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Sunday, 29 November 2020

A Stay at the Institute

From Blushes Uniform Girls 41
A girl is sitting cross-legged on a bed. A very pretty girl with a full-lipped, sensuous mouth and masses of darkly curling, shoulder-length hair. She is wearing white short-sleeved pyjamas, with bare feet. Her knees are raised and her bare arms rest on them. She is looking vacantly straight ahead.
In fact it is not so much a bed as a bed frame on which the girl is sitting. Just a frame with its bare steel mesh which supports the mattress. But there is no mattress and she is sitting on the bare springs. If we had the view from underneath, we would see her ripe buttocks in the thin and skin-tight cotton pyjamas tautly held by the steel strands. These steel strands will be cutting rectangular patterns into the soft flesh. But we cannot see that.
Undoubtedly the steel mesh must be painful to the girl’s bottom which is full-fleshed and ripely curved, but her face does not show it. The reason for this is that she fears she may be being watched. This quite small room is otherwise empty, no other person is present and indeed there is no other furniture apart from the stark bed frame, but there is the thought that she could be being watched from a secret observation point. A one-way mirror perhaps or a secret spy hole. And if she is being watched, anything other than passive and immobile acceptance of her lot can bring painful penalties. The cane. The cane excruciatingly across the palm of her hand. Or possibly instead (or indeed as well) the cane across that ripely-curving rear.
Someone in any event will be coming shortly. A certain man. A man who will carry a cane in his hand. Almost certainly she will get a dose of this cane, but if he has no excuse or reason otherwise, the dose may be reasonably perfunctory; a routine caning. Not that routine canings aren’t painful, but they are not half as painful as one delivered with the zesty eagerness which an identified fault will bring.
Yes, when a girl has been here a few days she will have learnt to avoid anything out of the ordinary at all costs.
Where is this? Where are we?
----//----
It is not possible to give its name, let us simply call it The Institute. It is in fact a country house in one of the green counties of Southern England. It is not a unique place, there are a number of them dotted about the country generally like this one sited in converted country mansions in their own, usually spacious grounds. Spacious grounds with mature trees and shrubs and, last but not least, a high and formidable wall. This latter is considered essential because the girls are not confined to their rooms all day, healthy outdoor exercise being regarded as highly desirable.
And the inmates? The girls. Well, it could easily be the girl next door. Your neighbour’s girl next door. Has she gone away recently, to stay with an aunt say? That is what you may have been told. Because The Institute and its sister establishments are highly confidential. The Government has no wish to publicise their existence, or even acknowledge that they exist. And a girl’s parents will equally have no wish to broadcast the matter even if they were not adjured to silence.
And why are girls here? Why would your girl next door be spending a week (or longer) at The Institute rather than with her aunt in Southend? The answer is quite simple: Correction. Discipline. Perhaps a master at school is unhappy with Fiona’s performance. Her work perhaps is not as good as it might be — or perhaps she is simply not being very cooperative. Fiona is a pretty girl and Mr X is quite partial to pretty 18-year-old girls and likes occasionally to slip his arm, in a friendly manner, round her waist. But Fiona does not accept this in a friendly way. She is in particular likely to jerk away when Mr X’s hand, as it may do, slips down onto the ripenesses of her flanks. Mr X finds this response annoying: he would much prefer Fiona to stand passively still while his hand conducts a seemingly absent-minded but nonetheless detailed exploration of her shapely bottom.
Such behaviour from Fiona clearly calls for some sort of response. We do not need to consider Mr X’s part and whether he should or should not be seeking to fondle the bottoms of pretty girls; but Fiona’s rejection of this undoubtedly represents a degree of insubordination. A lack of discipline and self-control which calls for treatment. And that is what The Institute is for. A short stay behind its high walls will undoubtedly persuade Fiona that standing still and allowing your bottom to be fondled is no big deal and it is entirely sensible to accept this without any demur. Because what she will receive in her short stay at The Institute will certainly put it in perspective.
----//----
The girl on the bed frame, who is called Fiona and is here for something very similar to the above, is still passively waiting. Occasionally the long-lashed eyelids may blink or there is a minor twitching as a joint complains of its painful position, but otherwise she is immobile. Outside, beyond the closed window, it is an early autumn afternoon. Two other girls in T-shirts and shorts can be seen running hard on the dirt track which winds around through the trees and shrubs (laurel and rhododendron). They are sweating freely on this warm afternoon, appear close to exhaustion in fact, but nonetheless are endeavouring not to flag, to keep going hard…
But that is outside, another world. Fiona may be out there herself tomorrow afternoon but today it is this little room with just the bare bed frame. And shortly…
Another five minutes and he does appear. He looks rather like a government official. In striped shirt and tie, middle-aged and paunchy, steel-framed spectacles, balding but what dark hair he has oiled down. Suddenly opening the door and carefully closing it after him. In his hand he carries a cane. Yes, of course. Her eyelashes flutter tremulously but otherwise she remains immobile.
‘Hello Fiona. Being a good girl, are we? Keeping nice and still and concentrating on all our little shortcomings?’
‘Y… Yes Mr Green.’
Remaining in position and quite still. She has been here four days now and knows the drill. Oh yes, she learnt it, very painfully, on that first day. Sunday. What Mr Green wants. Or demands. With that cane. Mr Green is her special tutor. He sees her all the time. Occasionally there is one of the others but usually it is Mr Green. Are the others better or worse? They couldn’t be worse.
‘Yes. A good girl, eh? Well perhaps we are learning. But we’ve got a bit more to learn yet, though, haven’t we?’
Mr Green doesn’t really expect an answer to this. Fiona mutely sucks in her lower lip. Mr Green has moved close to the bed. His hand comes out, to Fiona’s pyjama-clad boobs. The hand closes on the near-side one. Squeezing the ripe, unbrassiered globe. Finger and thumb feel for her nipple through the thin cotton. Tweaking it.
‘Yes, well, I think we need a little something, don’t you? Get up. And then take your pyjama bottoms off. Yes, a little something.’
She is going to be caned of course. Fiona is going to be caned, on her bare bottom. It will be an excruciating, hotly-stinging pain. But hopefully just bearable. She hasn’t done anything, has she? So it will be routine. Bad. Very bad. But… bearable…?
She has struggled up off the bed frame and is standing now, at the side, sliding down the tight pyjama bottoms. Off of her ripe hips and then down the firm-fleshed thighs. There is nothing underneath of course. Just the nubile flesh set off by the dark bush of her pussy. The pyjama bottoms are slid on down her long legs and then she steps awkwardly out of them. Her legs are stiff from being in that one position. Mr Green tells her to turn.
Feet together, hands straight at her sides. And yes, we can see now on her bare bottom the marks of that steel mesh from sitting on the bed frame. Lozenge-shaped indentations cut into the soft flesh.
Then Mr Green’s hand is at her bottom. Fondling. Jiggling. Tweaking the ripe flesh. Then his two hands (he has placed the cane on the bed) take the hem of her pyjama top and briskly lift it. Up high under her arms and reaching round her front to lift it clear of her boobs. They are full and ripely thrusting out. Fiona is a very well-developed 17-year-old. Mr Green’s hands cup the bare tits. Squeezing.
‘I think I was perhaps a little too easy on you last time, Fiona. You weren’t really gasping, were you?’
No! I mean yes, Mr Green.’ Her voice with an hysterical edge. ‘You did… do it very hard. Please…’
Mr Green grunts. He is concentrating on her tits. Rolling the nipples between finger and thumb. They are stiffening up. One hand slides down and cups her pussy.
In her ear he breaths, ‘By rights I should give it to you really hard, Miss. So that you’re hopping around for about five minutes afterwards. Not knowing which end is up. So that you think the cane has cut your bum in two!
Fiona gives a frantic squeal. At Mr Green’s words, though the hand at her pussy is making her gasp. He lets go, and tells her to get over the bed. The usual position. Leaning over the iron frame at the foot of the bed with her hands reaching forward as far as she can and gripping the frame.
She is shaking with fear now, as she nonetheless complies. Is she going to get that? Mr Green scorching it in just as hard as he can. The thought makes her feel sick. She has had a couple of hard sessions from Mr Green, earlier in the week before she had learnt the rules and learnt to follow them precisely. Sessions when he had really whacked her bum. The memory of those canings can make her sweat — but even then he probably wasn’t giving it to her with his full force. If Mr Green has decided to now.
There is the ever-present thought of what another girl has told Fiona. ‘Before you leave they like to give you a caning that really knocks you into next week. As a final reminder. You have to go to the bathroom first and have a pee. So there are no accidents. Because the caning is going to be so bad you might wet yourself, and they don’t want you peeing all over the floor.’
Half the time she was sure that girl was only trying to scare her. But only half the time. For the rest… Fiona could very easily believe it. And now… was she about to get one of those canings? So hard it could make your bladder control simply give way. Suddenly Fiona felt the need to go. Uttering a strangled little cry.
She was over the end of the bed frame now. Stretched over it and reaching her arms out as far as she could to grip the iron sidepieces. Her face and her bared tits are in painful contact with the steel meshing of the bed. Her nude bottom arched up over the end section, high and thrust out: a perfect target for the cane. Mr Green’s hand is at Fiona’s trembling bottom.
The words are stammering out, barely intelligible. ‘What?’ Mr Green asks, his hand fondling the trembling flesh.
She manages to repeat it more clearly. She… thinks she needs to go to the bathroom.
Mr Green gives a rough laugh. ‘Not now, young lady. You’ll just have to keep it bottled in. Until we’ve finished. Can’t you do that?’
As he asks the question his hand slides in between Fiona’s thighs. To take hold of her cunt. He slides his thumb in between the lips, which are wet, as if Fiona has wetted herself already or is aroused and ready for sex.
‘Eh Miss? You’ll just have to hold it in.’ His thumb has found her clitoris and is rubbing it. Fiona gives a little squeal. The moisture between her legs is just sweat, from fear of the cane. At the moment at least. But she does need to go.
What if she can’t control it… and it just comes out…
Mr Green takes his hand away. He has got her partially aroused, because a hand holding your bare clit is shocking but also necessarily arousing whether you like it or not. Yes Fiona is aroused and even more hot and bothered. And in that state any caning is bound to feel twice as bad. Fiona gives a despairing cry…
THWATT…!
Oh Christ! The desperate burning hurt of it! Hanging on for dear life as the shockwaves pulsate up through her. From that white-hot point of impact where the accelerating cane has come to an abrupt halt, sinking into the yielding flesh of the undercurves of her nates.
THWATTT…!!
Fiona hears her own desperate cry. As a second lands virtually on top of the line of the first, to send out its own shock waves. The two in unison hammering in her brain. She can’t take this! The white-hot pain is impossible. Her hold on herself is rapidly going… and maybe she is going to wet herself. Maybe… she has already… But her mind can’t hold onto that, there is only this quite impossible fire in her bottom.
THWATTT..!!!
Her now red-striped bottom desperately jerks and writhes. She is still somehow hanging on to the bars…
----//----
In the grounds the other two girls are still running, one at this point some 20 yards ahead of the other. Both are flagging somewhat now, with thighs burning with fatigue. Faces straining, sweat-streaked, and tight T-tops sweat-wet too to delineate boobs and burning nipples. Flagging but trying desperately not to because round behind the house, to be passed at each successive circuit, is their tutor with his stopwatch. Watching critically for any significant lessening of pace. If at any point he decides the pace has dropped off unacceptably he will order one or both to stop. To unceremoniously yank shorts down (there are no knickers underneath) and order the wearer to bend over. It will then be the cane of course.
It is possible to reach a point of exhaustion when this may seem the more acceptable alternative to struggling on. Because it does mean a few moments respite from the running. A little break in which the air can be gulped in to feed those desperate leg muscles. The only question is: is the price too great? The burning thighs will have a break but at a dreadful price to the bottom. At the moment the balance of these two awful alternatives seems to be for struggling desperately on.
----//----
And inside the house, this substantial country mansion, there are of course other small rooms very like the one in which Fiona and Mr Green are engaged. Rooms in which other girls are closeted with their tutors. Rooms in which the cane is being utilised — or has just been, or is about to be. The hiss of the cane through the still air and the sharp CRACKKK! it makes on impact. And instantaneously the gasped breath, or involuntary squeal, or yelp.
The cane is the main aid in the exercising of girls at The Institute. Teaching them to be better individuals. More disciplined. More cooperative and submissive to the desires of others, in particular those in authority.
Yes, the cane is the common denominator in all training at The Institute and its sister establishments. It is relied on by all tutors. Some like to cane a girl’s hand, held out palm upwards. Right hand and then left, perhaps two strokes to each. But this will be a prelude, for the main target is always her bottom. The girl’s bared buttocks, the traditional target for a cane’s attention. The cane is put to use as soon as a girl has arrived; and it will be used as virtually the last act before she gets in the official ancient Daimler, to be conveyed away to the quiet little local railway station and her journey home. By this time, at the end of her stay, she will be extremely well acquainted with the cane.
Her time at The Institute will naturally seem interminable. A week will certainly seem like a month. A week is the usual time and it is Fiona’s allotted span. Seven days that will seem like seven weeks and more. But the week will finally come to an end.
----//----
‘Well Miss, do you think you have benefited from your stay?’
Yes this is Fiona’s last day. Eleven o’clock and she is due to catch the train in two hours’ time. She has reported to Mr Green in this little room, dressed for her departure. But dressed for the journey or not, this does not mean that Fiona is not to have a final last session with Mr Green.
Mr Green and Fiona are not in the same room as before. This room does not have that bare bed frame as a central feature which we saw earlier. In fact that room is at this moment in use with another girl. Her name is Susan, a pretty blonde, and she is at this moment bending over the end of the bed frame, stripped nude and receiving the cane on her desperately clenching buttocks.
Susan’s tutor is Mr Philby who likes to cane a girl’s hand first and so Susan has that additional still breath-taking pain in each hand to contend with as now her poor bottom gets the treatment. This is not Susan’s last day, it is only her second at The Institute. She therefore has almost all the week still to look forward to, if that is an appropriate expression. So yes, poor Susan would consider her plight much worse than that of Fiona, who is shortly to leave.
Getting back to Fiona, the room in which Mr Green now has her is likewise only starkly furnished. Two upright wooden chairs and a wooden carpenter’s trestle and that is essentially it. Fiona is standing to one side of the trestle facing Mr Green who today is wearing his suit jacket. On the seat of one of the chairs is his cane.
Fiona says unhappily ‘Yes Mr Green.’ It is her last day but there is still an hour and more to go. Fiona is well aware that Mr Green is not finished with her yet. She still has to receive his last parting tribute.
She is wearing a pretty blue-and-white striped dress together with nylons and low-heeled courts. This dress is the one in which Fiona arrived here those seven long days ago, her mother’s choice as suitable (attractive but not way out); but the nylons and indeed the sexy brief underwear, which we will see shortly when Fiona has to remove the dress, were supplied by The Institute. They replaced the tights and somewhat less glam underwear which Fiona arrived in and which she had to remove when, immediately upon arrival, she was required to strip nude for her first caning. Girls at The Institute, when they are not in the nude state or wearing brief sports gear for running etc., all wear brief and sexy underwear. For the delectation of the tutors naturally.
‘I wonder,’ Mr Green muses, ‘If you really have learnt any sort of lesson. Or whether as soon as you’re out of the door here you’ll be just as bad as ever. It certainly happens. And then of course a girl can very easily get sent back. For us to have another go at. A second time round, of course, we really give it to her.’
Fiona gives a squeal of fright. ‘No… please… I have… I really have…’
Mr Green frowns. ‘What we can do is give you something now, to remember on the train at least. A final good bottom warming to go home with.’
Fiona stands mute. She has been well aware that she wouldn’t get away, on this final morning without something extra special from Mr Green. Fiona has heard on the grapevine that you always get something extra on your final morning. The thought of it was filling her mind all day yesterday, as well as last night in bed: the thought that shortly she would at last be leaving The Institute — but that first of all there was this final awful hurdle to get over. Yesterday was pretty awful anyway: for one thing there was an extra session with Mr Philby.
Mr Philby who excruciatingly caned her hands (slicing the cane devastatingly onto Fiona’s open palms, two strokes to each) before doing likewise to her bare bottom. Yes, that has been bad… but she was fearful that this last morning was going to be even worse.
Mr Green is sitting on a chair now and beckoning to Fiona. She is to get over his lap. A hand spanking, he says — just to start with of course. Well, a hand spanking can’t be too dreadful; not compared to the cane.
Fiona of course doesn’t argue. She gets over his lap and Mr Green yanks up the skirt of her dress. And now we can see the sexy slim-strapped suspender belt and very brief and diaphanous knickers. Mr Green proceeds to pull the knickers down, to the tops of the nylons. Then his hand slams down…
It may be only his hand and not the cane… but it is a devastatingly stinging blow. Completely knocking the wind out of Fiona. Followed by another… and another… A steady succession of breath-stopping belts to the tender bare flesh of her bottom.
Fiona’s pretty face is wet with hot tears by the time Mr Green has eventually had enough of this. Her poor bottom feels like a slab of medium rare steak. When he pushes her to her feet Fiona can hardly stand. She is trembling all over. And of course she is now told that what she has had is merely a preliminary, not at all the main item.
She now has to take her dress off. Now Fiona is going to get the cane. Bending over the trestle. Soft-voiced Mr Green tells her: she is going to get the cane as she has never had it all week. It will be a real caning now.
----//---
Back at school Mr Moxan wants to see Fiona, first thing on Monday morning. It is Mr Moxan who had her sent to The Institute of course, after Fiona objected to his little foibles. Mr Moxan likes to discreetly fondle a girl’s boobs and also of course her bottom, when he has her in his room to discuss some aspect of her work. His hands as she stands at his side at his desk softly crawling up the backs of her thighs and onto the ripenesses of her bottom. And then when he is standing perhaps turning her round and from behind his two hands coming round to gently cup her boobs.
Fiona foolishly objected to this sort of thing. ‘Please don’t do that.’ And so Mr Moxan spoke to the Head, not saying specifically what the problem was, only that Fiona was uncooperative and awkward. As a result the Head sent a report to the education people at county level. The next thing was the official letter received by Fiona’s parents.
Mr Moxan doesn’t know any details about The Institute; very few people do. He is vaguely aware that there are such places and that they are highly confidential. He has been told by the Head that Fiona is not to be pressed for details. The official story of course is that she has been to stay with an aunt for the week. Both the Head and Mr Moxan are aware that she has been to some sort of place of correction but that is all. Suffice it to say that she has had some treatment and the problem of not being cooperative should now be sorted out. If it is not…
‘Did you have a nice time with your aunt?’ Mr Moxan asks. When Fiona says a hot-faced ‘Yes sir’ he chuckles.
She has been told to come and stand close at his side and Mr Moxan’s hand now slides up the back of her skirt. This is of course the sort of thing which caused all the trouble, but there is no dissent from Fiona now. As the hand slides up the warm bare rear of her thigh under her skirt.
Mr Moxan laughs softly. ‘That stay with your aunt, Fiona, does seem to have taught you to be sensible. I am pleased.’
The hand reaches her tightly-knickered bottom. It does some fondling… and then pushes between Fiona’s legs. Fiona’s breathing becomes more agitated but that is her only reaction as Mr Green’s fingers stroke her pussy.
‘Yes, I can see we are much improved,’ Mr Moxan tells her. Then he tells her what he wants. After school he will take her out in the country in his car. A nice little drive, and they will stop somewhere nice and quiet and Fiona will be able to show him how pleasant and friendly and cooperative a girl she now is. Now Fiona is going to be sensible they will be able to have a whole new relationship.

Saturday, 28 November 2020

Retirement Day

Photo-story from Janus 122
Len Shawcross had yearned after girls for years. Especially ones who worked in offices. In his younger days the diligent but solitary accountant’s clerk had peered in painful longing at the loose-fitting blouses and spreading jive skirts that hid alluring feminine secrets as their owners took dictation, answered telephones and arranged appointments for the boss.
When, in the sixties, mini-skirts had come in, and typists and secretaries suddenly developed legs all the way up to the tops of their thighs, and had bent, reached and stretched their way about the office as office girls do, Len had exulted in treasured glimpses of their skimpy-knickered lower bottoms.
But never had he dared to touch. Len was a peerer, not a groper. He was far too scared of the angry shriek, the slapped face and humiliating proceedings that would have surely followed such loss of self-control to ever allow himself that welling-up of rapture as his hands contacted the forbidden curves of a girl’s posterior.
Now time had overtaken him. His retirement day had arrived. From tomorrow there’d be no more need to set the alarm clock, no yawnful ride into town on the packed train, no more luncheon vouchers or business appointments or holiday rosters.
From tomorrow there’d be no more office girls.
No more girls to gaze at and dream upon. No more chances to peer furtively at their legs and bottoms, to sidle closer and thrill to the smell of their perfume and hairspray. But Len’s biggest unfulfilled dream was not only to touch, but to spank the prim, inviolable, heavenly bottom of a girl from the office.
One like Loretta Rowlands, for example. She had only been temping there at Grimsdyke and Smithers, Industrial Engineers, for a week, but already Len was lost in hopeless but fabulous fancy about her. With her dark hair tied casually back, the blouse with the unfastened buttons that teased him with glimpses of her breasts when he stood over her at the computer, and the short skirt that clung seductively to her rear and rode up when she bent forward — almost, it seemed, to taunt him further. When she caught him peering at her bottom, she actually smiled, and instead of slapping his face she stroked it.
How different girls were these days, Len thought. Oh for the joy of bringing his hand down on that divine derriere with a resounding smack! Had Len been aware that his peerings and sighings had been something of a joke for his colleagues throughout the years, he would have died from embarrassment. But, to some, it seemed a pity that this basically kindly and inoffensive person was to retire without ever having tasted the fruits of temptation.
It was the office manager, Jason Lomax’s, idea to hire in a rather special office temp during Len’s final week. He had been most specific in his requirements, and Loretta had been the result. Yes, she was pretty and yes, had ‘a lovely arse’. Yes, she could operate PC systems too, had keyboard skills and could file like a veteran.
But in her spare time Loretta was a Stripogram girl.
A deal had been struck.
Hey, and anyway, she liked the old boy. Had become really rather fond of him. He mustn’t know what had been planned, of course — that would never do. But today was the day, and the moment had come.
Jason gave a little speech about Len’s forty-odd years with the company, and made a joke about quill pens and ledgers and coming to work by horse and cart. Everyone smiled, and Len blushed. It was Loretta herself who handed him the wrapped gift, and smiled at him in a way that made him feel warm all the way down to his size eight shoes.
‘Unwrap it, unwrap it!’ she said, clapping her hands in girlish excitement. Len did so. And stared. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘It’s very nice’ Then he blinked at them. ‘Wh-what is it, exactly?’
‘It’s a slapstick,’ said Jason.
‘But what’s it for?’
‘Can’t you guess?’ said Loretta, smiling saucily and tossing her lovely dark-maned head.
Len’s throat went dry. ‘I know what I’d like to do with it,’ he ventured huskily.
‘Go on then,’ she coaxed. ‘It’s your last day. What would you like to do with it?’ A chorus of encouragement greeted this.
‘If you’d…’ He couldn’t get the words out. But her eyes were shining into his.
‘Go on,’ she urged.
‘If — if you’d just turn round and bend over… I’d show you.’
There was a collective, well-rehearsed gasp.
‘You mean… smack me with it?’ Loretta was pretending to look shocked.
Suddenly Len felt bolder. ‘Yes,’ he said, his voice strengthening. ‘Bend forward over the desk This is for spanking naughty girls’ bottoms with, isn’t it?’
‘And I am very naughty,’ she said, swinging round and, to his bedazzled amazement, doing just as he said, sticking out her bottom in a provocative manner.
Trembling, Len raised the brief skirt that had been driving him mad all week. He felt dazed, as if he’d fallen asleep and found himself in the middle of a dream. Heaven’s gate began to open as he stared, trembling, at what lay immediately beneath. Loretta was wearing transparent panties. Through them he could actually see her bottom, a real live girl-bottom.
Hoping that his heart wouldn’t stop from the excitement of it, he lifted the ridiculous-looking slapstick and brought it smartly down to smack against Loretta’s voluptuous bottom-cheeks with a loud clapping sound.
The girl yelped, and Len faltered, but the others, who had withdrawn to give him space, egged him on. Elation filled him as the hand-shaped object rose and fell repeatedly, working up a rhythm. Why, he might have been doing it all his life. Len had discovered he was a natural spanker!
For Loretta, what had begun as a bit of fun was becoming distinctly uncomfortable. The nice old boy was bringing that thing down with some force, covering every inch of her backside with sharp, hard bites of hurt. The grunts and hisses he was making as his arm rose and fell were evidence of his growing excitement which mounted steadily in pace with the smarting in her backside, while the watchers clapped in time to each smack till it sounded like applause.
‘Yow! Ow! Blimey! Sodding hell! OUCH.’
Len delivered another flurry of smacks at Loretta’s exquisite bottom, then paused. ‘Stand up! he said, his voice surprisingly deep and commanding. He seemed to have forgotten the office and the grinning watchers: it was between him and this beautiful girl with the enchantingly naughty bottom. It was also, as he was later to realise in his solitary reveries, between him and all those lovely bottoms he had yearned to spank throughout the years.
‘Take your knickers down!’ How often, too, had he fantasised about actually saying that. Loretta had stopped smiling. Her bottom was hurting, and Len was no longer a figure of fun but someone to reckon with. She peeled the panties down her legs.
‘Now get back over that desk!’
Loretta was no novice at baring her bottom in public, but never had she had such an enthralled reaction as this. As she leaned forward into position again and pushed her naked buttocks out, the man gave a cry of rapture. It made the girl shiver with strange ecstasy, that the mere sight of her bare bum could cause such delight.
The others in the office were silent now, and seemed to melt away as Len raptly raised the implement, measured his distance, and swept it to its luscious target already pink from his previous attentions.
Smack-slap-smack-smack-slap. The sound was loud and sharp, hitting the walls and windows. Loretta began to cry out and plead in a girlish way: ‘Please don’t hit my bottom so hard, sir! Please don’t! I promise not to be bad again, sir!’
The girl wasn’t entirely acting now, either. For her, the joke was over. As her bare bottom bounced, reddened and stung from the repeated whacks of the ludicrous flail, the pain was genuine enough.
Smack-slap-smack-smack-slap. No laughing matter at all. Every lusty stroke of the stick made her body jump galvanically. Her eyes had moistened, and tears threatened. Yet there was a sweetness about it all somehow, too, that made her not really mind. She was young and healthy, and her bottom could take it.
Len Shawcross seemed to sense the girl’s acquiescence as he brought the slapstick whapping down yet again to compress those pillowy mounds whose nubile elasticity appeared to spring the stick back high in the air again ready for the next stern crack. Her bottom was really red now, as if it were blushing from the shame or excitement of being punished. And, as he continued to heartily smack, she shook her hips from side to side as though to disperse the heat, and gave out little pleas and gasps that filled him at first with compassion and then elation.
‘Stand up!’
Slowly, whimpering, Loretta stood up. To be honest, Len was a bit puffed from the unexpected but heaven-sent exercise. He lowered himself on to the typing stool where this girl’s own pert bottom — the same one he was now dealing with so soundly — had nestled and squirmed as she worked the keyboard, driving his temperature up until he had yearned to be that lucky stool-top.
But now that very same bottom was his to attend to. Len watched in enthralled fascination as she rubbed her sizzling buttocks. ‘Oh, Mister Shawcross,’ she gulped, fixing him with a look of new respect. ‘You’ve got a hell of a whack on you.’
‘Yes,’ he said sternly, ‘and there’s plenty more from where that came from. Set me up for an old fool, would you? Take off your skirt!’
‘What?’
‘Never mind “what”, girl. Off with that skirt and get across my knee!’
Loretta took off her skirt and dropped it to the floor. He was grinning at her as she did so — not maliciously, but with a sort of giddy pleasure, as if he couldn’t quite believe this was all really happening, yet was savouring every moment anyway.
The girl lowered herself tentatively down across Len’s capacious lap. It felt snug there, and she wriggled around to get comfortable.
But she wasn’t comfortable for long. With knickers down around her calves, Len Shawcross, for the first time in his life, spanked with his hand a girl’s bare bottom, profoundly enjoying the feel of his broad palm clapping loudly down on those superb, previously forbidden, buttocks. It was, indeed, a dream come true: the sound and sensation of his hand slap-clap-smacking, sinking briefly and painfully into the pads of curvaceous girl-flesh, then flying back to repeat the action, again and again and again, was sheer joy.
As Loretta, her bottom beginning to feel like a steadily stoked furnace, squirmed in pain and discomfort across Len’s broad lap, his hand began to tingle from its constant contact with that heavenly flesh. Not wishing to let up quite yet, he reached for the slapstick and continued with that.
‘Ow! Yow! Ow-ooh-no…’ The girl began to buck and heave, her crimsoned bottom afire with a sensation such as she never wished to repeat. Except, as she later decided, the whole affair was not only extremely painful but weirdly sexy.
Whap-whap-whap-whap-whap. Oh, how that devilish toy stung! By the time Len, sated and gloriously happy, finally let her up, Loretta felt that her bottom was in flames. The girl staggered to her feet, hands kneading the hot fleshy pillows.
‘Oh!’ she gasped as the heat simmered and throbbed.
‘Let me have a look,’ he commanded, and she turned her bottom to him so he could inspect his handiwork. She moaned softly as his hands roamed exquisitely over that perfect bottom, caressing and fondling, basking in the musky womanly tang that came from her nearness, that almost had him howling like a wolf as his palms raptly squeezed and stroked and probed towards the forbidden secret female entrances.
Loretta winced as his hands roamed her burning cheeks, although the soothing sensation of those hard, capable hands was by no means unpleasant, and she felt a stirring and moistening in her genitals.
‘Take everything off cried Len. The bra — all of it!’
And Loretta did. Well, she was used to stripping in front of people, but it always gave her a buzz. She peeled off her bra and stood there before the retiring Assistant Accountant, seeing the flush in his rubicund cheeks and the lively twinkle in his eyes as he savoured the sight of her nakedness.
There was a pop! Champagne flowed. The office staff were cheering, clapping. Glasses were filled, flooding over the rim. Loretta, smiling despite the pain in her rear, poured some for him.
But Len Shawcross needed no bubbly to brighten his day. ‘Bring that gorgeous bottom here again, young lady,’ he murmured, and when she turned and pushed it obediently out towards him he poured the fizzing coolness over her heated cheeks, so that champagne dribbled between her buttocks and down the backs of her legs while she crooned with pleasure.
‘In my day,’ declared Len sternly, ‘a spanking wasn’t meant to be enjoyed, it was meant to be felt, young woman. Bend over again — I’m not quite finished with you!’
It was almost the end. Soon the curtain would come down, and all there would be left for him would be rose-growing and flyspray and tending tomatoes in his little greenhouse till the sun finally set on his life.
The girl seemed to know this. He would remember her forever as she turned again, her bottom running with intoxicating wetness, and gave it a provocative wiggle. Then he slapped that silly slapstick over her soaking rumps, making them smart and sparkle, rousing the silky skin to a deeper red till her bottom smouldered and prickled deliciously.
Len sat back at last. ‘You may get dressed now,’ he told her. He was smiling as she picked up her clothes, knowing it wasn’t really a game, and that she had been thoroughly punished. He had spanked the bare bottom of a beautiful office girl who, thoroughly chastened, was going away to get quietly dressed and reflect on her chastisement.
For Len Shawcross, life was never going to be the same.