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Saturday, 29 February 2020

Poll result: favourite Janus model (20-60)

The votes are in and have been totted up and the winner of the poll to find the readers of this blog’s favourite Janus model appearing for the first time between issues 20 and 60 inclusive is………
1. JoannaThe Chair (35), Authentic Interview (35)
I have to say I didn’t see that coming. I was fully expecting the winner of the original Janus poll (see yesterday’s post) to repeat the win 35 years later, but after a strong start by Wendy she was eclipsed by a late show of support for the lovely Joanna. I wonder if her admission in her interview that she doesn’t like C.P. helped or hindered her case. In any event, 36% of you voted for her.
The rest of the top 10 follow…
2. Wendy EastThe Return of Mr Jardine (39), Wendy's Training (45)
The enduring appeal of the lovely Wendy — ticking a lot of boxes in her two appearances as a schoolgirl and a devoted handmaiden. I have to admit she was my favourite and 27% of voters agreed.
Completing the Top 3, and rectifying her scandalous omission from the original poll, is the lovely Miss Redway who, with her friend Priscilla, finds spanking just such a giggle.
4. Pippa MarshallBurning Injustice (23)
5. Sophie FenningtonCP Tease (53), Mister X (54), The Punishment Series (60)
8. Sarah JaneSarah Jane (49), Sarah Jane (50), The Sorcerer's Apprentice (51)
9. Claire BrierleyCorrective Medicine (48)
10=. Anonymous ballet dancerPunishment Ballet (issue 22)
10=. Deborah Spencer-SmytheThe Huntswoman and the Debutante (33), The Punishment Series (40)
The full results are shown below. In total 129 people cast 248 votes.

Friday, 28 February 2020

Our Readers’ Top Ten Models

In advance of the publication of your own choice of the best model from issues 20 to 60 (it's not too late to vote: check it out here), here is the choice of Janus readers back in the day, as published in Janus 67.
Every now and then, a reader’s letter sparks off a long-running debate. To date, there has been no greater response to any letter than to that of N.H. of London, published in Janus 58, proposing that readers nominate their favourite models. In a footnote appended to N.H.’s letter we drew the net tighter, inviting you to name your choice of chastisees featured since issue 20.
In recent issues the paramount topic has been Janus models. Many letters have been received and published and it must now be apparent that diversity of taste is only matched by diversity of models! But there has been one common denominator: the consistently uniform approval given to the first two models in our final list.
There have been surprises, too. A number of the models who received generous approval shortly after publication have now faded somewhat from memory, or been replaced by new favourites.
Over half the models published (since Janus 20) received nominations — 51 in total. Voting was extremely close for first place. Only 6% of the votes separated first and second, and the girl in third place was a further 39% behind the winner. Nominations are now closed and the final, overall placings are as follows:
1st Wendy East (issues 39 & 45)
2nd Sophie Fennington (issues 53, 54 & 60)
3rd Pippa Marshall (issue 23)
4th Joanna (issue 35)
=5th Paula Meadows (issues 21 & 38)
=5th Lisa (issue 25)
7th Claire Brierley (issue 48)
8th ‘Sin’ (Cynthia) (issue 21)
=9th Claire Lake (issue 52)
=9th Selina (issues 60 & 61)
The outright winner is shown again in all her submissive glory on colour page 53. We would like to thank all of you who took the trouble to write in with your nominations.
So, very much a two-horse race for the Janus readers. I am rather surprised at the omissions of both Antonia Du Bois and Nicola Redway but no arguments with the winner. The choice(s) of the readers of this blog will be published tomorrow.

Thursday, 27 February 2020

Colour Coded Girls

A story bearing the hallmarks of R.T. Mason, from Blushes 30
Girls’ skirts were colour-coded: royal blue for 18-year-olds, a deep plum red for 19-year-olds and a bottle green for those aged 20. The skirts were very short and pleated, reaching just about to mid-thigh: top-of-stocking height. Stockings (white ones) were in fact worn on more formal occasions together with white high heels; otherwise it would be white knee-socks and sneakers. A white blouse went with all three colours of skirt. On top of this could be worn, if the weather warranted it, a grey cardigan or, in winter, a straight grey top-coat. The latter of course meant that it was necessary to open a girl’s coat to check her age group. There had been some talk of introducing a colour-coded top-coat or perhaps a badge or belt of an identifying colour, but as yet no firm decision on this had been made.
But anyway, those with an interest, i.e. male citizens over the age of 30, did not seem greatly to object to the slight inconvenience of having to open a girl’s coat. In any case it was necessary to turn up her skirt for her name and ID number, these being sewn inside the hem at the front — upside down for convenience.
The girl George Billings had come across in the town centre was called Angela Green — unless she was wearing someone else’s skirt and there was not much chance of that. A royal blue skirt and as it was a warm and sunny Spring afternoon no cardigan or coat. Wearing a coat when the weather did not demand it was of course sufficient reason for a concerned citizen to query matters. But so also was hanging about in the town centre for no apparent reason. ‘Loitering’ as it could be termed. Angela had pleaded that she wasn’t loitering, she was waiting for her mother — which happened to be the truth. But George, public-minded citizen that he was, decided that he would anyway take matters further.
And so after noting her name and ID number he had instructed Angela to present herself at his house the next morning. Which Angela naturally had done. A girl of that age group did not question her elders. Certainly not male elders. That was merely inviting much more serious trouble.
Angela had told her mother who had made a face and said ‘Oh dear’ but there was not a lot else you could do. This man, Mr Billings, was within his rights if he had found Angela hanging about in the street. Girls of 18 to 20, between leaving school and the age at which they were allowed to marry, were an especial concern of the state. That was why they had to wear those identifying skirts at all times. Marcia Green should have thought, and taken Angela in with her to her dressmaker. But she hadn’t been expecting to be long. She hadn’t been long. Long enough, though, to find Angela looking decidedly unhappy when she returned.
Angela’s mother had done what she could. Found Mr Billings in the phone book and rung him up. Apologising for Angela, explaining that it was really her own fault. George Billings had listened, but said he still thought Angela should come round and see him. Eighteen-year-old girls did need keeping up to the mark, didn’t they? And Angela was an especially attractive 18-year-old. (He didn’t say that to her mother of course.)
10 o’clock Mr Billings had said and Angela was on time. Just. On the way to Mr Billings’ house a bus ride and then a short walk she had been stopped by another concerned citizen, out walking his dog, who wanted to know what she was doing. Was she loitering? The man reluctantly let her go — Angela was after all walking briskly and not hanging about — and contented himself with lifting the back of her skirt and sharply smacking the seat of her tight, brief knickers. Naturally this encounter, and the smack, had done nothing to improve the way Angela was feeling. Well…
‘Well, well, well.’ Mr Billings with a smug look on his rather large face. The face of a man who had made a nice catch. A concerned citizen who had caught a particularly juicy 18-year-old girl. Blonde and well fleshed out: undoubtedly the sort of girl especially at risk from the various temptations of the modern world. A girl who needed something.
Angela standing shakily in front of Mr Billings in his lounge could see it. She had seen it right away when she had clattered nervously in on her high heels. A cane. On the table at the side. She had been thinking about the cane of course. Unavoidably in the circumstances. It had been a prime possibility ever since that moment yesterday afternoon when Mr Billings had crossed the street to where she was standing in the sunshine idly looking in that shop window. ‘Not loitering, young lady?’ Ever since that moment. The cane. An 18-year-old girl in her brief royal blue skirt, brief enough to show the tops of her stockings, could get the cane all right. From a concerned citizen.
‘Come here. Closer.’
Mr Billings had sat down in an armchair and was indicating the spot at his side. ‘That’s better. Now then, young lady.’
His hand took hold of the back of her knee. ‘Your mother called me up as I expect you know. She confirmed that you were waiting for her. Yes.’ The hand slid smoothly up, to the soft bare flesh above Angela’s stocking. ‘But she also agreed with me that at your present age you needed… ah… guidance now and then. Mmm?’
Angela didn’t answer. Had her mother said that? Mr Billings’ hand had reached the tight, brief, seat of her knickers. There was that and there was the cane on the table. The two were horribly related.
‘Guidance, Angela. And we know how guidance should be given to a pretty 18-year-old girl who is otherwise liable to fall prey to all sorts of temptation. Don’t we?’
That cane. He meant… His hand was squeezing and jiggling her bottom in a way that was making her whimper. But the cane…
‘The cane, Angela. I am speaking of the cane. As I expect you know. Have you had a taste of it recently?’
She shook her head and then thought that perhaps she should have said yes. But it wouldn’t make any difference. He was going to do it anyway. She hadn’t had it for some weeks — a month. When it had been a situation very like this. ‘Loitering.’
‘You haven’t, Angela? Then very clearly we do need it, don’t we? A girl of your age needs keeping up to the mark.’ The hand pinched her bottom.
‘So. I think we must ask you to slip your knickers down, young lady.’
She had known it would be this. Ever since that awful moment yesterday when she realised he was crossing the street towards her. Well, not known it then but the thought immediately shooting into her head. And known it when he said she had better come round to his house. The cane. It was something you were continually liable to, until you were 21 and no longer had to wear the age group skirts. And even then unmarried girls weren’t necessarily free from it. If it was decided you weren’t behaving properly you could be made to wear a short skirt again, for a certain period. A pink one. And a girl in a short pink skirt could be caned just like one in a royal blue or plum red or bottle green skirt. The thing to do was to get married right away at 21, then you were safe from it. But when you were just 18 that could be an awful lot of canings away.
There was no point arguing (certainly not that) or even pleading. This Mr Billings hadn’t brought her here to be persuaded out of it; she was here so that he could enjoy caning her. Men did enjoy caning girls, although of course they pretended it was merely a matter of duty. But you knew it wasn’t just that, you could see it in their faces. If it was a duty it was one they enjoyed and were always on the look-out for. Like that man with the dog. And of course… this Mr Billings.
Doing it. Her hands up under the short blue skirt. Sliding her knickers down. Trying not to think of that cane. She hated the cane and she knew, she could tell, that this Mr Billings was going to do it hard. Make it really hurt. So that you didn’t know where you were, what you were doing.
‘Lift your skirt up.’
The brief white knickers down round the tops of the white stockings and the pleated royal blue skirt held high round her waist. Slim straps of the lacy white suspender belt spanning rounded pale flesh to tautly fasten the stretched stocking rims. You bought it all at that special outfitters in the Market Place. Young women’s outfits: approved government wear. A window display: the various coloured skirts; the white blouse, stockings, knickers, etc.; the grey top coat and cardigan. You went there with your mother but she had to wait in the main shop while the proprietor took you into the little back fitting room. And in that little back fitting room a girl usually got her first caning: the outfitter’s privilege. The first because girls weren’t caned at school. Only when they reached the age of 18.
Mr Billings staring at what Angela was forced to display. ‘When did you have it last, young woman?’
‘F… four weeks.’
His hand came out. She whimpered as it touched her. Took hold. ‘Four weeks? Much too long.’ His fingers… ‘A girl needs it more often than that. Eh?’
Biting her lip. He wasn’t supposed to do this of course. You could complain. In theory. In fact complaining would probably only get you more canings.
The hand at last came away. Mr Billings’ voice tense sounding. ‘Right. Shall we do it then. Get over the table.’
The table where the cane was. But Mr Billings was picking up the cane. And pushing her down. Face down across the top. His hand fondling her bare, out-thrust bottom. But any moment now it would be something else. The hand came away. Any second now… Grit your teeth…
‘All right, Angela?’ Her mother’s voice anxious. ‘Was it all right?’
It was a silly thing to ask. Of course it wasn’t all right. The cane six times across a girl’s bare bottom and each one applied with considerable force could not ever be ‘all right’. Marcia Green put an arm round her daughter. ‘Never mind. It’s over. I’ll make some coffee.’
Yes it was over. Until the next time. And the next time would be tomorrow. The man with the dog. He had stopped her again on the way back. Said she seemed to be out on the street a lot without a chaperone. So maybe she should come round to his house tomorrow morning. When they could discuss it further.

Wednesday, 26 February 2020

Penalty Strokes 2

Video with a very cute girl taking some severe punishment. I've also seen this video referred to as The New Secretary.
Review from
Time: 35 minutes; 2M/f
The second part of a theme, which the producers found more abundant than we did, where female employees are spanked in the workplace for most any trivial little thing. Brunette Joanne Watson is the new fish this time; Sandra from part 1 lasted one day. She reports for work — the set is the same dump workshop-like office. Boss Mr Brown sits with her and explains her job, and she notices an array of spanking implements displayed on the desk, ‘interesting objects,’ she observes. Watson is sultry, sullen, and arguably inviting a good rousing spanking.
Left alone, she lights a cigarette, studies the paddles, straps, and cane, and sits on her tush. Brown returns, and Joanne has already earned the ‘penalty points’ this office thrives on. ‘I am the boss. I dish out the punishment.’ It is explained, ‘Penalty points are about spanking.’ If she won’t take a spanking, then she it is sacked. It is agreed.
Brown takes Joanne OTK, right there in the office. Blue dress up, undies on display. Brown: ‘I like black underwear.’ She is a good wiggler and has been spanked recently. ‘Pretty little marks,’ observes Brown. Garters unfastened, panties down, she gasps as she is spanked.
‘Stand up.’ She leans over a table for some sharp paddling with the spearmint-shaped thin wood paddle we’ve seen. Round bulls-eye bruises. Brown shifts to a studded strap and his associate Phil wanders in, not surprised at all to find a bare bottom in the office. He takes over the strapping — Joanne breathes hard and is getting excited. Brown resumes. They admire her bottom as if it were a piece of furniture they were refinishing. ‘It’s coming up nice, isn’t it… peach colour now.’
The scene fades into a different location; the boys have brought Joanne into a hastily manufactured set — walls covered with a backdrop cloth, a matching rug, and a cheap loveseat centred, ready for the spanking. Joanne is required to bring along the strap and the cane. ‘Pull your dress up… take your dress off… make yourself comfortable, girl. You have a long way to go.’
Over the couch arm she goes, black half-slip up, bare bottom. The boys alternate strapping. Blotchy bruises. ‘She looks beautiful in red.’ The boys use a flogger/crop — hard, fast and sexy, including shots on the thighs.
‘Are you ready for this, girl?’ (The cane) Almost 25 strokes shown, instant marks, great closeups. Her knickers are at her thighs. ‘Take your knickers all the way off.’ Joanne is still sassy: ‘You take them off,’ she snaps. For this she gets 2 more full-bodied cane strokes.
Her bottom is a mottled mass of bruises and blotches. The boys cream her buttocks, one on each cheek, slowly and carefully. ‘You could fry an egg on that one, mate.’
Part 1:
Part 2:
Part 3:

Tuesday, 25 February 2020

Domestic Training

From Blushes Supplement 31
Bing… Bong. It is the doorbell. Mr Newling turns his head, a flicker of annoyance on his face. ‘Drat! Who… Oh I suppose it could be the new girl. Whatsername.’
He looks back to Darlene and gives her arm a gratuitous pinch. ‘Is that what you think, Darlene? Miss Whatsername?’
‘Don’t know, Mr Newling.’ Darlene grimaces slightly at the pinch. They are in Mr Newling’s sitting room, just Darlene and Mr Newling. Mr Newling is in shirt-sleeves and braces, dressed for indoors, for indoor action you might say. Darlene on the other hand is attired more formally, in her Training Uniform. Pale grey shirt and dark green tie with below a tailored black-and-white small-check skirt. Her shapely legs are in patterned white nylons; these are Mr Newling’s choice rather than specifically the uniform which would normally be black nylons. Darlene is a pretty and shapely girl of 18, a trim figure and a pert, gamine face framed in short dark bangs. It is possibly a case of being saved by the bell as Mr Newling has just that moment suggested giving her a spanked bottom for a minor misdemeanour. Taking Darlene’s knickers down and spanking her bare bottom. But now with this diversion, this Miss Whatsername if that is who it is, it may slip Mr Newling’s mind.
His hand slips behind Darlene to briefly fondle her bottom, thinking perhaps of the smooth firm cheeks that he was about to deal with but now, for the moment, can’t. ‘Hmmmm…’ he says, then strides out, into the hallway, to the front door.
‘Hello… Uh… Mr Newling?’
She is approximately Darlene’s height and build — and age too presumably because if it is Miss Whatsername she will be 18. That is the age for girls to start their Domestic Training. This girl is also a brunette, but her hair more curling than Darlene’s. Her face is softly rounded, with a full-lipped mouth, more conventionally pretty than Darlene.
‘Yes. Miss… ah…?’
‘Simkins, Mr Newling. Janice Simkins. They sent you the form.’
‘Yes of course. Janice Simkins. Yes that’s the name. And why are you dressed like this, Janice? Why aren’t you wearing a Training Uniform?’
This pretty, ripe-mouthed girl called Janice makes a face and shuffles her feet. There is nothing like getting off on the wrong foot at the very beginning. I’m sorry, Mr Newling. It’s not ready. I went yesterday but it wasn’t ready.’
‘Hmmm,’ says Mr Newling giving her a quizzical look. Not arriving in uniform will certainly need some sort of response. The girl might be trying something on. A uniform is a girl’s own responsibility, it’s not good saying it hasn’t arrived. ‘Come in then,’ he tells her. Janice steps inside, past Mr Newling and as she does so he takes hold of her bottom through the non-uniform skirt.
‘We shall have to have a word about this, Miss. I mean a girl should make sure she does have a uniform. Yes, we’ll have to have a word…’
As he speaks Mr Newling is making an initial manual reconnaissance of Janice’s rear divisions through the thin skirt. She stands submissively still. A girl on her Domestic Training of course has no real rights. Her gentleman can do virtually as he likes and put it down to training. He can certainly feel her bottom up if that is what he wants, and indeed do a whole lot more. So there is no thought in Janice’s head of objecting to the hand.
‘Yes,’ Mr Newling says again finally. ‘Right then…’ Janice is directed into the sitting room where Darlene is waiting. Wondering still about her own spanking and whether it is still on. She says Hello to the newcomer. Two girls are the normal limit that a gentleman can have in training at any one time. A second girl should make things better, because Mr Newling will at least have to divide his attention between the two of them.
‘Darlene will be able to tell you about your duties,’ Mr Newling tells Janice. ‘I shall divide the general household tasks between the two of you — so you’ll both have an easy time, won’t you?’ He laughs. ‘Of course that will leave more time for disciplinary training and I’m sure you’ll both be pleased to hear that. Eh Darlene?’
Mr Newling takes hold of the uniformed girl, turning her and pulling her back close against him, then his hands coming round under her arms to cup her boobs. He grins at Janice. ‘Darlene likes having her titties played with. Don’t you, Darlene?’ he says putting his mouth close to her ear. ‘It gets her all hot and excited.’ One hand lets go and slides down. Darlene yelps as it grasps the soft mound between her thighs. ‘It gets her all hot and excited down here. Eh Darlene?’
Red-faced Darlene is squirming, writhing about in Mr Newling’s two-handed grip, and gasping. ‘Ahhh… Don’t… Please don’t…’ Mr Newling is not in a hurry to let go. ‘Of course what she really likes is having her bum spanked. Darlene really likes that — so I see she gets plenty of it.’
Abruptly he lets go with both hands and the writhing Darlene almost falls over. She manages to steady herself. Her legs are trembling, her breathing gaspy. She produces a sick sort of smile for Janice as she straightens her skirt and shirt. Mr Newling grins at her. ‘Isn’t that right, Darlene dear. You get all hot between your legs and then I have to take your knickers down and spank that pretty bum.’
There is nothing Darlene can say or do, except chew her lip. Mr Newling is trying to make her feel awful and he is succeeding wonderfully. And there is nothing Darlene can do except stand there and take it.
But of course Mr Newling now has his other girl as well. ‘Right. Get on with some cleaning, Darlene dear. Vacuum in here. I’m taking Janice upstairs. Pretty Janice here who has turned up you will have noticed without a uniform. Come on, Janice.’
Mr Newling directs the new girl towards the door. Darlene sees his hand go to Janice’s bottom in the skirt that she shouldn’t be wearing. Darlene has had a nasty few minutes with Mr Newling but now he clearly has his mind, as well as his hand, on this Janice. With any luck he has forgotten about that spanking that she (Darlene) was going to get.
Upstairs Mr Newling shows Janice into a small bedroom. It will be hers, he tells her, Darlene’s is opposite. He laughs. ‘Mustn’t have you both in the same room or you’ll be getting into bed with each other. Eh Janice?’
Janice produces a nervous smile. She has had to watch Mr Newling with Darlene downstairs and on the way up Mr Newling has slid his hand up her skirt: up the backs of Janice’s thighs to her knickers. So she is not under any illusions that she is going to have an easy time here. But of course you don’t have any choice when doing your Domestic Training. Your name is on a list with your details and a photograph and gentlemen who take girls for Domestic Training simply take their pick. If Mr Newling is awful it is just her bad luck.
‘Wouldn’t you?’ Mr Newling says. ‘Be getting into bed with each other.’
Janice shakes her head. ‘No!’ She is clearly nervous, wondering what is going to happen in this little room with Mr Newling. ‘No… certainly not.’
Mr Newling is sitting down on the bed. ‘I wonder, Miss. I wonder. Anyway take your clothes off now. All of them. I must give you a little spanking for turning up like this.’
Is that what he said? She is not imagining things? Janice knows Mr Newling did say it, it is not her ears playing tricks. Take all her clothes off. She doesn’t move, transfixed, a numb, disbelieving look on her face.
‘Come on,’ Mr Newling says. ‘I can’t have you mooning about. When I tell you something you do it right away. Or shall I take them off?’
No it is not a joke, Mr Newling means it. Janice reaches for the buttons of her blouse. All her clothes off, Mr Newling said. Thoughts jumble in her head as to what Mr Newling may be going to do. When she has all her clothes off. He said spank… that is awful but… but she does it, trying not to think. Everything off. Blouse and skirt and shoes and socks. Her bra, to reveal the gently nodding boobs. Her knickers the last thing. Slipping them down and off over her now bare feet. Janice is nude: the pink-nippled tits and the neat black bush revealed to Mr Newling’s appraising eyes. Janice wants to find a hole in the floor somewhere and slide down into it. But there is no hole. Mr Newling beckons her forward, close. She is certainly a tasty-looking piece.
Janice steps forward. Red-faced, her arms at her sides despite her urgent need to cover her boobs, her pussy, but she knows that is not allowed. Mr Newling’s hand comes out… and take hold of the crisply-curled mound. ‘We have to learn about uniform, Janice,’ he tells her softly.
‘Yes sir.’ It comes out as a little squeak. What Mr Newling is doing to Janice’s pussy is making her shiver. ‘I shall have to do something about it,’ Mr Newling says. ‘I think a good spanking. And then perhaps something else. Does that seem reasonable to you? A good spanking first at least?’
Janice makes a ‘Mmmmaaaa…’ sound. Mr Newling’s fingers have found her clit and are stroking it. She is going to collapse, into an untidy heap on the floor. ‘Yes, Miss?’
Janice can’t even think about what he has said. All that matters in her head are Mr Newling’s fingers.
The hand finally stops, comes away. Mr Newling is pulling her down over his lap. Janice flops over, her head near the carpet. A weak gasp as Mr Newling grabs a handful of soft bottom. ‘A spanking first,’ he tells her. ‘And then a touch of something else. It is essential to get things off on the right foot.’
Janice’s breath gasps out as the first spank slams into her unprotected rear. Momentarily flattening the elastic flesh and leaving a pink handprint which darkens to red as the hand swings back and comes in again, this time cracking in on the other cheek. A second, sharply delineated, angry mark. Very shortly, though, this and the other one are both obliterated as further repeated impacts of Mr Newling’s hand transform the whole of Janice’s writhing rear to a uniform glowing deep pink.
‘How was that for a start?’ Mr Newling taking a little breather is breathless from his efforts. ‘I’ll give you a bit more… and then we’ll try the other.’
The other is the cane. Janice has never had the cane but she has thought about it, the possibility. It is public knowledge that girls doing their Domestic Training can get caned. A gentleman is quite free to use the cane and it is known, or rumoured, that many do. Equally of course others do not, a gentleman may not be interested in that or think it’s a good thing. So it simply depends on your luck. And Janice has thought about it all right before coming here to Mr Newling this morning, her first day. Having to take all her clothes off in front of him was awful, dreadful, as was having to stand there and let him fondle her pussy. The bare-bottomed spanking… that has of course been even worse. But the cane! Anyone knows that the cane is a quite different proposition from anything else.
‘No… please… not… that…’ Janice whimpers when Mr Newling has completed his second session of spanking. She is on her feet again, on rubbery legs, and her poor bottom is red hot. But… the cane…
Mr Newling smiles. ‘Girls have to have the cane, Janice. And you have been very remiss in not making sure your uniform was ready. You had plenty of time.’
Janice shakes her head wildly. The motion is transmitted to the pretty tits which of course are still nude like the rest of her. The tits shake, the pink nipples bobbing from side to side. Janice is close to tears. ‘No… please… A-anything else.’
‘Anything else, Janice? What could you suggest?’ As he speaks Mr Newling’s hand comes out to take hold of the pretty black bush again. Janice is not sure what she means. Vaguely, though, she thinks, well, something. Anything. Yes, anything. Mr Newling’s fingers are in between her legs again. Janice gives another shake of her head, her nipples bobbing to and fro.
‘I don’t know what you could mean, Janice.’ She has not resisted the hand — Janice is not in a state to resist anything — and her knees have come apart as the hand has pushed in. The hand, the fingers, are right in there, where she is all wet. Janice makes a wailing, sobbing sound.
Mr Newling takes his hand away. ‘No, I don’t know what you could mean, Janice dear. I do know that we must have the cane. Oh yes. Essential. Come on.’
He is getting to his feet. The cane in fact is already here, in Janice’s room ready. Standing unnoticed by her against a cupboard. ‘Come on, get yourself over the bed. Your bottom over the edge.’
The cane is as bad as Janice has feared. Even worse perhaps? A white-hot pain that makes her want to jump six feet in the air, climb up the wall, as if she can by some such desperate means distance herself from what is happening to her bottom. Janice can’t do these things and they wouldn’t really help anyway, but she can’t, she has to stay in position over the bed and if she doesn’t stay in that position and keep still she will get a double dose, Mr Newling tells her.
Janice doesn’t keep actually still, that wouldn’t be possible; but she stays in position. While the cane slices in at regular intervals, each stroke feeling as if it is going to take the skin off her poor bottom. She gets six. And then it is over? No. Not yet.
‘Get up, Janice. Now we’ll give you a few in another position.’ The other position is on her back on the bed with her legs held up in the air. Janice’s poor red-striped rear upturned to receive the cane in this new, even worse position. A position that of course is blatantly showing everything. Though that aspect is for Janice at this moment not of paramount importance. It is the cane. The cane that is… CRACKKK!!! ‘Aaaiiiooowww…!’ still slicing in.
Downstairs Darlene has finished her vacuuming. She eyes Mr Newling nervously as he comes back in with Janice. Janice has her blouse and cardigan back on and her black knickers, but not her skirt. She is wiping at her eyes. She has been caned, Darlene knows that. The tell-tale sounds from upstairs have been pretty unmistakeable. It is no wonder Janice is dabbing at her eyes. Darlene feels a sudden hot flush, a sort of premonition. Mr Newling is eyeing her.
‘Finished, Darlene? Good. I seem to recall I was going to give you a spanking but we were interrupted by Janice’s arrival. Yes?’
‘Yes Mr Newling.’ Darlene shuffles her feet. He is going to say…
‘Why don’t we make that a caning instead? You haven’t had the cane for several days, have you? Mmmm? Yes. Go up and get the cane, will you, Darlene? There’s a dear. It’s in Janice’s room.’