Search This Blog

Sunday, 23 February 2020

Branch Meeting

From Uniform Girls 10
The First Church of Rational Thought and The Martyred Saints sounded American all right and it also sounded a bit of a mouthful. Janet Smithson nonetheless went along to the advertised meeting. It was American; but it seemed it was prepared to refer to itself more simply as the Church of Martyred Saints. Which was somewhat more acceptable if one was thinking of joining.
Janet, 19, an attractive brunette, felt strongly the need to belong to a church and had tried quite a number but unfortunately found them all wanting in some respect. Her last one she had left after a bust-up with her boyfriend, also a member, so with that loss as well her need to join something now was even stronger. She went to the advertised meeting, strange-sounding and American though it might seem, with high hopes and in a receptive mood. Ripe for the proselytiser.
There were not a lot of attendees at the hall in the North London suburb and even fewer took advantage of the invitation to stay afterwards for ‘Coffee and cookies.’ Perhaps the speakers’ American accents and their high-powered enthusiasm tended to put off the more staid English, many of whom had probably only come out of curiosity anyway. For Janet, though, being American and enthusiastic was no indictment. And their message too she found intriguing.
One central theme of this was that the individual should seek inspiration by studying the examples of the saints of old. By concentrating on the saint’s suffering he or she could gain insight and comfort. This message was further enthusiastically expounded over the coffee and cookies in the little anteroom afterwards to those who had stayed behind.
Sadly, it might be thought, there were only three of these prospective converts; but each convert is an individual jewel, to be cherished, and two of the three were in addition attractive young women. The third, a man in his thirties was attractive in that he was a potential converted soul but that was not the same as being a pretty and shapely young female as well. Attractive young females were of especial interest to the Church of Martyred Saints. Because weren’t many of those martyred saints themselves attractive and nubile young females? Certainly according to the First Church of Rational Thought and The Martyred Saints they were.
This was the message energetically expounded to Janet and the other young female — Mrs Trish Fielding, a blonde some three years older than Janet — by the meeting’s main speaker, the Reverend Clint Schuster; the religious needs of the third, male, prospect being meanwhile dealt with by a lesser light. The Reverend Schuster — ‘call me Clint’ — was a large man of 40 or so with close-cropped black hair and rather piercing eyes which flitted from one choice prospect to the other. Both could make extremely valuable members of the Church on its foray into this almost pagan land that was England in the 1980’s.
Janet Smithson as we have seen was in receptive mood and so as it happened was Trish Fielding. She had recently gone through a little domestic upset, her husband discovering that she had become rather too friendly with a salesman of encyclopaedias — in fact coming home unexpectedly one lunchtime and discovering Trish underneath the salesman on their lounge settee in the very act of being too friendly. So Trish, although not necessarily ready to enlarge on these domestic problems, was also in need of religious solace. Both young English ladies listened with rapt attention as the persuasive, and not at all unattractive, American preacher held forth.
‘The suffering of those saintly martyrs must be an inspiration to us all,’ declared Reverend Schuster. ‘What are our own petty problems when compared to some of their torments. And we like to think especially of the female martyrs. Their delicate bodies, soft and supremely sensitive as the great Lord made them, soft and sensitive as the bodies of you two lovely ladies as you sit here. Scourged: Beaten! Tortured! Truly inspirational.
Such indeed was the inspirational effect of the two English ladies opposite him that Clint Schuster had the urge to touch flesh. He leant forward to grip a nyloned knee of each. Ah yes! He could see great possibilities for both of them. Pretty Miss Smithson, slim-waisted but otherwise well rounded in that charming grey suit; and Mrs Fielding, a fuller figure in skirt and blouse and a softly sensuous face, a lady no doubt no stranger to the lusts of the flesh even if restricted to the confines of her marriage.
‘Can you imagine what those young women suffered?’ The Reverend Schuster’s voice trembled with emotion. ‘In the name of their faith. Their gentle bodies wracked with unthinkable pain. Janet, and Trish… try to imagine it. And tell me, is it not a truly great inspiration?’
Both young women were now slightly red in the face. Yes, it was an inspiration — especially when conveyed by this dynamic Reverend Schuster who, in the urgency of his message, still had a large, masculine hand gripping your knee. Clint Schuster, his face intent, his bright eyes seeming to bore right into them, went on to say that there could be more to all this than simply imagining it. Janet and Trish could become instrumental in conveying the message to others.
What this meant, it seemed, was that the acts of those great martyrs could be re-created; re-enacted. So that other potential converts who might not possess the visionary imagination of such as Janet and Trish could be aided in their belief. Janet and Trish looked at one another: the idea of re-creating the acts of the martyrs was indeed mind-boggling.
‘And you mean that… that we…?’ wondered Janet.
‘Yes, certainly. You two ladies. You would take the parts of certain noble female martyrs as their suffering is re-enacted. You would both be quite perfect for the roles I have in mind. St Gwendoline of Bohemia and St Cecelia of Saxony.’
They looked at each other again: it was not easy to take in. More coffee was brought and more cookies offered. The man who had also stayed behind had been sent on his way by now, armed with tracts and urged to come again to the next public meeting. But the two young English Ladies were in a different category. Still bemused they were nonetheless giving Reverend Schuster addresses and telephone numbers, and then considering dates as he consulted his diary. Not dates of public meetings, of course.
‘St Gwendoline: I thought you might take St Gwendoline,’ Clint Schuster told Janet Smithson.
----//----
They were in his hotel room three days later. Just the two of them. The past three days had been something of a dream for Janet as her mind constantly ran back to that extraordinary meeting of the Church of Martyred Saints. On the day after she had had something of a reconciliation with her boyfriend James and if that had happened just a little earlier she would never have gone to the meeting. Did that mean that she was meant by Providence to join this new American church? She had said nothing about it to James. Nothing about her appointment with Reverend Schuster here today.
‘Have some coffee,’ Clint Schuster told her. ‘Then I’ll tell you about St Gwendoline of Bohemia. If you haven’t heard of her before of course.’
Janet hadn’t heard of St Gwendoline of Bohemia — nor in fact had she heard of St Cecelia of Saxony. It seemed that St Gwendoline had been a young and beautiful nun who had been captured by robbers who had tried to make her tell them where the convent’s treasure was hidden. When she refused she was taken with all the villagers out into the woods. There in front of these common people she was hung up on the bough of a large tree, with her habit raised so that her intimate parts were exposed to the assembled throng, and beaten on her bare bottom with canes. But St Gwendoline in spite of this dreadful public humiliation and intense pain refused to tell.
Clint Schuster drained his coffee cup. ‘The legend says that she then had both her arms broken by these villains but still refused to tell. At that they gave up and in fact her arms were miraculously healed. But I’m planning to leave that part out; it’s the bit up in the tree and the caning. That would make a marvellous little video. A truly powerful statement of faith. Don’t you agree, my dear?’
Janet squirmed in her chair, her face flushed pink. Apart from knowing nothing of this Gwendoline she also had had no real idea of what Reverend Schuster had in mind. Now it seemed she knew it all. A video. Of her, Janet, presumably up in a tree in a nun’s habit and with her bottom bare and…
‘Just imagine what an effect a video like that will have on one of God’s less imaginative souls. St Gwendoline in all the glory of her suffering. The common man in the street with his diet of, what is it you have here, Coronation Street? He’ll come running to the church when he hears what we’ve gotten.’
He could well be right in that, thought Janet, ‘Please…’ she said weakly, ‘I hadn’t… realised. I don’t think…’
Clint Schuster moved his chair forward, to sit close to Janet Smithson. It was a reaction the church had experienced before, in the States, when getting recruits, in a word, fear. Maybe it had been the first reaction of St Gwendoline and her sisters in the old days. But if it was they had then conquered it, with their faith. Clint Schuster’s hand came out, as it had before, to the nyloned knee showing provocatively beneath Janet’s short skirt. She gasped as he squeezed, and then found her eyes caught in that mesmeric gaze.
It was a mesmeric gaze, and Clint Schuster was a very persuasive personality. And clearly a girl who was a caring, religious person would not wish to be found wanting. Reverend Schuster assured her that they could in fact dispense with the crowd of watching villagers, it need be only two or three robbers and a camera man. And yes, it was possible that the finished product might be only used at meetings in the States, so Janet need have no fear of friends and relatives watching her performances. Although it was an act of great faith that she would be re-enacting.
Only showing the video in the States would make a very big difference, act of great faith or not. Janet heard herself making a breathless, hesitant murmur of assent. Breathless primarily because of the hand which now in its eagerness to communicate, flesh to flesh, was halfway up her thigh. Then Reverend Schuster, eyes still boring in, said something else. Janet’s eyes widened. He repeated it, a statement, not a suggestion. It really was essential, he said. Some sort of try-out was essential.
Janet being helped to her feet, her head in a daze even though she had agreed with Reverend Schuster. His hands at her tight skirt, at the zip… and then the skirt sliding down over full flanks. She had agreed that a try-out was necessary. Hadn’t she? Brief pale blue knickers tight over the ripeness of her bottom, together with her white suspender belt and dark nylons. Just that, and her blouse and shoes of course, as Reverend Schuster led her across to the table and bent her gently down over its top. The gossamer knickers now sliding down as her skirt had so that the ripe rump could be bare — as it had to be for St Gwendoline of Bohemia.
And then, as St Gwendoline herself had suffered…
Crack!…
Janet gripped the edge of the table but couldn’t prevent the gasping yell bursting forth from trembling lips. The pain was murderous. But she must bear it. And… Crack!… the others…
----//----
A bright, shining, cloudless morning. ‘A real delight to be out in the countryside and observe God’s marvellous handiwork,’ enthused Clint Schuster. They had left the city behind and were in rural Essex. Janet shivered. Behind them, in the back seat of the Rover, were two further robbers plus the camera man. Reverend Schuster was to be chief robber and would therefore take first turn with the cane. Reverend Schuster who had done it so devastatingly three days ago in his hotel room.
It had taken most of the three days for the cane marks to disappear and yesterday afternoon Reverend Schuster had checked that they had finally gone. ‘We don’t want any sign of previous canings before we start. St Gwendoline has to be perfect, innocent of any blemish at the outset.’
St Gwendoline shivered again.
They were now on the edge of the forest, stately beeches intermixed with smaller saplings, all sun-dappled greenery. Janet was in blouse and skirt, for the moment, with underneath nylons and black suspender belt. Reverend Schuster had specified the latter. ‘I don’t know if St Gwendoline would have been wearing nylons and suspender belt in those days but I certainly think they add something. The contrast with her pale and tender flesh…’
‘These woods are wonderful, truly wonderful,’ Clint Schuster now stated. The Rover was deep in the forest, the trees almost all mature beeches which frequently produce a strong low horizontal bough as was required for St Gwendoline’s ordeal. He had in fact scouted the area already and found an ideal tree. They shortly came to it.
Reverend Schuster had not known what robbers would be wearing in those days so he and the other two had simply got themselves brown monks’ habits. ‘They might have stolen them — or perhaps put them on to discredit the real monks,’ declared this agile-brained man. St Gwendoline, under her black habit, was to wear nothing except the nylons and lacy black suspender belt. ‘Just her perfect nude bottom. Imagine the awe and wonderment of those simple country people as they watch this stirring and dreadful scene.’
Out of the car it was warm, a gentle June morning, soft leafy earth underfoot. In other circumstances it would be heavenly out here, but… Janet looked at the tree and shuddered. The broad bough was roughly horizontal, about head high. That was where St Gwendoline was to suffer her ordeal.
The three robbers were enthusiastically pulling on their robes while the other man did things with his camera. Janet thought fleetingly of James. They were now back to where they’d been before, the bust up completely over. Except of course that things weren’t the same as before. There was the Church of Martyred Saints. And also, unbelievably, St Gwendoline of Bohemia. Janet shook her head: there was no point thinking about it. She had agreed, because Reverend Schuster could be so persuasive. With her bundle of nun’s clothing she went behind the car to change. Nothing underneath except the nylons and suspender belt, Reverend Schuster had said. Janet began unhappily to undress… and then put on the habit, the white wimple…
‘How’re we doing,’ Clint Schuster cheerily called.
She was just about ready. The three men had taken off shoes and socks, also either removed or rolled up trousers so that bare feet and legs showed beneath the brown robes. Janet had on shiny black patent-leather pumps, as specified by Reverend Schuster. She came hesitatingly forward.
‘Lovely,’ he told her. ‘Isn’t she truly lovely, Marv?’ Marv agreed she was.
‘Now, first I think a shot or two to show just how truly lovely St Gwendoline is. These robbers make her show herself before they get her up on the tree. Humiliation, that sort of thing. So let’s have it up, Janet dear.’
Just think about the suffering of that real St Gwendoline, Janet told herself. She suffered all this for real.
Higher!’ urged Clint Schuster. ‘Right up!
Janet lifted the black habit until it was right up, up above her boobs. Everything showing, her firm boobs, her pussy. It was all right to think about St Gwendoline’s suffering but could it have been any worse than this? Having it all recorded on video, for lustful American men to slobber over? No, she mustn’t think that, it was too awful, they would not be lustful, they would be seeking inspiration…
Mercifully Reverend Schuster had finished that part; but it only meant that the main scene, the worst, had now come. Janet was being helped up over that sturdy branch, high in the air, her legs hanging free, her bottom bare.
Reverend Schuster’s voice: ‘Truly inspirational!’ And then it came.
Crack!… A sickening stroke that had her gasping for breath and almost caused her to lose her grip on the branch. She hung on, teeth clenched against that stinging pain. Crack!… Dangling legs jerking and dancing as the second bit solidly in. Crackk!… Clint Schuster, eyes gleaming, whipping it in again. ‘Hang in there! This is truly wonderful…Crack!…
The sounds echoed out in this tranquil corner of the woods. Outlandish sounds: masculine cries and female yelps and whimperings, plus that sharp, rhythmic thwack of the cane. Sounds that might have been heard in that Bohemian forest all those years ago.
Might have because there was no actual evidence and Reverend Schuster’s little tale had largely sprung from his own mind. But it was the sort of thing that had happened, no doubt about that, the sort of ordeal that young female believers had had to suffer; and there was no doubt of its truly inspirational nature. It had to be a winner. Yes. And tomorrow there was that lovely Trish. St Cecelia of Saxony. And after that, well, undoubtedly there were many, many other martyrs that these two lovely young ladies could portray. In martyrdoms and sufferings that sprung so exquisitely to Clint Schuster’s active mind.
He looked on, eager-eyed. Marv now had the cane. The girl’s yelps had reached a high, shrill pitch, her lovely bottom richly striped. Earlier she had been concerned to keep her legs closed but that need seemed to have gone now. Truly inspirational! ‘I hope you’re getting all this, Bart. All the angles. Don’t miss a shot. This is great, great stuff.’

Saturday, 22 February 2020

The Bottom Drawer

Story from Privilege Plus 12 by Sarah Veitch
Ryka smiled as she selected the nightgown she would wear on her impending honeymoon. It was three long days till she married Thomas. Three days until her traditional English wedding took place! Again the Russian girl looked at the book on marriage customs which she’d bought, and read of lucky horseshoes and rice and confetti. It was all very different to the Russian village where she’d been raised.
‘What are you thinking, dear?’ Thomas asked her now. He was a mature, intelligent man who, at thirty-five, was fifteen years her senior. He’d been her boss at the translations publisher where she’d worked since coming to Britain two years before. Now she hoped he’d also be her boss in the master bedroom, for that was what she suspected she would most enjoy. Her mother had told her little of such intimate matters. So far Thomas had kissed and caressed her but he hadn’t presumed…
‘I’m wondering which of your English customs you’ll want to adopt on Saturday, and thinking of Russian wedding customs,’ she said, loving the strict smart lines of his formal suit. She so wanted to please.
‘I’ve heard of one old Russian custom,’ Thomas said slowly. His gaze seemed to become more assessing. ‘On her wedding night, the Russian bride would be told to choose from a pair of shoes which her bridegroom had left peeking out from under the marital bed. One of them was empty, the other contained a coiled whip.’ He smiled, then kissed the top of her head in an avuncular gesture. ‘If she chose the shoe with the whip, she got a taste of it right away.’
‘And have you bought the shoes?’ Ryka murmured, aware of a slight blush colouring her usually pale strong features.
‘I have,’ her fiancé murmured. ‘So now you must buy the whip.’ The next day Ryka shyly set off with a very special shopping list. Thomas had written down all the details. He walked determinedly by her side. ‘I will blush all the time that I’m doing this,’ she said.
‘But it will also excite you,’ Thomas answered. He took her hand and pressed it lightly. ‘I’ll consider it an act of pure love.’
The first two words on the list read ‘Riding Shop’. Thomas drove Ryka there and they entered the premises.
‘My mare’s being skittish. I need a whip to calm her down,’ he said.
The man behind the counter raised an eyebrow. ‘Obviously we’re not in favour of excessive punishment.’
‘Nor am I, sir,’ Thomas replied.
The man brought a selection of whips and placed them in turn in Thomas’s hands. He flicked each through the air, then handed them to Ryka. She fingered the knotted cords of nylon braid and new-cut leather. Finally she chose a fibre-glass dressage whip.
‘Shall I wrap it?’ the assistant asked softly.
Thomas ran the riding crop through his fingers. ‘No, I’ll be using it very soon,’ he said with an anticipatory wink.
The next item on the list read ‘Cook’s Store’.
‘At least they’ll just think I’m going to be baking!’ Ryka murmured. ‘Your bum will be baking if you’re naughty,’ Thomas replied. Ryka blushed and dipped her head for a moment, then gave him a loving little kiss. She knew that men sometimes lovingly chastened their women as part of a consensual erotic arrangement. But hearing him talk like that — and imagining such discipline — still made her go red.
The Cook’s Store held everything an amateur chef might need. It also contained the implements which Ryka had been ordered to buy for her own small bottom. Nervously she selected a long wooden spatula and a paddle-sized wooden spoon. Again, Thomas said that there was no need to wrap the thick smooth punishers. ‘This gives a whole new meaning,’ he said, ‘to a girl setting up her bottom drawer!’
Thirdly, Thomas drove her to the maths department of a large scholastic store. There Ryka examined wooden and plastic rulers. When no one was watching, Thomas swished first the plastic and then the wooden one against her skirt-clad cheeks.
‘Which hurt the most, love?’ he asked consideringly.
‘The second one, I think!’ Ryka stammered, thrown by the public nature of the lash. Her soft high bottom tingled and the curve between her legs gave an answering lurch. She put the plastic measurer back on the shelf then turned towards the counter.
‘Remember,’ he added, ‘that when you next feel the ruler you won’t be wearing a skirt or underslip or pants.’
Finally they made their way to a very adult shop. The two men serving there obviously recognised Thomas.
‘Not got Liz with you?’ one of them asked.
‘We broke up last year,’ Thomas said.
‘So what can we do for you?’ the man continued.
‘Liz took all our equipment with her. Ryka’s here to buy new stuff,’ Ryka’s fiancé replied.
And buy new stuff she did! Ryka dipped her head prettily as the men brought out long whippy canes and Scottish tawses and razor strops and laid them out on the long glass counter. The assistants whisked the thin rattans through the air to show her how they’d sound before they made contact with her completely bare bum. ‘This one leaves a thin red line, whereas this type creates a wide pink band which glows for longer,’ the oldest man said with relish. No wonder they called discipline the English vice!
‘I think we’d like this rattan,’ Ryka said nervously at last. She noticed Thomas looking longingly at the leather instruments. ‘And a four-tailed tawse,’ she added haltingly, glad to see lust and gratitude entering his eyes. Thomas put his arms around her waist and pulled her back against him.
‘I’ll be firm with you,’ he whispered, ‘but I’ll also be scrupulously fair.’
The wedding went well, and at last Ryka’s honeymoon night began in earnest. She walked to the hotel’s large bridal suite, wondering what awaited her therein. She’d never had full intimacy or even undressed before the opposite gender! And she’d no idea if she could bear the whip or ruler or the tawse.
Thomas was already in the room, putting his suit jacket on a hanger. He rolled up his sleeves then smiled at her expectantly. ‘Ryka, would you like to choose a shoe?’ he asked, indicating his new bride’s side of the bed. Ryka looked down. Two black glossy toes peeped out at her. There was no way of telling which was empty and which was full.
‘I’ll take the right one,’ she murmured, drawing it out.
She saw immediately that it contained a small coiled whip, a sort of lightweight riding crop. Taking it from its lair, she handed it to Thomas then stepped back.
‘You can taste the whip or choose whichever implement you prefer,’ he offered. Remembering how he’d obviously liked the leather goods, Ryka opted for the four-tailed tawse.
‘Fetch it from the suitcase now, and bring it to me,’ Thomas ordered. He smiled more gently. ‘When we get home we’ll keep such implements in your bottom drawer.’
‘And will we use them often?’ Ryka whispered, her trepidation increasing as the moment of her punishment drew nearer.
‘We’ll use them whenever the situation warrants it,’ Thomas said. Then he smiled. ‘For now you’re to be disciplined to maintain the old Russian custom. That is, because you chose the shoe with the disciplinary implement in it you’ll get a taste of the tawse.’ He looked thoughtful, as if remembering her transgressions. ‘And I’m also going to chasten you for hesitating when it came to buying these self-same punishment tools.’
‘I was shy about approaching the shopkeepers,’ Ryka murmured, with an apologetic wince. ‘I was uncertain.’
‘Perhaps you’ll be more certain when you’ve a hot sore bottom to sit on,’ her new husband said.
Ryka looked nervously at him. Next, she looked down at the leather tawse she was still holding.
‘Hand me the implement and then lie on your tummy on the bed,’ Thomas bade. The Russian bride did so, her movements jerky. She wondered how she’d feel about what came next.
‘Lift your dress up above your waist,’ her spouse continued. Ryka reached her small ringed hands back and pulled at her hem until the ankle-length brocade skirt moved away from her haunches. She knew that her equally long petticoat still remained in place.
‘Now raise your underskirt,’ Thomas said. Ryka did so, then felt her husband adjusting the material so that it would stay folded over her back. ‘Which garment do you think comes off now, Ryka?’ he murmured exultantly.
‘My panties, sir,’ Ryka said.
There was a pause. Ryka reminded herself that she was married now, that such acts were allowable. Still she felt very vulnerable and a little scared. ‘Oh dear, I requested a bare bum and I’m still looking at a fully clothed bum,’ Thomas said softly. ‘I’ll have to redden it more fully for failing to obey.’
‘Please don’t! It’s not that I don’t want to… It’s just…’ After a few more moments of internal struggle, Ryka slowly pulled down her lace-trimmed pants. She lay there on her tummy, knowing that her new husband was staring down at her newly-bared bottom. A bottom that had never before been tawsed or paddled or whipped.
‘Good girl,’ Thomas murmured. She felt the mattress give as he knelt on one side of the bed and pulled back one arm. Ryka knew without looking that that arm contained the tawse. ‘Would you like to count each stroke out loud and thank me for it?’ he asked softly. Ryka nodded into the pillow, but didn’t speak. ‘I’ll have a verbal answer, if you please,’ her new spouse continued. ‘Good communication is vital between husband and wife.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Ryka answered, her feelings of desire and degradation increasing. She pushed her legs more tightly together and waited for the lash to fall. Suddenly heat sizzled across both twitching buttocks. This was a veritable brand! This was lightning in the form of leather! Ryka gasped loudly and started to scramble up from the bed.
‘Going someplace?’ Thomas asked.
She looked at his face. It showed both sadness and disappointment. ‘N…no, sir,’ she gasped out.
Slowly the girl flattened herself to the mattress again. Her hands fluttered by her waist, half-wanting to cover her bare bottom.
‘Perhaps it would be easier if you gripped the lower rung of the headrest,’ her thoughtful spouse said. The Russian bride did. The tactile certainty of the wood somehow helped her to control herself. Still, she sucked in her breath as she waited for the second searing stroke.
When it fell, it went lower than lash one. It licked the tender crease at the top of her thighs, and seemed to reverberate through to her belly. Ryka groaned and shook her hips from side to side.
‘Only four more to go,’ Thomas said, ‘then we’ll move on to the second stage of your punishment.’
Registering his words, Ryka groaned again. She tried to avoid her next sore taste of the tawse.
‘I’ve accepted the tawse to please you, sir. Can’t we go on to the Russian whipping custom?’ She hoped that the whip would sting much less.
‘We probably could have,’ Thomas replied. ‘If you hadn’t failed to obey me when I told you to take down your panties. That’s why you’re due six hard strokes of the tawse.’
Ryka nodded into the pillows. She knew that this thrashing would ultimately make her less coy, would help bring her womanly urges to the surface. Her fantasies had always been of dominant older men. That said, it still took lots of willpower for her to ask her spouse nicely for the third tawse lash. When it came, it scorched across the centre of her naked globes. All four leather tongues seemed to flicker out their smarting impact.
‘Aaah! Aaah! Aaah!’ the Russian girl whimpered. She rolled wildly on to her back, both palms cupping her reddened bum.
After rubbing her tender flesh for a few moments, she recovered herself and peeked curiously over at her man. He was still holding the tawse and was looking down at her impassively.
‘It hurts,’ Ryka said in a plaintive little voice.
‘Of course it hurts. It’s punishment,’ her beloved answered.
‘But it’s our wedding night. We should have… we should have pleasure,’ Ryka cut in.
‘And the pleasure will be all the more strong due to this bum-based stimulus,’ Thomas replied knowingly. He touched her in her most intimate place till she almost swooned with yearning. Desperate once more to please him she rolled back on to her tummy, presenting him with her hot red arse.
Her husband fondled that same arse for a moan-making moment whilst she forced herself to grip on to the bed’s wooden headboard. Then he picked up the tawse and brought it down across her tender underswell. Before Ryka could cry out, he’d raised the punisher again and whacked it further up her jerking bottom. Then he placed the final stroke nearer the top of her heated bum.
‘Aaah!’ Ryka gasped out. Her hands flew back to massage her rump-cheeks, but her husband caught her wrists and held them away.
‘No, no, my dear. I want you to contemplate how vulnerable your bum is after its felt the lash. You mustn’t protect it.’
‘Couldn’t I just hold it for a second, sir?’ Ryka whispered throatily.
‘No, but you can come and look at it in the mirror before it receives its whipping,’ Thomas said.
Curious, Ryka started to rise up from the bed, obediently keeping her hands away from her bare buttocks. As she moved, her skirt and petticoats started to fall down. Helpfully, Thomas took hold of the hems and put them between her nervous fingers. ‘Keep them up above your waist, sweetheart. We want to be able to see the bottom that we’re still chastising,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir,’ Ryka murmured hesitantly. Part of her wanted to see how crimson her virgin haunches were, to admire her own courage. The other part felt flustered and ashamed.
With Thomas’s hand on her upper arm, she marched towards the full-length mirror. There she turned so that her bare bottom faced the glass. Then Ryka took a deep breath and peeked over her shoulder at the chastened orbs.
‘They’re really red, aren’t they?’ she whispered, feeling a sense of pride and self-discovery as she surveyed both scarlet hemispheres.
‘These little cheeks are about to get even redder,’ Thomas said.
He walked over to where the whip lay coiled on the floor. Its clean dark lines looked sleek and almost pretty. ‘Would you like to kiss it, my dear?’
Ryka nodded and pressed her lips slackly against the slender braid. ‘Shall I hold on to the bedrail again?’ she muttered huskily.
‘I think so. But we’ll put a pillow under your tummy first to make your bottom a more obvious target,’ her husband said.
Ryka held her breath as he pushed a pillow in place. It tilted her body slightly so that her bum felt even more vulnerable. ‘Let’s see how this works out,’ Thomas said. The Russian girl felt the bed move and the air currents change and knew that the first whip-stroke was imminent. She wondered how it would feel on already sensitised buttock-flesh.
A moment later she knew that it felt incisively sore! She yelled and rubbed at her cheeks and shoved her belly into the bolster.
‘Oh dear. You touched your sore bum without permission; now I’ll have to use another pillow,’ Thomas told her, voice holding a frown. Again the mattress moved, then the girl felt a second pillow being added to the first, raising her globes still further. A moment later she felt the whip connect with her tenderised rump again.
‘Aah! How many more?’ she gasped out plaintively.
‘You mean, ‘How many more, sir?’,’ Thomas corrected. ‘Respect goes so quickly from a marriage nowadays!’
As if in answer, he applied the riding crop for the third sore time. Ryka howled and drummed her feet against the bed and puckered up the main muscles in her bottom. ‘Untense that bare arse! I like to whip a nice smooth canvas,’ her husband said.
Pleasing him would ultimately mean more pleasure for herself so, with difficulty, Ryka obeyed him. She forced her bum to lie still, if not exactly relaxed. God, it was hot! She wanted to smooth cool body lotion into her twin rotundities. She wanted her man to kiss the pain away.
But the kisses would come after the olde worlde Russian whipping. Ryka reminded herself that she’d agreed to this chastisement for their marriage’s greater good.
‘Please use the whip on my haunches again, sir,’ she said raggedly.
‘Haunches is too coy a word for a married woman,’ Thomas said.
Ryka twisted her head back to look at him. ‘I don’t understand. What words do you… which words are proper?’
‘Say ‘I’ve been a disobedient young wench, sir, and I deserve to get a red-hot arse for causing trouble’,’ Thomas bade.
Eyes downcast, Ryka repeated the words. They set up a fluttering in the secret core below her belly. She so wanted the initiation into womanhood to begin!
‘Yes, you’re a naughty girl who won’t escape whipping,’ Thomas continued, raising the riding crop. He flicked it against the crease where bum meets thigh. ‘Where do you think you should get the next lash?’ he continued in a conversational voice.
‘Anywhere but there, sir!’ Ryka replied fervently, still feeling the newest line of erotic anguish. Obligingly, Thomas applied the lash further up. At last he set down the whip and fondled her glowing small buttocks.
‘What should I use on you,’ he whispered, ‘the next time that you fail to please?’
Ryka thought of the implements they’d bought so far and imagined their effect on her bare bottom. ‘The wooden spoon which doubles as a paddle, sir,’ she said excitedly.
‘And how will you be displayed for your punishment?’ Thomas continued.
‘With a…’ Ryka writhed about on her tummy, still loath to say the words. ‘With a completely bare arse.’
She felt Thomas’s lips brush her hair. ‘That’s not what I meant,’ he said. ‘I meant will you lie on the bed or bend over the dressing table or…?’
Ryka envisaged various punitive options which all involved pulling down her pants. ‘Over the kitchen stool, sir,’ she said a little breathlessly, remembering the whipping-stools they’d seen in the adult shop.
‘And will you count each swish of the paddle out loud after you’ve received it?’ her man continued.
‘Yes, sir. And I’ll ask nicely for the next!’ Ryka said.
‘Good girl,’ Thomas murmured. He turned her over and took her into his arms, his fingers caressing. And Ryka knew that she wouldn’t have to ask for anything else.

Friday, 21 February 2020

Letters from Janus 62 — Nominations; Sophie Fennington; Schoolgirls, Birch-twigging & Publicly Provocative Posteriors

A bumper crop from Janus 62, including further nominations for best Janus model. Don't forget to vote for your own favourite via this post. I will publish the results next week after the results of Janus' survey.
Nominations
You’ve started something now, I can tell you! The letter from N.H., Janus 58, and your invitation for us to nominate our favourites from issue 20 onwards has led to my spending several hours leafing through my copies. (I joined you from issue 21.) I have now come up with a short-list of my favourite girls as follows:
Janus
Girl
21
Cynthia (‘Sin’)
23
Pippa Marshall
25
Lisa
27
Blanche Cartier
28
Rosemary Lane
32, 34
Crystal
34
Marianne Burnham
37, 42
Jackie
38
Liz (‘The Bitch’)
39
Sarah
48
Claire Brierly
52
Claire Lake
52
‘Hot Water’ Girl
57
Anneke
58
Caroline
I would like to say that my choices are based purely on my opinion of the models’ beauty and ‘spankability’. If I were to chose on the most fitting to the storyline, then Sophie Fennington (53, 54) would also feature highly. However, you will gather from my selection that I prefer ladies to have more generously proportioned bottoms!
Narrowing my choice down to just one to be top of my list is difficult, to say the least, but I will say that Rosemary Lane (Janus 28) has lingered longest in my memory, so she must be my number 1. Joint runners up would be the two Claires: Brierley (48) and Lake (52).
Rosemary Lane
Claire Brierley
Claire Lake
No doubt there will be many who disagree with my choices, but it wouldn’t do for all us men to like the same girl, would it?
Keep up the good work, Janus. There is no other to equal you.
P.T.,
Clacton, Essex

Punishment Hairstyles
I have been an avid reader of your excellent publication since its inception and have always found each new number stimulating reading.
I am particularly pleased to see that Richard Manton is once again writing his individual-styled stories for Janus. Richard shares my own interest for attention to detail in the descriptions of girls who are to be punished. His descriptions are delightful — for example: ‘Tight denim drawn deep and taut between the slight fatness of bottom-cheeks’ and ‘The breasts under the tight white cotton were demure and neat’.
For me, however, it is Richard’s accurate and detailed description of each girl’s hair that is the clincher. Richard shares my delight at a well-cut style on a girl. It can be as Noreen’s in Janus 59, ‘dark and lank with a level fringe cut round to just touch the collar’ or — more suitably for a girl who is being punished — ‘a liberated urchin crop, the hair shaped close to the head from a high crown to the nape of her neck’ as is Lesley’s in Janus 13, 21 & 34.
The logic of cropping a girl’s hair prior to punishment is simple: the chastiser will not be influenced by the looks of his victim; rather, he will punish more severely a girl with boyishly-cropped hair. It also serves as further humiliation to a girl awaiting her punishment.
My wife, Moira, had her hair cropped some nine months ago and has to visit the hairdressers regularly if she is to avoid strappings for not keeping herself as I want. Do any other husbands have the same delight at seeing a well-cropped head of hair on a girl?
Hopefully Janus will continue its stories and photos of close-cropped girls as it has in the past, with Pippa in 23, Bambi in 29 & 30, and the classic schoolgirl in 31.
A.S.,
Bristol

And Bare, Expectant Legs…
First and foremost, congratulations — every single issue lately has been really superb. Obviously there are always particular ones which stand out as especially good, but perhaps it can be argued that choice lies more with personal tastes than an objective view. Issue 53 was, as some of your letter writers would seem to agree, probably the best ever as far as I was concerned. One simply runs out of superlatives in commenting on the gorgeous Sophie Fennington with her cheeky face and first-class bottom and legs. It almost seems ironic to say that by far the best picture I’ve ever seen in Janus or any similar publication has to be the full-page colour plate of Sophie on page 29; although she happens to be fully clothed and there’s no immediate sign of her being thrashed, the pose and look on her face speak volumes. We’ve just got to have one of your real-life interviews with young Sophie as soon as possible.
If I may make a few personal requests, I would like to see more pictures of girls in shorts — perhaps a marathon runner getting whacked with her training shoe for not running fast enough? Also on a sporting theme, what about a girl in a bikini being hauled dripping wet from the swimming pool for a good hiding? We can all agree that school uniforms are great but what about some different ones (girl guides, traffic wardens…) or how about a Principal Boy costume from the panto?
What I’d like to see more than anything else is girls getting the backs of their legs slapped. This used to be a very common recourse for harassed teachers confronted with troublesome young wenches who only had ankle-socks for protection, and because the marks would be on view to everyone this was also quite humiliating. How much more so if the girl in question is an 18-year-old compelled to wear the ankle-socks and school uniform as part of her punishment.
Another thing I’d be delighted to see Janus produce is a Punishment Log Book, in time-honoured girls’ boarding school style, for couples to record the full details of necessary disciplinary action…
J.S.,
Hexham, Northumberland
Our much-requested interview with Sophie Fennington appeared in Janus 60. We are often guided by requests such as yours. Meanwhile, a story of bare-thigh discipline, A Gentleman’s Pleasures, is to be found in Janus 47. — Ed.

More Schoolgirls, More Pain, More Humiliation
In his letter Girls in Scholastic Subservience, Janus 59, B.G. of Blackpool writes eloquently of the eternal appeal of the schoolgirl. For myself, I think your headline to his letter sums up the attraction exactly. It’s amazing and delicious that in this day and age girls in their late teens are compelled to wear childish uniform, which proclaims to the world that, far from being self-assured, they are immature teenagers who have to suffer daily indignities, bow to adult authority, labour at tasks for which they receive no payment, and suffer punishments more or less at the whim of the teacher. On top of all this they are served up as an unwilling sex-object by their clothing. Scholastic subservience indeed! And three cheers!
B.G. is certainly not alone in his desire to see ‘uniformed and uniformly caned fifth-formers’. My favourite Janus issue from the past is 41 — entirely for the mouth-watering spectacle of the black girl in school togs screwing up her face in agony as the cane slices into her adorable bottom, leaving magnificent raised weals and nice big tears. You got all the details right; the uniform is perfect, thoroughly realistic. She could have stepped off the school bus that morning. Especially important is the full-length skirt. So many magazines put the girls into mini-skirts, which is pointless when we are going to see their legs and bum by the next page. When the skirt is too short they immediately become fancy-dress models rather than real schoolgirls. The setting is good too, including the drama poster on the school notice-board.
I agree with B.G. that a magazine of entirely schoolgirl content would be a winner. In my opinion, CP publications should basically deal with just one topic: the business of punishing schoolgirls. Spanking magazines without schoolgirls are a joke. I want to see, and read about, schoolgirls who hate their punishments and do not derive any kind of masochistic thrill from having their bottoms thrashed.
It’s essential that you keep emphasising punishment and humiliation at all times. CP should never be love-play. I do like to see young bums ploughed-up by the cane, and other magazines are sadly lacking in their portrayal of weals and welts. I also love to see the tears rolling down the girls’ faces — basically it’s a simple equation: the more obviously they suffer, the more I enjoy it.
P.L.,
Huntingdon, Cambs.

A Grown-Up ‘Schoolgirl’ Writes…
I have noticed that the majority of articles and letters in Janus are written by men. So I thought I would try to do something to swing the balance. Please note that this is factual — I do not write fiction. Nic and I have said in the past we will use our own names quite openly. So if you do print this we are prepared to have our names on it.
I wrote to my best friend about my last tutorial, so I thought your readers might like to ‘read over her shoulder’ so to speak.
Dear Sue
Writing to tell you how the last tutorial went. Are you sitting comfortably? (I’m not.) Then I’ll begin.
Sir arrived in Peterborough Thursday evening. We made a 10 am start the following morning to school in Bournemouth. As I’d been warned about uniform I wasn’t taking any chances so I wore my old secondary school uniform. White blouse (no bra — I remember what happened the last time I wore a bra during tutorials!), navy pleated skirt, navy cardigan, blue tie, white school knickers and stockings and suspenders. Hope you don’t mind but I borrowed your navy shoes, not your best ones, don’t panic, those you usually wear with your blue/grey uniform.
I was pleased we didn’t stop on the journey as I felt a bit daft dressed up like that. It’s OK for you, you are used to it.
The ONU (school) is a lovely place, I’m sure you’d like it! After coffee I was given permission to wear jeans, and after getting changed we went for a walk. It was quite cold but no snow.
We spent a cosy evening watching TV in front of a super log fire. It wasn’t until I went to the dormitory that I realised it was gone midnight. So what? I can hear you saying. Well, I was supposed to be in the dormitory, ready for Sir to take lights out ages before that. I did think that Sir hadn’t noticed the time. Some hopes. Diving into bed and looking innocent didn’t work. I had to get out of bed and stand by the bedside chair facing the wall. Why does it always seem like hours when waiting to be punished?
For some reason I thought Sir was fetching a cane from his study. I was really put out to find he’d brought that bloody slipper! (No, it’s not a plimsoll, it’s more of a very solid leather sandal.) That hurt far worse than a caning. I know you would disagree if you ever have the guts to turn up and face up to the matter of THE CARD. You’ll find out!
I know you won’t ever believe how good I was last year about accepting a thrashing and not making a fuss. Well, you’ll probably be pleased to know I made such a fuss and forgot to count. Sir did fetch the cane and used it! Then continued with the slipper.
As I haven’t heard from you recently do I take it you are a perfect angel or are you too sore to write? Ha Ha. At least Sir only disciplines me on my bare bottom. I think it is wrong that your tutor canes you on the hands as well. I remember last time I saw you, you couldn’t hold a pen properly.
Saturday morning and I was in trouble again! This time I’d forgotten to call Nic ‘Sir’ during tutorials. I knew I had to take six of the best with the cane for those black marks, so being so forgetful wasn’t going to help any.
Have you ever had the tawse? I don’t think you have, have you? Well, I have now. It stings like hell — much worse than the cane, but not quite so bad as the slipper. I spent the rest of the day feeling very sorry for myself.
I didn’t tell you how I found one of our ‘old school’ skirts, did I? My mother was clearing out some junk and came across my old school skirt and some blouses and my prefect’s tie. Do you remember how we made that big bonfire behind the sports pavilion on our last day at school and burnt our uniforms! Well, I didn’t burn everything. I remember the taxi driver was getting panicky because he thought we would miss our train and he would get sacked. If you hadn’t sworn at ‘Frosty’ when he was spanking you, we would have escaped from that place a bit quicker!
On Sunday I was really good. But I knew you were going to say but. I was late again for lights out. This time I was given the option of the cane or the tawse. I chose the cane, although by this time my bottom was so sore a feather duster wouldn’t have been a soft option.
It annoys me that I can remember things that are trivial or irrelevant but cannot remember something as important as the rules of the ONU. So it will come as no surprise to you to hear that I slipped up on Monday morning for failing to address Sir correctly again! You can guess what happened.
I told you we had placed an ad in Privilege for a prefect to join me at tutorials. (Pity Roger won’t allow you to be my prefect.) So far we haven’t found anybody suitable, we’ve had replies from as far afield as Spain and Germany! I hope we can find a prefect soon — hopefully Sir will tire his right arm out on her!
I may get bouts of naughtiness but I still say that compared to you, Old Nick himself (the devil, you silly sod, not my tutor) would be a picture of innocence!
Do be sure to write as soon as you can. If you can sneak in a phone call when Roger’s out of the way that would be great.
Be sure to read Janus 50. My tutor is in it (another point to me)!
Must sign off, I’ve got some homework to do. Take care — if you can’t, try cold cream!
Love,
Vichkiee
PS. Have you still got my blue dress?
V.L.-B.,
Peterborough
The writer’s tutor appeared in No Witnesses part II, Janus 50. — Ed.

Once Was Enough
Like many other CP aficionados I was first turned on to CP by being whacked myself. The only time I ever received physical punishment occurred when I was 17, which was quite late, and I think all the more traumatic for that reason. It was preceded by long discussions with my father, which culminated in him deciding that the only untried remedy for my continued misbehaviour was a good hiding. My attempts to dissuade him from this course of action were rejected — he said that the fact that I was so obviously disturbed by the forthcoming beating made it all the more likely to be effective.
He said that as I was now in my late teens, he would allow me the privacy of my bedroom, and also the modesty afforded by a pair of underpants, for the tanning. To add to my growing trepidation, though, he also said that for the punishment to work it would need to be both extremely painful and, to some extent, humiliating. To this effect he used a heavy slipper, and made me adopt a position bent over the high back of a chair, with my bottom prominently raised. He then proceeded to administer twelve smarting, stinging whacks which sent searing streaks of pain right through me, and turned my buttocks bright crimson.
The punishment was certainly humiliating, as he would only deliver each stroke once I was back in position and completely still. I flinched and bucked and struggled to maintain my position — the tanning was more painful than I could have imagined, and to make matters worse I was aware of making whimpering sounds in the latter stages. To give Dad credit, when he made me face him afterwards for another talking-to he even apologised for ‘having to thrash you so severely.’ He never walloped me again, although Mum once said to me, ‘You’d better behave, or your father will come home and tan your bum red raw again.’ A threat I certainly heeded.
E.F.R.,
Hove, East Sussex

Sophie Criticised
Sophie, interviewed in Janus 60, is a lovely girl whom it should be a pleasure to punish — if it wasn’t for her silly stoicism. Apparently she never weeps or even cries out under punishment, however severe, and in the pictures her face shows an abstracted indifference to what is happening to her backside. No doubt some of your hard-line readers would take this as a challenge and gloat over fantasies of birching her rump or flogging her back severely enough to get a submissive reaction from her. Me, I’d rather deal with a girl with more normal reactions to having her arse tanned.
A girl should have a natural feminine pride and self-respect and, certainly, should be able to take her punishment bravely up to a point rather than bursting into tears as soon as her knickers come down. But when her tender bum is really suffering then one expects to hear from her! A lot of the pleasure of punishment lies in the sound of the culprit’s reactions. The startled, apprehensive gasp as the first slaps land on a shapely, defenceless bottom with enough stinging force to warn madame that this is going to be no playful spanking but a real scorcher. The anguished yelp as a cane thwacks wickedly across a plump bare bum, followed often by an astonished, resentful, ‘That hurts!’ — as though she hadn’t known all along that it was going to! The delightfully juicy impact of a hairbrush-back on scorching buttocks and thighs, mingling with squeals and yells increasing steadily in volume and shrillness and ending in noisy sobbing. The desperate eloquence of a young lady face down across a bed with her knickers around her knees, whose squirming rump is already intensely hot and sore from a generous application of stinging leather and who is so anxious to convince you that there is no need for eight or nine further strokes of the tawse she has been promised. She’s so sorry she was naughty and she’ll never do it again, and she’ll be such a good girl if you’ll only stop — please! And finally, when the lesson is over for the time being, the uninhibited, heartfelt, soundly-thrashed and deeply-humiliated blubbering of an utterly miserable girl standing in a corner in disgrace, hands on head and crimson bare buttocks shamefully on display.
That, incidentally, is a sight I enjoy quite often. My friend Robert has two extremely pretty daughters, Emma and Diane, aged 18 and 17 respectively. He doesn’t go out of his way to punish them in front of my wife and me, but if they happen to deserve it while we are at their house, the girls just have to put up with an audience. Last time we were there, Emma finished up crying her eyes out in the corner, minus her jeans and knickers, with her very shapely bottom blazing from a tanning which started with a very thorough spanking across her father’s knee, then a brisk paddling with an eighteen-inch wooden ruler as she bent over the back of an armchair with tears streaming down her face, and finally ten full-blooded strokes of a formidable leather tawse, with a pause after each stroke to let her feel the full effect and anticipate the next, so that at least five minutes elapsed between the first resounding crack of the leather across her suffering bottom and the last.
My wife Ingrid was wriggling on her chair as we watched, probably recalling the many times her own sensitive bottom has felt the sting of the tawse. Also probably reflecting ruefully that the sight of Emma’s punishment would put me in the mood to whack a wifely bottom when we got home. She was quite right! As soon as we were home, Ingrid found herself across my knee. A very undignified position for a lovely lady of 32, especially with her skirt up to her waist and her dainty white lace panties at half-mast, but Ingrid has been in that situation so often in the past ten years that she just wriggled into a comfortable position and waited for what was coming to her.
I didn’t need to invent a reason or pretend that she had misbehaved. We both knew that I was spanking Ingrid simply for the pleasure of it: the delicious sensation of her tender bare bum under my hand, and her vigorous reaction to the fiery sting in her tender cheeks. My lovely lady spent a very warm three minutes or so wriggling, squealing, kicking and yelling across my lap as I laid on a good, sound spanking.
Finally I let her get up, eyes brimming with tears, and asked her if she’d like six of the best with the cane there and then or if she’d rather wait till bedtime. Poor Ingrid wasn’t very happy with the question, she hadn’t expected more than the spanking, but she finally whimpered that she was too sore for the cane just then, she’d rather let her bum cool down. Which meant that she spent an uncomfortable couple of hours waiting for bedtime and thinking about the caning to come.
Then I escorted her to our bedroom, made her strip and go across the bed, and gave her six real stingers. She cried buckets, my lovely little Danish dolly, but she was happy enough a little later.
J.Q.,
Manchester
Whether fantasy or otherwise, your reminiscences certainly leave us in no doubt as to the kind of chastisee reaction you prefer! — Ed.

Swedish School Birch-Twigging
Not long ago I read in Swedish newspapers about two teenaged schoolgirls. One article was about a girl in a Swedish school and the other about a Swedish girl who has been living for a couple of years with her family in Surrey, England. In the first case an assistant headmaster had been fined the equivalent of £10 for giving a girl one slap on her cheek, not hard enough to make her skin blush, because the girl physically attacked a female teacher. The female teacher was put on the sick list for three days.
In the other article the Swedish family themselves talked about their lives in England. The girl said emphatically that she liked her English school much better than her previous Swedish school. In Sweden, where corporal punishment has been abolished since 1958, she had hardly ever been able to hear the voice of her teachers because the lessons were too noisy. At her school in Surrey, where she has studied for two years, she said everything was different. She felt she could learn what she was supposed to learn. All the pupils listened to their teachers and they were given homework to do. In Sweden they were never set any homework at all, mostly because no boy or girl would have done it anyway.
This girl said that although corporal punishment was no longer used in some British schools, in her school the gym mistress was authorised to use a slipper on the rear-end of naughty girls. She said she didn’t like it, but she tried hard to do her best to avoid getting it. Sometimes, however, she had been unlucky.
As I see it, England is now turning to the same path that Sweden has already taken, so in a few years you will know the result. What I would like to suggest is, why don’t the authorities ask the teenagers themselves. It is their future life it concerns. I can give you an example from my own teaching experience, before I retired as Headmaster of a Swedish secondary school, which might illustrate a girl’s own choice as to how to get out of a scrape. What I am about to describe took place in the late 1960s.
Marlene was caught by me quite by chance coming out of the gymnasium changing room when her own form had a biology lesson. Of course I had to ask her some questions, which she very demurely answered. She had asked her teacher for permission to go to the toilet. But I soon had no doubt that her intention was to try to steal money out of the pockets of clothes the girls from another form had hanging in the changing room — something which had recently happened before. Of course I had to press the girl quite hard to get her to admit her true errand. When she had confessed to me, there being really no alternative, I sent her back to her form but told her to report to my room after school.
Marlene wept silently when I later talked with her and she was terrified of her schoolmates and the teachers discovering that she was a thief, quite apart from her shame and embarrassment in front of myself. She dreaded her mother being informed, too. Her father had abandoned the family. She assured me she had never stolen anything, but she had tried. I told the girl that I intended to call her mother after she had come home from her work that evening and then I sent the girl home.
Half-an-hour later there was a knock on my door. Marlene entered looking very embarrassed and closed the door behind her. Surprised, I asked her what she wanted and noticed how she avoided meeting my eyes. She stammered and was very reluctant to tell me what she had on her mind. Little by little I squeezed out of her that she wanted me not to tell anyone about her. She promised never to do it again. In a very low voice she told me that two other girls had told her I had punished them myself and she wanted me to treat her in the same way and keep it all a secret.
I refused, but she was insistent. I tried to be adamant and told her that I had to tell her mother and I hoped her mother would give her a sound punishment. Then Marlene surprised me again, telling me that her Mum had never punished her brother, her sister or herself.
With a rather grim smile I glanced at a vase containing birch-twigs, which in that month, April, still had only buds. In Sweden we always have birch-twigs in vases in our houses during early spring. I sternly told Marlene that in my opinion, as a senior she was old enough to know better and that she deserved a birching.
Marlene really surprised me again when she readily admitted that she would prefer a birching to her mother and others being told what she had tried to do. An older girl she knew had stolen chocolate bars in a shop and been given a birching by her father, she whispered.
We talked some more but made no further progress. At last I agreed. I chose three very thin and whippy branches and arranged them to make a suitable birch-rod. Marlene looked pale as she stood watching me, clutching at her rather short skirt. (I knew that her mother was poor and did not replace her school clothing as often as she ought.) But I left the alternative option open to her: I could talk to her mother. And as a pressure I added that she had to consider something that she was probably well aware of — that girls always were given the birch on the bare skin.
She hardly hesitated at all, but opted for a birching. She didn’t want anyone to know what she had done, or rather tried to do. Still I felt reluctant. Marlene was a rather thin girl and she looked frightened. She had small breasts pouting out in her cardigan and was slim-waisted with narrow hips and long, lanky legs. The short skirt however curved nicely at the back, promising a girlish round behind.
She shuddered when I pulled her close to my knees and for a moment she tried to resist, when I grasped her round her waist to make her lie down across my lap. There were a few small gasps from her mouth, but she didn’t make any objections. Docilely she let herself be positioned arched over my thighs. At the back I saw her neat little skirt ride up, revealing her stocking-tops and a stretch of bare skin above. Her long legs were dangling, as she had lost contact with the floor. I held her firmly and asked her once more.
This time her answer was barely audible, but she still insisted that she wanted it to be a secret between us. Of course I knew she wasn’t looking forward to getting a birching, but at the same time I was aware that I would have been disappointed if I had missed the opportunity to comply with her own wishes.
In Sweden at that time, 20 years ago, any girl of her age having been detected trying to steal would have counted herself fortunate if she had escaped with a sore bottom from her parents, although corporal punishment was no longer officially practised at school. Marlene was a nice-looking girl and I almost felt lucky. I didn’t waste any more time, but folded up her skirt. Above the waistband of her white knickers I noticed she had a liberty bodice, and across the bare skin between the knicker-edge and her stockings I saw the stretched elastics of her suspenders. Marlene fidgeted and probably felt very nervous and ashamed when I grasped the waistband of her knickers with my right hand and pulled them down, over her swelling bottom-cheeks and below the tops of the nylons covering her long slim legs.
Her body was tense and she squeezed her thighs together and clenched her buttocks when I reached for the birch-twigs, the top ends of which forked out into eight or ten very supple wands with lots of buds. I started by flicking the skin of her bottom quite gently, but Marlene responded at once, as if the slaps did hurt. Her bottom was medium-size and nicely curved and I had to aim carefully to make the birch-twigs inflict a smart to the yielding and resilient flesh of her buttocks only, and not reach too far out on her right hip or stray to her thighs. She wriggled and writhed in a lively manner, so I had to take my time. I waited calmly between the whacks, ensuring that her bottom was in the right position each time I struck it.
The soft flesh moved in rippling waves when the wands bit into the two half-moons, and the thin red lines increased in number as fine welts were raised on her silky skin. She wailed plaintively through the whole birching. All in all it took perhaps about three full minutes before I had given her the 20 strokes I had decided to let her have, building from mild to hard. When I put the birch away she very soon stopped crying, but the redness of her bottom was a proof of the discomfort she must certainly have been feeling. While I still had her across my lap, I pulled her knickers up and then I assisted her to stand up.
She smoothed her skirt down and stood while I lectured her parentally for some five minutes. She then used my washroom, sat down and answered some questions I put to her, received a final few words of advice, and left.
Sometimes, when I am visiting the town where I then was a Headmaster, I meet her and a few months ago, when I did so the last time, we talked for a while. She is now married and has two children and is working part-time as a secretary. Of course we didn’t mention at all the secret we have together. But in a way I think this girl taught me we ought to listen to teenagers. They have their own opinions also on the subject of punishments, when they know they have deserved such. No fines and no long-lasting unpleasant consequences will in their opinion replace the very short and much more effective soon-passing pain of a suitable corporal punishment.
T.R.,
Sweden
From time to time, we have seen this view expressed as a majority verdict amongst teenagers questioned for opinion polls. Who knows what secrets are being kept? — Ed.

Publicly Provocative Posteriors
You just would not believe how unlikely some of the places are where a real bottom-fancier can have some excellent days’ viewing of the female form. Recently Jane and I went to a charity football match at our local sports ground, and during half-time out on to the centre of the pitch came this female dance group. What a sight! Six of the most gorgeous bums you could wish to see, and talk about erotic! These girls certainly knew how to display their charms to the full, what with pelvic thrusts and bending over rubbing their hands over each others’ white knicker-clad bums. You just had to see it to believe it! A treat for any Janus reader’s eyes. And all this in front of a mixed crowd. God knows what sort of routine they do for private clubs and parties.
As you can see from the photos enclosed, this account is totally true. The photo of the blonde with the crimped hair is my favourite. How she thrusts out her delectable backside encased in skin-tight cotton pants! Bending over like that, she was just begging for someone to have gone out there and given this provocative young miss a damn good spanking in front of everyone. Don’t you agree?
P.J.,
Shropshire