. Each word was underlined with a light tap across your sweet, ballooning bum whose cheeks inrolled to show a faintly gingery hue deep in the chasm where they melted in. Your legs moved nervously, repeating — as I made you do — the words. Each time they did I moved them more apart with the cane’s tip and held you by command in that fair stance: the full bulb of your bottom outward thrust.
‘Now, Caroline — the real tutorial.’ I swished the cane in empty air. You jerked — received a reprimand for that and somehow stilled yourself again.
‘Can’t we…?’ you asked.
‘What?’, I asked quietly. There was no reply. At the first sweeping sting of it your cry rang out against the walls. Your hips writhed and you made to slump. Only my sternness brought you up again.
‘No, no! Oh, please!’ you sobbed.
YES, Caroline, five more. Now, bring it UP!’ And then again SWOOO-ISSSH! — the second stripe laid just an inch below the first. The tramlines I believe they are still called.
I rode the tram that night. I suppose that one might say that. You, after all, were eighteen-plus, and not the nymph Avril first was. I stilled your final wrigglings in the only way I could — or so I now excuse myself. Two years have passed since then.
‘Am I sophisticated now?’ you ask.
Sometimes I do not answer you, but simply lead you upstairs by the hand. And ‘NO-WOH-WOH!’ you sob still till the last bite of the cane — and then your sweet, soft bubblings to my mouth…

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