UNCLE PETERS SPANKING STORIES

The year is 2010, and under a ‘Rationalisation of Public and Essential Services Act’, a state-endorsed corporal punishment system has been introduced for misdemeanours. Consequently, medical supervision for its implementation has became mandatory. We join a group of young Doctors as they undergo a training session.

'Right, gentlemen, before we go in to the Application and Implementation Room, let me re-cap the procedure you are about to witness.'

He glanced around the group of six young men, all of them clearly agitated despite their almost comical desperation not to betray their excitement. This procedure was the unacknowledged demonstration that, not only were they about to be recognised as fully-qualified doctors, they were to be admitted to the trusted elite of State Ordained Doctors. Stethoscopes were fiddled with in deep white medical-coat pockets, feet shuffled and many unblocked throats were cleared.

'As you know,' the Professor intoned, 'under the Rationalisation of Public and Essential Services Act of 2010, state-endorsed corporal punishment was introduced for Level II misdemeanours and, consequently, medical supervision for its implementation became mandatory. Obviously, it would not do for any two bit  licensed Medical Practitioner to take part in such proceedings, and so it was decided that only those with full qualifications, graduating in the top five per cent of their year group, should be deemed competent for this onerous task.'

More foot-shuffling and throat clearing as the students acknowledged the weighty burden they were being asked to bear, Their shoulders drew back with one accord and jaws jutted out in preparation.

'At the start of the proceedings, it is the responsibility of the attending State Ordained Doctor to give a thorough physical examination of the Offender to ensure they are suitably fit to undergo the punishment. Should there be any doubt about this, they will be returned to the Penal Dormitory for an indefinite period until they can be passed as fit. This means that nobody evades the legal consequence of their criminal acts and, since they have to pay for their accommodation in the Dormitory, they are unlikely to malinger.

'if you are happy with their physical condition, but have even the slightest concern about the Offender's mental state, you must give them either an oral or written test; in cases of grave ambivalence, both should be administered. This might be in the form of a discussion about their offence and the judicial procedures they have undergone, a written account of the same or an exercise to test their awareness and concentration. . . '

'Any questions so far?'

He did not really anticipate any interjections and was about to proceed like the cleric at Jane Eyre's wedding, when a timid-not-to-show-it voice asked, 'Could you elaborate on the nature of written exercises, sir?'

Hiding his irritation, the Professor shrugged and waved his hand vaguely. 'Whatever you deem suitable: writing out one hundred times "I must not commit this type of offence again" is a fairly standard test. Personally, if I have any doubts about an Offender's psychological state, I run them through the whole set of tests; have them recount aloud to myself and others the full details of their offence; then I get them to write it out to see if there are any discrepancies. If there are, I return them to the Dormitory for observation; if it's okay, I do a final check by getting them to write out several times "I am a thief" or "I am a prostitute and deserve to be punished by the State" or whatever. If they can manage that, the punishment can proceed.'

'Doesn't that mean that the punishment session takes up a lot of time?' another student asked.

'Justice cannot be hurried,' came the curt response. 'That is why there are three Application and Implementation Rooms which can be used simultaneously. Don't worry; we've never had a day yet when the order sheet has not been completed.'

The students dutifully laughed and their tutor continued.

'As the only representative of the medical profession in attendance, it is your duty to pose the offender appropriately. They may be free-standing, bent under instruction to receive their chastisement, or you may decide to employ the Frame. As you will see, this comprises an upright pole slightly less than average human height, fitted with a bite-block, with a cross-beam ending in padded hand-grips, a support beam at crotch-height with diagonals leading to the floor ending in foot-blocks.'

The young medics struggled to retain an air of concentration whilst trying to picture the contraption in their minds. The Professor elucidated.

'The usual practice is to have the Offender straddle the support beam facing the upright, with their feet placed either inside or outside the foot-blocks, depending on how widely spread you decide their legs should be. They hold onto the hand-grips and may choose to use the bite-block - this is for their own benefit as sometimes they have an urge to swear or hurl abuse at their Chastiser, which causes the punishment to be re-started. They are, of course, permitted to cry or respond to the punishment in other natural ways that do not cause offence.'

'So they are not actually restrained?'

'Of course not! That would be an infringement of their legal rights. The Frame is provided to make the punishment manageable for all concerned. It displays the Punishment Area of the Offender clearly to the Chastiser without causing undue discomfort, it protects the genitals of males and it enables the Offender to maintain the position with a degree of dignity.'

The intellectual of the group spoke up. 'Could you tell us, Professor, if there is a standard profile of an Offender?'

'To incur this type of punishment, a Level II Offence will have been committed. The most common misdemeanours in this category are prostitution, vandalism and shoplifting. There are other offences, but they occur less frequently. The majority of Offenders presenting themselves are female, aged under thirty and generally they will appear about three times; if they commit the same Offence more than five times, of course, they are automatically classed as Level III Offenders and will be sentenced to spend time in a Penal Industrial and Social Seminary to practise a trade and take part in a re-socialisation programme.'

The eyes before him were beginning to glaze over. 'Similarly, those qualified to attend the Application and Implementation Room have a profile. It would be exceptional, though not inconceivable, for a woman to hold such a position. However, since no females have shown the perseverance and dedication to graduate to your level in the past five years, it is unlikely you will have many female colleagues.'

'Who else attends a chastisement and the medical examination?'

'The Chastiser, obviously, and a Security Officer would be the minimum. There may be Graduate Trainees from the Penal Professions attending in a purely observational role and there may be, as is the case today, medical students attending as part of their practical training.'

'Do the Offenders have any say in whether such people are present?'

'A First Offender may decline for reasons of modesty; otherwise there is no choice. However, it is particularly instructive to observe a person undergoing penal corporal punishment for the first time and so they are offered an inducement of a reduced chastisement in return for their cooperation. And now, if there are no further questions, I propose we get the proceedings started.'

A couple of the students moved towards the door and were disappointed to find that they were to spend yet more time being instructed before they gained their long-awaited "hands-on" experience. The Professor pulled a cord and a curtain slid back to reveal an observation panel allowing them a view of the Application and Implementation Room without the Offender knowing of their presence.

The young blonde stood nervously in the centre of the room, resolutely obeying the instruction not to turn around to examine the Frame. She was well-proportioned with full breasts that needed no artificial support, a neat waist above curvaceous hips and clear skin covering it all. The female Security Officer stood mute guard.

'Offender 387, gentlemen,' the Professor announced. First offence of prostitution; sentenced to twelve strokes of the birch; reduced to eight strokes from assorted implements in recognition of her co-operation in helping you learn your craft.'

At last he led the group into the adjoining room. The temperature was decidedly cooler, although by no means in contravention of the health and safety regulations. The Chastiser joined them and the Professor instructed his students to begin examining the Offender.

There was a momentary confusion, since it was not clear whether this was to be a group head-to-toe examination, a full examination in turn by each student or a division of labour with each medic taking responsibility for one part of her anatomy. They finally decided they would undertake a collective thorough examination. There was no couch in the room, so they would have to position her conveniently at each stage with the aid of the Frame or the one hard backed chair.

Logically, they started with her head. They told her to stand with her hands at her sides while they performed various tests. The Security Officer left the room momentarily and returned with a trolley laden with miscellaneous medical aids and implements.

They began with her hair. Two of them used fine-toothed combs to check for signs of infestation, although, if this had even been suspected, she would have had her locks shorn in the Dormitory.

One of the students commented on the fine condition of her hair and they each fingered a lock and concluded that this indicated general good health. Her ears were checked, although nobody could think why and then her eyes - ostensibly to check the rate of pupil dilation to ensure she was not under the influence of drugs. The pin-prick lights applied to each eye six times left her momentarily dazed and when she was subsequently asked to read the chart at the far end of the room, her voice was hesitant as she struggled to focus. The results must have been satisfactory, however, because the students turned their attention to her arms and shoulders.

She was told to stand, feet together arms raised to shoulder height reaching out to either side with her hands palms-down. They walked around her, making - she was sure - spurious comments about her posture; her shoulders began to ache and an involuntary tremble twitched through her arms. This caused interest. Her fingertips were supported by two medics while two of their companions examined her muscles and discussed the stress they seemed to be undergoing.

'She hasn't been depilated properly, one observed and reached for a disposable razor from the trolley. 'Better do It wet, I suppose,' he added, and dipped It into a bowl of tepid water. Offender 387 raised her arms above her head while the soon-to-be Doctor scraped away invisible stubble.

'Hands on your head,' she was instructed and immediately found her proffered breasts being crudely manhandled.

'Good shape, firm. No sign of cosmetic surgery,' someone remarked lifting and twisting the fulsome mammaries to check for scars. Her nipples were hardened from the cool air and provided natural holding points for the rough examination, 387 closed her eyes to blot out the humiliation and was asked if she were having visual problems. An affirmative answer· or the slightest indication that this might be so - would have had her returned to the Dormitory, so she stared straight ahead with the silent resolve to not even blink more than was absolutely necessary.

Successive cold stethoscopes pressed against her chest and back. The flesh at the Side of her waist was pinched to check for obesity, her navel was scoured with a cotton bud to confirm personal cleanliness,

'Bend from the waist and place your palms on the floor.'

She complied, her hair tumbling forward and sweeping the ground. She found the position difficult to take up and even more difficult to maintain.

'Good straight spine; legs seem to be having difficulty supporting her, though. Maybe she isn't sufficiently fit?' Muted mumblings took place as she struggled to quell the tics in her thighs: whatever it took, she was determined not to have to spend more time in the Dormitory: for one thing, she couldn't afford it. . .

'Arms displayed similar characteristics, if you remember,' she heard. Unkind hands kneaded her calves. 'Better put her through her paces before making a decision,' someone said sagely.

'Stretch your body parallel to the floor, weight supported on your toes and hands,' someone commanded. She held the position for a count of ten, then was told to perform fifteen push-ups. The floor covering had a rubberised smell and its frigid touch tautened her nipples further. The final three gave her problems, but she completed them and held the position until further instructions were issued.

'I'm really not convinced of her fitness; notice the shortness of breath after just a few press-ups; I recommend deferment of sentence for one week with daily aerobics to increase stamina.'

'It could simply be the stress of the situation causing the shallow breathing,' someone volunteered. 'Let's run one more test.'

"Run" proved to be the operative word: 387 was ordered to run on the spot for four minutes. She was constantly exhorted to raise her knees higher, pump her arms more, lift her head . . .  Her unsupported breasts bounced, comfortably at first, then with jerking, weighty thumps and slaps against her torso as she was ordered to pick up her pace. The feminine roundness of her tummy and backside rippled from the unaccustomed motion. Despite the cool air, a sheen of perspiration glistened on her flushing skin.

When she was permitted to stop she drew one deep breath, then concentrated on controlling her breathing. The stethoscopes were applied again; her pulse was taken; her blood pressure was read.

'She'll do,' an anonymous white coat pronounced

'We'd better check the punishment area then,' a colleague suggested. The Offender swallowed hard; she had heard stories about this part of the examination,

Each student donned thin latex gloves - ominously on each hand, rather than the customary single she had encountered on routine gynaecological investigations. Digits were smeared with clear jelly, and she was told to spread her legs and put her hands on the chair seat. Bending forward stiffly, she felt cold, slippery fingers parting her buttocks. More fingers were probing intimately, testing the extent of her natural reflex to clench and repel their advances. A sudden internal pounding in her ears stopped her hearing the vulgarly unmedical comments being made about this sensitive region and the likely efficiency of her bodily functions.

Eventually, she was helped to stand upright. . .

'Lie on the floor and draw your knees up so that you are holding them apart against each shoulder.' The floor was still cold, but It did nothing to ease her burning embarrassment. She heartily wished she had accepted the full twelve strokes of the birch and foregone this terrible intimate assault.

Again the slick fingers stretched and probed her delicate, personal folds, remarking on their formation, their sensitivity, their elasticity, the rapid response of self-lubrication to their manual investigations and intimate probing's.

'I suggest a full shaving to allow proper monitoring of the chastisement,' an authoritative baritone contributed. 'And she'd better be lathered this time.'

Still lying on the floor, she found her exposed genital and anal area smothered in cheap soapy foam. There was a slight stinging sensation as some of it dribbled intimately, then her attention was taken up by the long, lewd scrapings of the blade. Whoever was performing the operation was very skilled. She normally left this area in its natural state and he had first to crop the long tangles and then shave the stubble. By the time he had finished, the area at the base of her belly and between her legs was completely nude, and the girl was sobbing openly.

'Seems somewhat unstable. I think we should put her through some psychological testing before we pass her as fit.' The voice sounded young, but who could take on the responsibility of this work and be truly youthful? She sighed.

'I see what you mean. I suggest she gives an oral account of her offence and we can check It against the written transcript of her trial.' Even as the baritone spoke, a copy of the transcript was being handed out to each medic.

'Begin when you are ready, Offender 387.'

She swallowed hard, then panicked that they might take this as a symptom of some medical or psychological problem and resolved to keep her voice steady. Nobody had told her to stand, so she stayed as she was, lying on her back, thighs drawn up and spread, her newly shaven sex exposed and agape. She spoke with a pleasant southern counties' accent, surprisingly educated and articulate.

'I was arrested on a charge of prostitution on 17th February and my case was heard two weeks ago. I pleaded guilty but claimed mitigating circumstances. These were that I had been living and working in Manchester but my employer began making sexual advances to me and when I rebuffed him he sacked me and refused to pay my due wages. I therefore had to hitch-hike back to my home area in Surrey and on the way a lorry driver forced me to have sex with him.'

She saw one of the students was about to ask for clarification, so she hurried on with her narrative.  . .'Although he did not physically force his attentions upon me, he took a secluded route and refused to continue the Journey unless I submitted. I felt I had no alternative.

Later we stopped at a transport cafe and before I could negotiate a further ride with a different driver, he had told them all that I would pay my fare with sexual favours. It seemed the only way I could get home was to comply.'

'And that led to your arrest?' somebody asked. 'That does not seem to fit in with the legal definition of soliciting or prostitution. In fact, the drivers should have been arrested for their actions towards you.'

'No, that wasn't it. When I reached home I had nowhere to stay. I no longer have any immediate family and had previously shared a flat with two girlfriends. However, they could not accommodate me and I was desperate for a room. Given all I had been through, it no longer seemed so terrible to trade sexual favours for the price of a few nights' accommodation. However, the second man I propositioned was an off duty Police Officer and he arrested me.'

The medical students looked at one another, seemingly disappointed that her account had been so lucid. The baritone was about to suggest the chastisement commence, when a colleague spoke up.

'I notice she declined to give details about the sexual acts she performed. This may suggest she lacks full comprehension of her offences. I move that she produce a written account of each encounter.' The relief amongst the group was tangible and a table with appropriate stationery was speedily produced. 387 sat and rapidly wrote her account, conscious of her half-hour deadline. When it was complete, she once more stood in front of the team to await their response.

'Seven acts in total including one with simultaneous multiple partners; two incurred direct cash payment, plus there was the attempted soliciting of the Police Officer. Acts defined as perverted as well as conventional intercourse. I would say she is fully cognizant of her crime and the punishment it has earned.' There were murmurs of assent. 'However, it is interesting that she did not include this information in her original account. It may be that some element of reinforcement is desirable before the chastisement begins; just to be certain of her mental readiness.'

Once again she sat at the table charged with the task of producing one hundred lines in less than an hour ("I am to be severely chastised because I am a whore") was the exact wording collectively decided upon.

By the time the task was completed, 387's eyes were brimming with tears she dared not shed.

The students collectively led her to the Frame and positioned her so that her legs were spread to their limit (feet outside the blocks) and her bottom jutted so her weight was just about supported by the horizontal bar. Her attention was drawn to the voluntary gag and her hands were positioned at full stretch on the grips. Someone she could not see made some final adjustment to her position so that her buttocks were spread even more and the support bar pressed cruelly into her chafed sex.

The Chastiser took up his position. Now it was his turn to demonstrate his expertise. Ignoring the discomfort and humiliation of the Offender, he took the time to explain his actions and intentions to his audience.

'This chastisement,' he drawled in what had once been known as "Estuary English" 'will not, sadly, be as effective as it could have been, had the original sentence of twelve strokes of the birch been administered. As a consequence of this I am afraid that Mistress 387 is very likely to reoffend. However, you gentlemen will benefit from seeing a range of chastising implements in use and get an Idea of their relative effects.' He paused and dramatically drew back a curtain to reveal an array of tools of his trade.

'Gentlemen, the cane.'

He selected a long supple wand from a collection of similar honey hued rattans. Without preamble, he raised It high and struck 387's buttocks and then repeated the procedure before ceremoniously replacing his weapon.

387 emitted a long piercing wail and then bit hard on the towelling block, desperately trying to kick her legs to ease the stinging pain, an act thwarted by the widely spaced blocks.

'You may examine her, sirs,'

They needed no second bidding.

Six hands, still gloved and greased, traced the emergent weal's as they metamorphosed from thin white streaks, though reddened furrows to purple, furred tramlines lying parallel across the fullest part of her bottom. 387 gasped at their touch and groaned throatily.

'Stand clear. The classic tawse.'

A broad leather strap, split for part of Its length, hissed through the air and impacted with a distinct slapping sound that echoed around the bare chamber. Even as the two-tongued mauve Image took shape diagonally across her rump, Its mirrored-twin was being Imparted.

Again the young men surged forward, eager to feel, to touch, to exacerbate her agony. She held fast to the grips but bucked so that the just-visible support bar took on a dubiously crude Identity. Through the thin latex, their fingers sensed the heat rising through the welts, they saw the beleaguered flesh pucker at their touch and they marvelled at the vehemence of her response to their prodding's,

When they stepped back, the Chastiser displayed the original Implement of her sentence: a birch.

It seemed almost laughable: a bundle of twigs, unwieldy, undisciplined; but It hissed through the air with demonic threats and drew from Its victim a high-pitched screaming sound that defied interpretation. 387 knew that she would receive at least one more stroke of this fiery torture, but could not stop the wailing sound that snaked from her throat long enough to draw breath. When the second blow landed she was gulping air desperately to try and replenish her lungs for further protest.

As the probing fingers explored the extensively-punished skin, she let forth a guttural howl and writhed shamelessly on the support bar. Her grinding hips seemed to invite further investigations, and her nates were stroked, pinched, scraped and slapped by the six highly aroused students,

'Slut!' one of them pronounced sourly as they once more withdrew to observe the Chastiser's final assault.

'Something different gents. A martinet. Quite a gentle little toy really if applied in advance of the others. However, I think you'll be interested in seeing the effect It has on already-tenderised flesh First, see how the unpunished skin responds.'

It didn't seem as If there was any skin that had not already been dealt with, but the Chastiser was not aiming at her rump. Instead, he took careful aim and brought the bunched thongs down upon Offender 387's unmarked back. A tracery of pink appeared almost at once, although in comparison with what they had already witnessed, the little whip seemed almost pathetic,

'And now to the treated area" the Chastiser announced, swinging the lashes rapidly and hard so that they cut through all the previous marks,

387 screamed and seemed about to curse them all with their unfortunate acronym, but Just in time she checked herself and instead bit Steadfastly into the gag and assaulted the support bar in a fashion that definitely hurt her more than the impervious pole. As one, they surged forward and whistled in amazement at the fine filigree weaving its way through the multi-coloured blotching's and stripes. One slippery finger followed a trail that started at the Offender's right hip and led into the deep cleft between her buttocks. Similar tracks were traced and remarked upon as their bearer sobbed uncontrollably.

'Discretion, gentlemen.'

The Professor was with them again, shepherding them from the room. Watching through the observation panel, they saw Offender 387 receive a final admonition from the Chastiser before also being ushered away, still naked and with her hands folded on her head so that she could not comfort herself en route to the Dormitory for her period of respite.

The professor then made his final address to his young protégées.  

'I would like to thank you for your participation gentlemen, but please be aware that overseeing such proceedings is not mandatory by any means. Therefore should any of you feel you will be unable, for reasons of conscience or otherwise to supervise any future penal chastisements, you may declare yourselves now, with no loss of status or prospects.'

Not surprisingly, there were no declarations forth coming.

THE END

Link to another free Spanking story- - > “Sixth Formers Leaving Present”

A day which had started so well and promised so much suddenly turns painfully sour for a pretty young blonde. She wasn't sure what had upset him, but she knew she would be punished most severely. This is her own account, told as events unfolded in real time.  

Alone in the darkened room, the girl lay curled up in bed gazing apprehensively at the razor of light sneaking through the crack in the door from the landing beyond, where lay the stairs and down the stairs, the hall. and leading off from the hall, the dining room, with the meal, cold and untouched, still on the table. And at the table, she was sure, he'd still be there, seated, arms folded, grim and unforgiving - just as he was half an hour before when, with the meal about to commence, she'd said or done something or other to displease him and he'd banished her instantly from the room.

So suddenly, so inexplicably had he yelled at her that, in dumb dismay, she'd fled the room and scampered like a frightened rabbit up the stairs, little bottom gyrating beneath the short blue games skirt. Hot, pearly tears of indignant disbelief gathered in her eyes as she smarted from the bitter blow of being so summarily and so arbitrarily rejected - excluded from the warmth of his affection. What had she done, she asked herself, in God's name what had she done?

She was cold, frightened and hungry. As if to under line the latter deprivation, her tummy gave a sympathetic rumble. Jugged hare! Her favourite meal of all! She'd been looking forward to it all day, and the memory of its appetising aroma mocked her in her misery.

Like a petulant child she'd slammed her bedroom door vindictively, not caring if he, still seated in judgement downstairs, heard the noise. She'd practically ripped off her skirt and, standing in just aertex shirt, little white cotton pants and ankle socks, had bent her firm young body taut as a bowstring to untie her shoes. Kicking them off her feet, noisily and rebelliously, she'd peeled off her knickers and socks, likewise her shirt, flung them in an untidy heap on the floor, leapt into bed, flicked off the bedside light and pulled the cold quilt up over her head, as though to blot out the harsh, cruel world.

"Why, oh why did he always have to set such impossibly high standards?" She tried so hard, so very hard, to match up to them; but she was, after all, only a girl. She'd never be a paragon of virtue, that she knew, and she resented him for still demanding that of her. Why couldn't he, for once, meet her half-way? But no, it was always this. Sent to bed instantly: utterly dejected, and hungry for more than just good food. Then the long, lonely wait in bed cold fingers of fear creeping up her spine every time she heard a rustle or creak downstairs, imagining that her time was near and he was preparing to come up to see to her. And those ridiculous little pyjamas she always had to wear, that made her feel about ten.

"Oh Christ, the pyjamas!" She'd forgotten. She fumbled frantically for the light switch, scrambled out of bed and ran across to the dressing table. She was lithe and leggy, pert-bottomed, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders. She opened the drawer and there they were, in the left-hand corner, neatly folded: fleecy, cuddly, pink-flowered girl's pyjamas, child size thirty-two. They looked so tiny she was always amazed that they fitted her at a II, though by no stretch of the imagination could it be said that they fitted her comfortably. The jacket was O.K., that went on easily, even if the arms were on the short side. But the trousers were always a bit of a problem. They clung to her legs, particularly the tops of her thighs, and stretched drum-tight across her dainty seat, like a second skin. They nestled in the crack between her cheeks and rubbed insinuatingly against her pubic mound. She studied her trousered bottom in the mirror behind her, and reflected bitterly on how blatantly erotic, yet patently punishable they made it appear. That, she supposed, was the idea. Not so much plump as cheekily prominent, her bottom seemed bigger than it really was only because the rest of her was so delicately small. She looked fragile yet she was by no means weak, and had often surprised him by the wildcat struggle she would put up, the energetic kicking and flailing before giving in and allowing herself to be thoroughly spanked into abject, tearful submission.

Painstakingly, she'd coaxed herself into the pink flowery pyjama trousers, stretching the elasticated waistband perilously close to snapping in order to accommodate the full firm flare of her girlish buttocks. They didn't quite reach her waist, and the trouser bottoms ended just a little way below her knees. She'd touched the well-worn, threadbare seat of them with a curious fondling motion. They were drawn tight across that part of her person that was going to be so shamefully, so relentlessly punished. She'd felt more exposed than if she were naked. She'd come to associate the wearing of these pyjamas with the prolonged, painful tannings she so dreaded. She only had to put them on to feel her stomach starting to churn and her bottom acquire that nervous twitch it always seemed to develop just before he spanked her. It unsettled and unnerved her, having to dress as a little girl again - she could practically feel herself regressing. She had a sudden, overwhelming desire to suck her thumb, and to go to the cupboard and fish out her ancient, dog-eared teddy . . . . . .

She looked down at the untidy heap of clothes strewn on the floor, thought better of it, stooped to gather them up, and arranged them neatly over the chair. Then she remembered that was the chair he'd use, so she lay the garments carefully on the dressing table before climbing back into bed. The tightly clinging pyjama trousers accentuated every move she made: every swing of her hips, every wiggle of her bottom. Even when snuggled once more under the quilt, she was still acutely aware of the provocative dimensions of her cheeky little bottom, and the cruel fate that awaited it, because the taut cotton trousers were a constant reminder of its existence.

Would the spankings ever cease?. . . They seemed to have been going on for years now. He insisted, even ordained, that her frequent lapses from grace warranted, positively demanded, them.

"Little girls must be treated like little girls!" he'd hiss venomously, and she'd shudder and wriggle anxiously in her seat.

Then there was the matter of the mirrors. He'd invariably position the chair so that he could watch himself spanking her in one of the wings of the dressing table mirror. She knew this because of the full-length mirror facing her as she lay across his knee. If she wanted to, she could actually watch him, watching himself spank her. She could even, if she craned her neck, see her own bottom - so that, as well as feeling the discomfort and pain of the spanking spreading across her cheeks, she could also watch them reddening into burgundy colour under his hot, punishing hand. But she preferred not to, choosing instead to close her eyes, grit her teeth, and try to imagine how blissful and serene it would be when it was all over and he took her into his arms. It was like having a tooth filled at the dentist's. You had to steel yourself, discipline yourself to cope with the nagging discomfort and sudden stabs of pain. Strange, she thought, how he liked to watch himself smacking her ..... perhaps studying her outspread bum, her cleft, her secret places at leisure; gloating when, near the climax of the spanking, she abandoned herself involuntarily to a paroxysm of vulgarly suggestive bum wiggling's, with no thought to what she was displaying, because by then her trousers would always end up around her ankles, or else discarded completely, lying crumpled on the floor - just to add to her embarrassment.

In fact the mere thought of the excruciating ordeal ahead - of heaving to go, blushing and bare bottomed over his knee - was enough to make her wet the pillow with a sudden onrush of hot little tears. For comfort she put her hands between her legs and tried to rock herself off to sleep, but every time she shifted slightly in the bed the trousers caught in her crack, nudging her back into anxious awareness of the impending spanking hanging over her like the sword of Damocles.

Then the sound she dreaded. The heavy, measured treat slowly ascending the stairs. This was it! Now she was for it!

"Oh God! . .  Oh God!" she began to blubber helplessly, as the door swung open and the big light from outside flooded in and dazzled her.

"Big baby!" he scoffed contemptuously. "Fancy crying before I've even started!"

He could be cruel with words as well as with his hand. He came over to the bed and stooped to regard the pathetic, huddled figure clutching the top of the quilt as if her life depended on it. Then he reached down and tore back the quilt from her grasp so that her curled-up, defensive attitude was fully revealed.

She was lying facing away from him. One tightly trousered bottom cheek presented itself coyly, tremblingly. He scrutinised it for a second. then slapped it hard and derisively. She let out a little whimper of alarm and reached behind to shield her bottom from any further attack.

"Come on. Over my knee," he said quietly, and she froze in sudden panic as he seated himself in the usual chair and waited for her. She had no alternative but to obey. If she refused or even hesitated he'd only drag her by the ear out of bed and fling her face down over her lap. So she pulled herself miserably up from the bed, wiping away the fresh tears from her eyes, and arranged herself blushingly across his knee - anxious only to get the distasteful business over with as soon as possible, even though she knew that afterwards she'd be too sore to sleep for hours.

The odour of his thick tweedy trousers, redolent of pipe tobacco, engulfed her, and their coarse texture itched and prickled her through the thin nylon of her pyjamas. She was ever so conscious that her bottom must be presenting a ludicrous spectacle, dramatically emphasised as it was by the tight nylon pyjama trousers, worn threadbare of their fleeciness by the many, many times he'd spanked her. Some day, no doubt, his heavy calloused hand would prove too much for the flimsy material and it would split beneath the impact, and he wouldn't need to make her take them down, but carry on resolutely smacking the raw, red bottom flesh - rather like peeling a tomato.

Now he was rubbing his hand up and down her bottom and between her thighs, and with an upward movement, tracing with his finger, the well-defined division of cheek from cheek: once again getting her used to the feel of his hand on her bottom, to remind her that its pert, prominent outcrop of female flesh was going to experience the force of male justice so thoroughly, so intimately that very soon she'd be yelling her head off, begging and pleading with him - her vocal protests jostling with the loud reports of the smacks. Small wonder that she got such funny looks from the neighbours. Even passers by outside the window would be left in no doubt that here, at least, was one stroppily disobedient girl who was getting her just deserts.

Pulling her even further across his knee, like he always did, only made her feel even more helpless than before, because it left her dangling in mid-air, with no safe, reassuring anchorage of floor to brace herself against. Everything seemed to conspire to make her feel a helpless, vulnerable little girl again - right down to the childishly pink floral patterns on her pyjamas. The only conflicting factor was the hot stickiness she was starting to experience between her legs, and already she was dreading the moment when he'd make her lower her trousers, in case he noticed it too.

Then suddenly he was smacking her, hard and fast, and the unique stinging sensation that only a spanking engenders began to invade her loins. Remembering what he'd said about her being a baby, she resolved to make him eat his words, by enduring the awful, smarting indignity with stoical calm and fortitude. But, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't rid herself of the appalling sensation of degradation and shame that always seized her while being spanked, and it was that, as much as the unpleasantness of a hot stinging bottom, that caused her to break her resolution and give way to whimpers and pleas of:

"Not so hard! PLEASE not so hard!"

But that only served to arouse the fury in him, and he gave her half a dozen stingers right across the summit of both cheeks that had her wriggling frenetically and screeching like a cat that's been trodden on.

She opened her eyes and cast a beseeching look at him through the mirror, but his head was tilted the other way. He was obviously observing the whole thing through the dressing table mirror: the saucy spread of her bum and its frantic gyrations, his descending palm repeatedly punishing her melon-like pulchritude, walloping it into subservience, chastening it for the sexual provocativeness of its inviting recesses.

Now he wanted her bare-bottomed.

He wanted her to display herself before him in the full flower of her red-cheeked disgrace. Awkwardly. painfully, the weeping girl slid off his lap and stood upright. She was always allowed a few moments' respite in which to massage the parts of her bottom and upper thighs that hurt her the most - and tonight she took full advantage of this. Then she tugged the little pyjama trousers down to her knees, hotly blushing at having to reveal herself so completely, so ignominiously, and fighting back fresh tears at the thought of the most painful part of the spanking still to come. He made her turn round so that he could study in close detail the full effects of his handiwork. The blush on her bum far outdid the blush on her face. Fierce strawberry blotches made curious patterns on what was once a virginally white bottom. The cheeks still twitched and trembled uncontrollably. Most men would have been content with that and said: "Enough is enough!" But not he.

Over his knee again she had to go, a forlornly trouser less, scarlet bottomed girl, biting her lip in dread of the next stage in the proceedings. Having to put on those childish pyjamas was bad enough. But then to undergo the ordeal of offering a nakedly-ashamed, well spanked bottom for further punishment well, that was just too much, even for the bravest of brave girls! Her cries and sobs acted as a backcloth to the loudly reverberating impacts of his hand on her bare bottom. He knew she couldn't possibly take more on the ripe extremities of her cheeks, so he turned his attention to the darkly sensual cleft that divided them, and, by angling his hand sideways, was able to 'refresh the parts of the bottom that other spankings couldn't reach.'

This momentarily stunned her into silence, but she soon let him know, at the top of her lungs, how she felt about this rude intrusion into her maidenly privacy. She never dreamt he'd spank her there: Oh, it was awful, awful! How could she ever look him in the eye again?

Outside in the street, a man and woman, locked together against a wall, heard every smack, every girlish cry of distress that issued from that upstairs room. The woman felt embarrassed, even indignant, that such things in this day and age could still happen, and wanted to move away. But the man was fascinated, spellbound by the sounds of the girl being spanked, and it so galvanised his lust that he pushed her to the ground, hoisted up the front of her summer dress, pulled aside the gusset of her knickers and entered her, brusquely, almost savagely although despite her show of indignation she was far from being unreceptive and unready.

Long after the lovers had departed, sated, yet puzzled by their own reaction to the incident, the well-spanked girl in the room upstairs tossed, sore and restless, in her bed - trying in vain to blot out the shameful memory of what had occurred.

"You never learn, do you!" had been his parting shot as he'd stalked from the room, leaving the rosy-bottomed girl face down on the bed, sobbing her heart out, pathetically calling out his name long after he'd gone. No, she'd never learn. But, then, did she really want to?

 
THE END

As Jane stubbed out the cigarette carefully on a wooden post, she tucked the butt-end into her jacket pocket to hide the evidence. It was only then that she heard the slight rustle of another presence in the stall as feet disturbed the thick lining of straw.

"You know the rules about smoking in the stables, Jane," came a voice out of the gloom . . . "and the penalty for it."

Jane peered into the darkness, trying to identify the owner of the voice.

"Who the hell's that?"

The head lad stepped out of the shadows and moved down the row of stalls towards the girl “And in my opinion, you would benefit considerably from a sound thrashing."

"A thrashing, Mr Greaves?"

Jane's voice rose nervously as she realised she had been caught out at last. All those surreptitious gaspers she had snatched behind the barn, in the barn, in the tack room, in the stables them shelves, and she'd never been caught. In six months as a trainee stable girl, she'd worked hard and managed to stay out of.trouble. Until now. Greaves had been waiting for an opportunity like this. The haughty tall youngster had irritated him from the start, thinking herself a cut above the other girls and lads who also worked at the stables. Now there would be a chance to bring her down a peg or two and enjoy her discomfort at the same time.

Jane's mother had been keen that she should come to Red Lodge, as they treated their staff well and had a high reputation with the racing fraternity. Just out of school at 18, Jane was a bright girl who saw Red Lodge as a stepping stone to greater things. Which might account for her apparently aloof attitude,  an attitude which had already caused Greaves to mark her down for special attention. The problem, of course, was that Jane's work was faultless. Always perfectly turned out - as she was now, in spotless cream jodhpurs and hacking jacket, the white blouse neatly pressed, the boots well-polished - she was a source of inspiration to the other girls, and a source of attraction to the stable lads.

Up to now, none of them had managed to get close to her, let alone take her out. Only young Derek had dared snatch a kiss, for which he'd been rewarded with a sharp slap across the face, an encounter he wasn't about to forget. The incident had brought down the derision of his friends on him, in a gently mocking way, and Derek was always looking for ways in which he could get back at Jane. Telling old Greaves about "someone" smoking in the stables was a neat way of obtaining revenge.

"You were smoking, Jane, I saw you," Greaves went on, "show me the fag-end would you please?". Jane's hand went automatically for her jacket pocket and she pulled out the remains of the cigarette and held it out. He took it from her and smiled. "Well, well, so you're not quite perfect, are you?" She said nothing, just staring at the evidence in his hand and wishing she were somewhere else. Anywhere else. But she was here. "I'll have to report this, of course. Mr Boughton will not be pleased. Smoking he disapproves of. Smoking in the stables, where the fire hazard is considerable and you put at risk thousands of pounds worth of racing animals, he looks on very seriously indeed. I wouldn't be surprised if it was two visits to the study for you, my girl." Greaves smiled tapping the ridding crop slowly against his boot. Derek, standing just around the corner of the stables, smiled too. Jane knew about visits to the study. Other girls had told her about the beatings meted out there to stable lads and girls in equal measure. The strap and the cane were commonly used at Red Lodge, the owner believing in the effectiveness of corporal punishment as a deterrent

"Two visits, Mr Greaves?" she heard herself ask.

"Uh-huh. Two doses of six of the best, I wouldn't be surprised. Bare arse, of course. To make sure you get the full benefit."

"Do you have to report me to Mr Boughton, Mr Greaves. I mean, it is my first offense, and everything ... " Jane began.

"No, I don't have to report you. I might decide to deal with you myself, right here and now, as Mr Boughton's away for three days."

Jane's jaw dropped as she caught what he had said. The idea of a beating from this self-important little man was something she found even less appealing than being punished by Mr Boughton on his return. Outside, Derek's grin widened as he realised what old Greaves was up to.

All Jane's brain could manage was a weak "Ooohh" She shifted her feet awkwardly as Mr Greaves looked her up and down.

She was a pretty little thing for sure, tall, slim, with breasts a little heavy and bottom rather plump for her frame, a fact which could not go unnoticed in her skin-tight jodhpurs. He decided to take a risk and exceed his authority with this attractive little minx. if old Boughton found out, there would be hell to pay. But even if there was a risk, it was one he would enjoy to the full.

"Been up to the study before, have you Jane?" he asked, knowing full well she had never had cause to be called up to the house for punishment.

"No, Mr Greaves."

"Do you know what happens up there to those who step out of line, do you?"

The pretty teenager shook her head, not really wanting to know.

"Well, they get their backsides bared and warmed up with a strap. . .”

Jane blushed 

“. . then they get a dozen with the Masters cane!”

“Ever get the cane at school, young lady?"

". . N-no, Mr Greaves, they didn't use corporal punishment at my school."

"Mores the pity, my girl, because you're about to get your first dose of it here. Get 'off to the tack room and wait for me there. . . and put a saddle on the trestle for me, understand"

Jane nodded and shuffled out of the stall and across the yard to the tack room on the far side of the stables. This was the moment she'd been dreading. And to get it off grubby Greaves instead of Mr Boughton, who at least wasn't common like the head lad was really quite horrid

Derek on the other hand couldn't wait to see Miss snooty boots get her comeuppance and hurried round to the back of the tack room, where an open window would afford him an unrestricted view of the impending punishment. He could see Jane placing a saddle on the trestle before looking round nervously at the approaching footsteps of Mr Greaves. The way the saddle was pointing Derek realised he would be getting a very full and intimate view of proceedings, he only wished he’d brought his camera.

Jane noticed with alarm that Mr Greaves had changed his own crop for a longer one of split and twisted cane with a silver handle, the wood plaited skilfully to make a particularly whippy crop, the fold of leather at the end making it seem spectacularly long.

"You're not going to use that, Mr Greaves?" she asked in a high, nervous croak

He pretended not to have heard: "Get your jacket off, Jane, and stand by the trestle, this thrashing is long overdue."

Jane shook her jacket off her shoulders and hung it carefully on a hook on the wall before crossing to the trestle as she had been told. The jodhpurs emphasised the slimness of her legs and the swell of hips and buttocks above them. Greaves eyed up the target area appreciatively, as' the muscles tensed and relaxed.

"Let's have those jodhpurs down now Miss!"

The crop whistled through the air in a practice arc, causing Jane to flinch involuntarily. She fiddled at the waistband for a moment, and the tight material was shortly being pushed down her thighs to rest at her knees.

"Tuck that shirt up, girl," he ordered, and Jane rolled the shirt up high above her waist, revealing the snug-fitting white cotton knickers she always wore.

There was an awkward pause as the teenager stood there waiting for the order to bend over the saddle, Greaves toying with the idea of whipping her bare. Ah well, he thought, in for a penny . .

"Take your knickers down and bend over the trestle," he ordered sternly.

There was not a moment's hesitation and Jane's fingers hooked into the waistband of her knickers and hitched them slowly, oh so slowly, down the full swell of both cheeks, past the crease between thigh and buttock, down the smooth curve of her legs to' rest with her jodhpurs at her knees. The girl was now entirely bare from midway down her hack to her knees, the rounded protuberances softly tensing as she moved position to bend over, the light tan of sunbathing emphasising the target area where the bikini had preserved the pale cream flesh.

"How many am I going to get, Mr Greaves?" Jane asked, looking over her shoulder.

"Two more for asking," he grunted, Jane bent without further delay and wiggled over the saddle until she was comfortably Lying across it, her hands spread to grip the legs of the trestle, her legs straight behind her.

'''How old are you, Jane?"

"Er, eighteen Mr Greaves. "

"Hmm eighteen and never been tanned!. . .I’d say this is long overdue don’t you think?"

Jane didn't respond.

Outside the window, Derek made furtive adjustments in his trousers as he manoeuvred himself into a slightly better position. Jane certainly had a terrific arse, full and well fleshed despite her bent position.

"Yes . . long overdue young lady?"

Jane just wished he'd get it over with. The waiting was agonising, the embarrassment excruciating. She felt a light slap, on her right cheek as Greaves tapped her with the palm of his hand.

"You'll not be smoking in the stables again, will you, my girl, not after this little lesson?"

"No, Mr Greaves." There was the smallest tingle as he unfastened the buckle of his belt, and from' her upside down position Jane could see him pull it through the loops and double it over. It disappeared from view and a moment later Jane experienced the blazing impact of leather on bare flesh. The crack of its arrival surprised even Greaves, who let it fall to his side while he waited for the red welt to grow on her bottom.

He laid the leather across the cheeks again to measure the swing brought it up and applied it harder still in a swooshing arc to extract a gasp of pain from the girl:

"Owwwoooohhh!"

Four more times the belt rose and fell, the exclamations from the bent figure rising in pitch with each stroke. There was a long pause, and Jane could see Mr Greaves feeding the object of her discomfort back through the loops in his trousers. She shifted position slightly, and took a new grip on the trestle. The sweat on her fore head trickled into her eyes, and she shook her head, the droplets spinning off to each side. The short hair at the nape of her neck was damp with perspiration and clung to the skin. Derek's eyes bulged as his breath came faster. Snooty Jane was really getting it in there, and he was the only one to witness her beating. The others would be furious . .

"Is that it, Mr Greaves, may I get up?" asked Jane hesitantly? her buttocks tensing as she shifted slightly on the saddle, her legs parting as her boots scrabbled momentarily for a grip on the stone floor. The glimpse of those young secrets between her legs caused Greaves to walk over and stand beside her, running his hand over the welted flesh and slapping each cheek lightly.

"No Jane, there’s six more to come. Plus the two extra for asking how many you were going to get."

No response, just a sigh from the girl. Greaves' hand went between her thighs and roughly pulled them apart as far as the taut fabric of knickers and jodhpurs round her knees would allow. He grasped her hips and hoisted her a little further over the saddle, his hands sliding up and lifting her blouse higher, higher, to her shoulder blades, . until the twin globes tumbled free with a protesting: "Oh, Mr Greaves!"

He walked to the other side of the trestle and Jane looked up at him, totally exposed now and anxious for the second part of her punishment to be over.Idly, Greaves stroked the bare breasts with the tip of the riding crop

"Eight more, Jane, ready for them, are you?"

"Yes, Mr Greaves, just please get it over with."

He beat the girl's bare cheeks slowly and hard, the crop raising rapidly purpling welts across both buttocks, the lines building as Jane's yelps and little screams built in pitch and volume. Derek's view was slightly obscured by Greaves shoulder, but he could see the damage inflicted on the teenagers rear-end when Greaves swung the crop up for the next stroke. Greaves was thrashing the girl harder than she would ever have been punished by Mr Boughton If he had walked in now, Boughton would have gone berserk and Greaves would be out of a job. Interesting thought, that.

When there was a crunch of car tires on gravel at the side of the stable block, Derek thought he must be psychic. He clambered down from his vantage point.

Greaves had paused after the fourth stroke to adjust Jane's position to his satisfaction, in any case. Sidling round the block, Derek caught sight of Mr Boughton walking with two young ladies towards the paddock One of them, a pretty little thing, turned and saw Derek.

"There's someone there, Mr Boughton," she pointed, and Boughton swung' round towards Derek . . .

"Ah, Derek. Don't look so surprised to see me . .  flew back early. Is Mr Greaves about this afternoon ?"

"Er, er, well, I've. . . " Derek mumbled, then as his brain got into gear. . .  "He's in the tack room, sir”

"Ah, thanks Derek .  this way, girls .. Derek could just hear the subdued cries of poor Jane as Greaves started whipping her again, and a sudden roar of rage as Mr Boughton strode into the tack room to see his head-lad flogging one of his teenage employees without authority.

Less than thirty seconds later, Boughton was escorting Greaves across the yard to his car, giving him the full benefit of his tongue:

"And I think after this 'dreadful incident, Greaves, we won't be seeing one another again . . you're fired. I want you out of that cottage by six o'clock tomorrow morning, Understood? And if that girl doesn't sue for assault you're a very lucky man. You swine." (This from the man who routinely thrashed his stable girls and lads).

Derek walked into the tack room to find the two strangers consoling a sobbing Jane, her jodhpurs still round her knees, her knickers being eased over her throbbing backside by one of the other girls.

"Oh Derek, that man is an evil sod," Jane gasped. "He made me undress almost I should have refused, but I was scared. And then he whipped me, bare backside and all."

"I don't think we'll be seeing him again, Jane, so don't worry. Are you going to be all right?"

"Providing she sleeps on her tummy she will, the worst of it should be over in a few days. but it's going to be a bit uncomfortable. . . like when we had that caning at college, Eh Debs?'

Derek looked alarmed. "Caned?" he blurted.

"Yeah, don't tell me you've never had it," the other girl sniggered.

"We'll have to put that right, won't we Debs?" and they both roared with laughter, raising a smile even from Jane.

THE END

A Pretty City reporter is sent on an assignment to a small rural farming village and gets a lot more than she bargained for. Apologies in advance for those of you who are not familiar with Old English Farm speak!     

Ah, what a difference it made being out in the fresh air. Cherri stepped from her car and breathed in deeply. Yuck! She spluttered and coughed briefly as she tried to expel the horsey smell from her lungs. It was so strong. Had anyone seen her? She hoped not, it wouldn't do to let everyone know that she was a city girl at heart.

She looked around nervously but there were so many people at the country fair that no one seemed to have noticed her. The ground under her feet was squelchy muddy, and the air was thick with the smell of manure and the sound of horses and people. Attending the annual country fair was Mr Smedley's idea of course. He was keen that his youngest reporter should experience country life in the raw. Besides, the office had been getting so boring that she had instantly jumped at the chance to get out for a bit.

The fair was certainly busier than Cherri had expected. The car park itself was home to an endless stream of Land Rovers, Range Rovers, Jeeps, four wheelers and the kind of all-weather all-terrain vehicle that dwarfed her tiny Fiat. But here it was, country life. She just hoped that she was dressed right for the occasion. No short skirts this time. After all her other mishaps she was taking no chances and was wearing a pair of shiny black riding boots, cream coloured riding breeches, a tight white top and a tight jacket that was neatly cinched at the waist.

She threaded her way through the car park and into the crowd. It was all a bit bewildering at first. There was some kind of auction going on at the far end of the fair. She could see the horses being led into an enclosure surrounded by serious looking men in cloth caps, big wellies and the sort of faces that could crack mirrors. The auctioneer spoke at ten to the dozen and it seemed to Cherri that he spoke in a language that had little relation to English. But it was all so exciting.

She watched the auction for a while, preferring to remain at a safe distance just in case she coughed and bought a horse by mistake. She soon got used to the horsey smell and after a while she could even discern the smell of food wafting in from the distance. Food. Good old country cooking, just like mother used to make. Except that Cherri's mother used to cook straight from the can, but that was by the by.

Wandering off in search of food she was soon lost in a maze of market stalls. There were so many people that it was easy to get disorientated. She gave up on the food and decided to let herself wander and drink in the sights. Some of the stalls were piled high with home made jams and preserves, or else dozens of varieties of honey, or cheese, or cake... And then there were the arts and craft stalls. There were just so many things to see and do.

It took a while but somehow Cherri found herself at the furthest edge of the market. The stalls gave way at last to open air. After all the noise and the bustle it was a bit of a relief, though she couldn't help but feel a little dizzy from the noise. She decided to walk around the market rather than attempt a return journey through it. She glanced down at her boots and was disappointed to see that the pristine shine had been scuffed away and in places thick clumps of mud were stuck to the heels and soles.

Soon she saw the first of the marquees. The smell of food was all pervading and her tummy was making the most unladylike noises she could imagine. She stopped at the first marquee and peered in. It seemed that the entire interior was given over to racks and racks of riding tackle, boots, hats, waxed jackets and the like. At least it looked like the sort of place that would have something to help her get the mud off her boots.

'Hello? Hello?' she called, venturing into the tent. There were no voices in response, but the smell of leather and the relative warmth were so inviting that she decided to have a good look around.

She gazed at the clothes with great interest. There were simply so many kinds of boots, from heavy walking shoes to thick black waders that looked as though they could swallow her whole. And there was so many different bits of riding tackle that it was hard to know how the poor horses put up with it all.

And then there were the whips, canes and riding crops. A whole rack of them mounted high at the very back of the marquee. Cherri was fascinated by the riding crops. They were such a fashion accessory, they looked simply divine. She studied them in detail: some long and slender and tipped with curls of soft leather, some shorter and harder, some black and some made of brightly coloured braid. Would she look good with one to hand? Surely it was the finishing touch to her outfit?

She leaned up on tiptoes to reach the one she admired the most. It was wedged in tightly on the rack and she tugged at it sharply to free it. It started to give and then it was stuck fast. It looked so good that she simply had to have it. She tugged once more and then the rack teetered dangerously. She stepped back quickly just as the whole rack gave way. It made the most awful noise and she covered her ears as it crashed heavily to the muddy ground.

'Oi! What 'ave I told you before?' Cherri turned towards the source of the angry voice. It's owner, a short, thick set man with a ruddy complexion and anger in his eyes came striding towards her.

'I' m terribly sorry,' Cherri started to say but the man was not listening. 'I told you before,' he repeated, 'leave it alone. 'Ow many times do you have to be told?'

'But I've never ... ' Cherri started to explain but there was no getting through to him.

'I told you last time what I'd do to you, girl, didn't I?'

Cherri had never set eyes on him before but he seemed convinced that he knew her alright.

But I was trying to get a look at the riding crop,' she managed to say.

'You were, were you? Well I ain't about to forget what I told you,' he threatened.

'But...'

'There ain't no buts any more,' he insisted. 'And there ain't no time like the present, either,'

The man grabbed Cherri's arm and pulled her across to the other Side Of the marquee. There was some mistake Of course. It had to be the clothes, Cherri realised. She'd done too good a job in dressing UP like a real country gal.

'Please,' She said, trying to disengage herself but the man was holding fast.

'HOW many times?' he muttered again and again.

It was pointless, he'd Obviously worked himself up into such a state that he was no longer listening. She allowed herself to be pulled over into a corner Where the man finally released her arm. He was still muttering When he grabbed a small Stool and plonked it down in front Of himself.

'D'you know 'ow many 'ours I put into setting that little lot up? . .  Do you, girl?'

'No" Cherri admitted as he sat himself down on the stool

'Too many’ he replied. 'Now, you're about to get What I promised you last time.'

He reached up and grabbed Cherri by the wrists. He pulled her down sharply and soon She was on her knees in front of him. Up close he didn't look the ogre and she could tell that beneath the apparent anger there was something else going on.

"Across my knee, girl" he snapped. 'Oh,' Cherri said as She was pulled deftly over his lap. She was pushed right across so that her bottom was placed directly over his lap and she was staring at the muddy grass only inches from her face.

'You 'IL not make this mistake again' he warned

'But. . !'

The first smack sounded across the marquee and brought a gasp Of surprise to Cherri's lips. Her breeches were taut over her bottom and She Could sense that the tight fitting material was moulded to her curves. She turned to look at him and saw his hand raised high again. She tensed as She watched his hand sweep down majestically to land harshly on her tight round backside once more.

'This'll teach you,' he muttered. Again and again his hand came down, smacking her harder and harder through her breeches so that the stinging sensation grew stronger and stronger. She kicked and struggled but she knew it was pointless. She wriggled on his lap and she soon felt his body respond as he punished her soundly,

At last he Stopped' though her bottom was smarting Still from the rain of smacks that he had dealt out so swiftly.

'Next time you,ll get worse" he promised.

'It stings ... , Cherri complained. reaching round to stroke her punished bottom.

'Does it now" he said, grinning. 'S'pose I ought to take a look.'

'But...,

But it was too late. He had reached under her jacket and with expert fingers tugged her breeches down. In seconds they were pulled down as far as her knees and her bottom was pertly displayed across his lap. Luckily she'd put on a pair of briefs that morning, the skimpiest G_string She could find so that it didn't spoil the line of the breeches.

'I can' t see nothing,' the man complained, running his rough hands across her bottom. His fingers were cool against her reddened skin and she couldn't help but lift her bottom higher as he stroked her.

'Oh ... ' She Whispered as he tugged down at her briefs to reveal the moistness between her thighs. He continued to stroke her, his fingers brushing against places that they shouldn't have until she moaned softly

'Jack! Jack!'

Cherri and the man turned a t the same time as a younger man strode into the marquee. Cherri' s face brightened until she knew that her face was redder than her bottom. The younger man looked a t her and Jack and Smiled.

'What've you got there, Jack?' he asked, looking directly at Cherri's chastised bottom.

'It' s that Wilkins girl,' Jack explained. 'Caught her trying to nick one of the crops.'

The younger man laughed. 'I don't know What you've got there, Jack, he said, 'but that ain't a
Wilkins girl.'

Jack peered at Cherri's bottom, his fingers straying between her thighs, and then he looked at her reddened face. She managed to half smile as realisation dawned.

'Well miss', Jack said, 'I think I owes you an apology.'

Cherri tried to push herself from Jack,s lap but he held her fast. 'It's okay', she said, 'I knew there was some kind of mistake.'

The younger man laughed. 'Looks like our Jack,s given you a good seeing to.' he said.

Cherri's face reddened even more. Her bottom was completely bare and the finger marks of her spanking were so red against her creamy skin.

'Wait one minute though,' Jack said suddenly, 'If you ain't the Wilkins girl, what were you doing nicking one of my crops?'

'That's right" the younger man said, joining in. 'What were you doing here?'

II was just interested in buying one of the riding crops,' Cherri explained.

Jack decided to let her up at last.

Cherri Stood up and reached down to pull her panties up.

'Not so fast,' the younger man said.

'What is it, Bill?' Jack said, his eyes fixing on Cherri' s backside once more.

'Seems to me the lady' s earned the right to have whatever crop she wants" Bill explained.

Cherri watched him walk over to the collapsed rack and then prise out one of the shorter crops, one made of glossy black leather and tipped with a strip of softer hide.

'This one?' he called across to Cherri.

She reached down and pulled her panties up quickly before nodding her reply,

'Here,' the younger man said, 'let me try it out for you'

Cherri watched him swish the crop through the air so that it whistled keenly. He certainly knew how to handle it and She was sure that he'd made a good choice for her.

'Yes,' She agreed, 'that' s the one I'd like.'

'Alright then miss' Bill said, 'if you,d just like to go across the stool.' Cherri smiled. She had obviously misheard. . .

'Pardon?'

Both men smiled. 'You're not from these parts, are you, miss,' Bill said.

There was no use in pretending. Cherri knew she looked the part, but really, she was a city girl through and through

'That's right" She admitted.

'Ah, that explains it" Bill said. 'It's an old country tradition of ours,' he added. 'So, if you,ll just go across the Stool'

A quaint old country tradition, Cherri was all for learning about such things. She pulled her breeches up and then carefully got down on her knees and faced the Stool.

'Like this?' She asked, bending over it.

'I think he means like this, Jack said, pulling her forward a bit so that her tummy was right over the seat of the Stool and her bottom was poking up high. It wasn't the steadiest position in the world and thankfully Jack took her arms and wrapped them around his waist so that she could hold onto him for support.

'That's better" Bill agreed.

'Oh ... !' Cherri Whispered as Bill tugged down her breeches and then pulled her panties down to her knees.

Her bottom was fully exposed and the slight breeze that wafted through the tent fanned the stinging that remained after her spanking.

'This is the way we test a new riding crop' Bill explained .

Cherri held onto to Jack tightly as the crop whistled noisily through the air and then landed across her pert buttocks. . .

Swhiiickkk!

The pain was so intense Cherri yelled out loud as it bit deep into her tender buttocks. The second Stroke followed quickly, leaving another vicious looking weal an inch below the first . . . .

Whackkkkkkk!

'OWWWWAAH! . . .Oh g-gooo...!'

'You are a noisy little girl,' Jack complained, 'one more like that and I'll have to show you how we keep em’ quiet. . . country style . . 'Oh .. oh. b-but…!' Cherri gasped and looked on wide eyed as Bill started unzipping his trousers

Jack smiled knowingly at Bill and lashed in the third venomous stroke which landed across the very centre of her meaty cheeks with a deafening . . SHWAAACKKKK!!!

'AhHHhhhhhHHHH. . Nooooo..Ow..Owaaa!

'There you go again with all that noise' Jack said, 'Close your lips around this girly . . . 'That'll keep you outta mischief!' . . .'Oh ... glppmmhh' Cherri was still shaking her pretty little head  as the old farm hand opened his trousers and pushed himself towards her pouting lips.

The crop came down again and this time her cries of pain were muffled. Cherri fought and wriggled wildly but the the stinging pain in her bottom was somehow making her hot and wet.

‘There now girly. . that ain’t so bad is it?’ said Jack, one hand on the back of her head and a big smile on his work hardened face

‘Just one more stinger with the riding crop and then we’re nearly done!!’ Cherri half nodded maybe missing the subtle use of the word  “Nearly”. and In any case her backside was literally burning and she was trying to control the warm gooey feeling that was strangely building in her loins  

The crop came down once more, striping her bottom with another red lattice of pleasure and intense pain, and then she heard the rustle of clothes. She couldn't' t turn round to look, of course, her mouth was warming to the task in hand and far to too busy for that, then she felt Bills pulsating member nudging between her flaming bottom cheeks and so aroused was she, she new she couldn't stop the inevitable.

Driving home later that day Cherri passed the exit sign for "Little Buttingham", and glanced back with a wry smile . . True, she had lots to write about those country folk and there quaint old traditions, but very little would make suitable reading for her local rag!

THE END

AWOL

In the doorway of his wife’s bedroom Marcus paused and sniffed the air, like a bloodhound seeking a scent, and as he selectively inhaled, a look of fanatical gratification illuminated his not unhandsome face. There it was, elusive as a waking dream, but present nonetheless. It was the unmistakable smell of imperfectly banished cigarette smoke!

'Father,' he said, 'Sally has been smoking!'

'Er, ah, what's that?' exclaimed Commander Fenwick in surprise. 'Are you sure? I carried out a thorough search of this room only this morning, as you suggested.'

'Did you search everywhere? Her underwear drawer -  under the mattress?'

'Of course, my boy!' snapped the Commander, slightly miffed that his competence should be in question. 'I wasn't born yesterday.'

Very well, Sally,' said Marcus, turning to the apprehensive, but very attractive young blonde who was standing between them. 'Where are they and why was I disobeyed? You know that I will not be thwarted in my wishes, especially when they are in your best interests - and mine! If I send for you to come to my bed, I do not want you smelling like an over abused ashtray!'

Sally flushed. The accusation was so unjust that she decided to remain sullenly silent. She knew that she would be beaten anyway.

'Well, if they are not in your room,' said Marcus logically, 'they must be on you. 'Take your dress of!!'

As Sally reluctantly obeyed, she reflected dismally on the events that had led to the present situation. How she had foolishly engineered the circumstances which had placed her completely under her husband's disciplinary control. It had made her a virtual prisoner in her own home, with her father-in-law coming to live in as her 'warder', while Marcus, a university lecturer, twelve years her senior, was away, building a reputation as a brilliant academic, and a charismatic speaker.

His students would have been astounded at "Don Marcus's" other face, which was that of a cold, calculating, tyrant. What made it worse in Sally's eyes was that he never punished her himself, preferring to watch dispassionately while his father, the retired Naval Commander, acted as his "executioner". Now she was incarcerated in a dungeon of her own making, fettered by her proclivities and desires as inexorably as if the links of her chains were of steel, rather than of the mind. The marriage contract was made only of paper, she could pack her things, and walk away whenever she liked, yet she knew that she was shackled to Marcus and the Commander as abjectly as any slave of an Eastern potentate. Like an 'old lag' who fears freedom more than the security of the cell, she was a victim to her upbringing and her desires!

Sally pulled the short black dress over her blonde curls, and stood, shivering and vulnerable, in her bra and nylon panties, stockings and suspender belt. She might just as well have been naked, as Marcus reached inside her bra and produced a packet of cigarettes from one cup, and a box of matches from the other, like a conjurer working 'magic'.

'It would seem, Dad that you are becoming blasé to Sally's undoubted charms if you are failing to notice such changes in her delightful contours. I noticed immediately!'

'You would!' thought Sally resentfully. 'All you do is watch! What did I see in you, you cold fish? At least your father is human. He's stem, even brutal, but at least he fancies me!'

'Well,' said Marcus, turning to her. 'Now that you conveniently have your dress off you had better be punished. Will you fetch the hairbrush Dad, and give Sally a thorough spanking for her deceit and disobedience! It is time that she learned that orders are made to be obeyed.'

The chastisement that followed, with Sally bare bottomed across the Commander's knee, and Marcus observing from the comfort of an armchair, was a particularly severe one, as Fenwick Senior felt that he had been let down by Sally, and had been made a fool of. He had begun to feel that there was a bond of trust and affection between them, and that although he needed to be strict for her own good, he was a father figure to her, as well as a relation by marriage.

So now his resentment showed in the severity of the punishment, as the ebony-backed hairbrush rose and fell stingingly on Sally's tender buttocks, and she yelled aloud her doleful remorse at being detected in transgression.

The Commander spanked hard and deliberately, letting each firm wristy impact sink in for its full effect. Sally howled from the very first stroke, not only because it stung dreadfully, but because she had learnt that to be vocal was better than stoic suffering. If you remained silent they just went on until you did yell, and only gave you more for being stubborn. She had learnt that lesson while still quite a small girl and many painful spankings since had done nothing to change her views. Besides, there was an undoubted relief in being able to open your lungs and howl blue murder! It seemed to take some of the sting out of the proceedings! It was as if the burning smart of the hairbrush was soaking into your cheeks, up through your pussy, and into your guts, and needed to find an outlet through the larynx. Otherwise it built up intolerably.

After the first ten of these scalding collisions between tropical wood and soft flesh, Sally burst into tears. There was nothing feigned about this and after about ten more she was crying so hard that she imagined that even the neighbours must hear - and the nearest house was two hundred yards away! She kicked her legs and squirmed furiously. She tried to plead, and promised to be good, to give up smoking, and never start again, but the face of Marcus remained coldly impassive, and the Commander took his cue from his son.

Sally began to wonder if he was ever going to stop. Long before he did, her bottom and thighs were beet red, and felt as if they were burning with incandescent heat. At one stage she tried to reach down to protect her ill-used posterior, but the Commander barked, 'Sally, do you want the cane too?' and hastily she jerked her hand away.

But then at last it was over, and she sobbed her relief as Marcus nodded, and her mentor laid the wicked brush aside and replaced her panties over a hot, prickling bottom that felt twice the size of normal.

The Commander helped his daughter-in-law to her feet, and gave her a small, comforting hug.

'Right, naughty girl. Off you go and wash your face, and try not to do it again!'

Marcus said nothing but was pleased nevertheless. It was all highly satisfactory, this wife training. At the university functions he attended alone, he sometimes was tempted to tell others of the glowing success of his marriage. He did not, however, for that would have tarnished his image as a humane and kindly man, a liberal with a small 'l'.

During the weeks that followed, more 'good old fashioned spankings' came swishing home to roost in Sally's reorganised life with painful, and surprisingly satisfying regularity. The Commander scolded her often, while he forcefully reminded her of her many shortcomings. However she was quick to notice that when Marcus was not present to witness her bottom smacking’s, the hand that was then so firm with her could be amazingly gentle as it stroked and patted her outraged flesh. Then her crying soon subsided, and she discovered, with a sense of shock, that she no longer felt resentment towards him. In fact, at such times, she felt better than she had at any time during the life she had spent alone with Marcus.

May 20th, some three months later, was the Commander's sixty-first birthday, and Marcus was away, attending a seminar at Cambridge. Sally announced that she had a surprise for her father-in-law, he was to sit at the breakfast table and read his Telegraph, and not move until Sally returned. 'Right?'

'Right', agreed the Commander, always pleased, in his son's absence, to indulge her. Ten minutes later there was a tap at the dining room door.

'Enter!' barked the Commander. The sight that entered took his breath away. There was Sally smartly dressed in WREN uniform, the blue serge immaculate, the seams of the black nylon stockings guardsman straight, the saucy little cap jauntily perched on her blonde curls. She saluted. WREN Sally reporting, sir. Er, the O.C WRENS said that I should come to you for corrective discipline, sir. She said that I needed a man's touch! Er, have you got a cane, sir, or should I get one?'

The look of delight on the old boy's face told Sally that her birthday present was an inspiration. She well knew the Commander's nostalgia for the distaff side of the Senior Service, and his joy in recounting his punishments of sundry naughty WRENS, who had fallen foul of him during his long and distinguished service, was quite tedious.

'Ah well,' Sally thought, 'It's all good fun. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em'.That it was to her advantage to win the Commander as an ally was obvious, and should be well worth the expense of the uniform, plus a caning or two!

'Humph!' grunted the Commander, his eyes twinkling. 'Got a cane here, I think. Usually keep one to hand for occasions such as this.'

He crossed to a cupboard and produced the springy Malacca. 'Right, young woman, pull up your skirt and bend over and touch your toes!'

Not without difficulty Sally hitched up the tight blue uniform skirt and bent herself over, presenting a pretty sight in seamed black stockings and suspenders, yet it appeared that the effect was not entirely to the Commander's satisfaction.

'And where,' he barked, 'are your regulation knickers?' It was a good question, because Sally's delightful bottom was attired in white frilly panties. Indeed, the Service outfitters, from whom she had purchased the uniform by phone and credit card, had said nothing about naval underwear. .

'Er, sorry, sir! I forgot.' stuttered Sally, trying to make the best of the situation.

'Then two additional strokes to remind you!' said the Commander joyfully. 'Get up, while I find you some

He rummaged in a sea chest and finally came up with a pair of navy blue Directoire knickers, perhaps the trophy from some long gone disciplinary encounter, and handed them to Sally. 'Put these on.'

Sally removed her own un-WREN- like frillies, and placed her high -heels Into the elasticated legs of the' nylon bloomers, pulling them up snugly over her thighs and bottom. They felt constricting but quite comfortable, and would, she told herself, be some protection from the bite of the cane - if she was permitted to keep them in place over her rounded bottom.

'Now,' resumed the Commander, 'back down again for eight of the best. That's what delinquent ratings deserve!'

He had laid two well-placed strokes on Sally's knickered bottom, which stung despite its tight fitting and silky protection, when the phone rang. Signalling to Sally to stand up, the Commander picked up the receiver.

'Bramblehurst 7234. Fenwick .. .'

It was soon evident the call was going to be long and involved. The Commander placed a hand over the phone's mouthpiece and told Sally to return to her duties.

'I'll return to our unfinished business later, WREN Fenwick.' He told her absently.

'Permission to go outside, sir?' asked Sally impishly, an idea already hatching in her mischievous imagination. What fun it would be to go out in her uniform, and pretend to be a real WREN! Even to take the Commander's Cavalier for a spin. Of course, there would be a spanking when he found out, but he couldn't be too severe after the birthday present, and it' would be worth it.

'Yes, carry on.' said the Commander, his mind on the phone conversation. Sally skipped out, picking up the car keys from the sideboard as she did so. Little did she know . . .

His call over, Commander Fenwick looked for Sally, his 'unfinished business' in mind. Where was she?

He recalled her asking permission to go outside - into the garden, he had assumed - but she wasn't there.

Half an hour passed, and then an hour. It was then that he discovered the absence of his car. She was gone! Scarpered, deserted! - Well, absent without leave, at the very least. God, what would Marcus say when he returned? Thank goodness that he wasn't expected back until later. But where was she?

At that moment Sally was in a layby, being questioned by two burly Naval policemen. The sight of a pretty young WREN rating proceeding in a leisurely fashion in a smart new Vauxhall Cavalier GL, had aroused their suspicions, and they had become even more suspicious when their jeep had flagged down the car and they discovered that the WREN driver had no identification, no license or insurance, or even a handbag. They came to the conclusion that the young woman was A.W.O.L., and the car stolen. Nor would she give the name of her unit. What she did do was to become increasingly angry and abusive and call them names, finally kicking the Master-at-Arms, Taffy Evans, painfully on the shin. After that they put handcuffs on her for their own protection.

Finally she calmed down enough to tell them some cock and bull story about being on a 'secret mission' for Commander Fenwick of Queen's Cottage, Bramblehurst!

'Right ho,' said Taffy to his assistant, 'Barnacle' Bates, 'we'll take her there. I served under a Commander Fenwick once, finally swallowed the anchor about three years ago, but it can't be him, or can it? He's hardly the James Bond type. You take the jeep, I'll drive the Vauxhall with Mata Hari in it.' And bundling Sally, her wrists still locked behind her, into the back seat of the car, they set off in convoy for Bramblehurst. They entered the gates at lunchtime, which was the identical time as Marcus's M.G. His university seminar had finished unexpectedly early!

In retrospect, Sally considered that the sight of Marcus's face, on seeing her marched in, in WREN uniform, between two matlows, her wrists locked behind her in bright, steel fetters, was almost worth what was to follow. She only wished that the neighbours had been on the look-out, but, disappointingly, they weren't. However, that was the rosy view of nostalgia, after the stripes had faded. At the time it was all quite horrendous.

There were redeeming features, but hardly from Sally's point of view. Bos’un Taffy Evans was an old shipmate of the Commander's, and that made things easier, especially when his old C.O. produced a bottle of Lamb's Navy Rum. As for A.B 'Barnacle' Bates, the other member of the patrol, he was happy to go along with anything, it was all better than touring the sodding Motorway, and so long as Petty Officer Evans was happy to carry the can ... !

'It's my birthday today, lads.' said the Commander expansively. 'Would you like to come back here for a meal and a yarn tonight? If you are both off duty, of course.'

'That we are, sir.' said Taffy, always happy for wining, dining, and a pipe of shag. 'Er, what about the young lady, sir? Hadn't we better take the cuffs off her?'

'I suppose you'd better!' said the Commander off-handedly, glaring at Sally, 'Not that it would hurt her to be kept in irons for a few hours. She's due for a Court Martial after you leave, and without pre-empting the verdict of the Court, I'd guess that she was in for a flogging and a spot
of jankers!'

'Tell you what,' broke in Marcus, who had said little until now, preferring to leave it all to the Senior Service, 'she owes you something for that kick on the shin, Bos'un Painful, is it?'

'Oh, very, sir!' grinned the Master-at-Arms, rubbing the offended spot, and trying to recall which leg had received the impact of Sally's small shoe.

'Well,' said Marcus, 'if you'd like to carry out the sentence of the Court, we'll hold over punishment for you to administer. I believe that traditionally it was the duty of the Master-at-Arms to give floggings!'

'Quite right, sir.' said Taffy. 'Er, will the sentence be carried out on the er. . . bare. . . er. .  posterior of the young lady, sir, like they used to do with Midshipmen?'

'Naturally, Bos'un, where else?' asked the Commander in surprise.

The Naval Police patrol having departed about its lawful business, taking the handcuffs with them, it took little time to decide Sally's fate. After all, she was guilty, and with no mitigating circumstances.

'Absent without leave. Taking a motor vehicle without the consent of the owner, and assaulting a Warrant Officer!'

She was told that she would be given a dozen strokes of the riding crop, at dinner that night, to be administered by the Master-At-arms, and, what was more, Sally would wait upon them at table - both before and after her punishment, which would take place sandwiched between the sweet and coffee courses. Naturally, all her pleas for clemency were rejected. The Senior Service is a tough taskmaster!

'By the way,' asked Marcus, 'why the WREN uniform?'

The Commander explained.

'Well, since Sally so obviously enjoys dressing up, she can dress in a maid's costume to serve us dinner tonight. One of my girl students has just the outfit - won it as a bet in the last university Rag Week, so I understand. I'II give her a ring, and go over and collect it. In the meantime, you, Sally, can get out of that ridiculous uniform and start preparing the dinner. Er, sorry, Dad, I didn't mean that the uniform was ridiculous, only on Sally!'

'Humph!' said the Commander. 'I thought she looked rather good in it. Which reminds me of unfinished business...!'

The maid's costume which Marcus borrowed from his student may have been ideal for Rag Week's Fancy Dress Ball, but would have given any self-respecting 'nippy' in Lyons' a blue fit.

It consisted of a sexy little dress in black satin, cut so low at the bust as to be positively indecent, and so high at the skirt hem that it scarcely covered Sally's bottom - and didn't when she bent forward. It was worn with a frilly petticoat, which pushed out the short skirt even more, and black seamed nylon stockings held up by a black suspender belt. The miniscule panties were decorated with lace ruffles across the seat, and there was also a dainty frill of lace where they fitted snugly to the thighs. This travesty of traditional servitude was worn with a small white apron and a starched little cap which perched cheekily upon Sally's golden curls. She looked delicious! The Commander said so, secretly Sally thought so, and Marcus - well, Marcus kept his own counsel! Sally would have enjoyed the charade if she had not been so apprehensive about her coming whipping. However often it happened to her, she told herself glumly, it didn't get any better, or hurt any the less! She hoped that Taffy Evans was a kind man. He was far too powerfully built if he wasn't!

Furthermore it was the first time that she had had her bottom bared and whacked before anyone other than family! She tried to tell herself that it was all utterly shameful - but had to admit that the idea sent little thrills of secret pleasure through her pussy-parts. She hoped that she wouldn't be too much of a baby when the riding crop began smoking down on her tender bottom!

The Commander's birthday dinner was a great success - mainly because Sally hadn't cooked much of it! It had been delivered by a restaurant. Taffy and 'Barnacle' Bates could scarcely keep their eyes off Sally, as she moved around the table, serving from a hostess trolley, and it must be admitted that Taffy's preoccupation with the disciplinary task ahead of him quite blunted a usually excellent appetite. He hoped that no one could sense his 'hard on' under the table.

After the sherry trifle had been appreciated, demolished, and cleared away, the Commander excused himself and returned dragging a large, pony sized, Victorian rocking horse which had long been in the attics of the old cottage. It was a beautiful beast, grey and mottled, benign and handsome, still polished in its varnished paint. How it must have delighted some long dead child. What a price it would bring in the sale rooms! But now Marcus and the Commander had another use for it.

The Commander led Sally across it. He held the horse's reigns to keep it still, and indicated that Sally should mount. The stirrups were short, suitable for a child, but not a grown girl, and Sally had to bend her knees. Her bottom slid back over the rear of the saddle and projected beyond the smooth grey haunches, the skirt of the ridiculous maid's costume riding up. Sally's plump cheeks were like full moons upon which the ruched knickers strained alarmingly. Marcus moved forward and with some difficulty peeled them down over the out thrust, pouting globes. 'Barnacle' Bates, whose erection was as rampant as Taffy's, hoped that he was not about to disgrace himself beneath the linen table cloth!

Now knickerless, the twin cheeks, framed between straining suspender elastics and stocking tops, were of a tantalising, healthy fullness.

'I think: said Marcus, 'that the chastisement will be more salutary if her buttocks are lightly treated with olive oil. The riding crop will, I am told, sting morel'

'Oh no!' pleaded Sally, 'It's going to be bad enough as it is"

The reply to this presumptuous comment was a warm up spanking from the Commander that lasted almost ten minutes, and brought a hot stinging glow in its wake. It was almost a relief when Marcus returned with the olive oil and quite impersonally coated the hot, scarlet flesh with it. He could almost be dressing a salad, Sally thought indignantly. How could she have ever thought that she loved such an unfeeling block of marble!

In the meantime, to complete his victim's utter subjection to the prescribed punishment, the Commander slapped the deep, wide cleft of her buttocks, while Sally howled in protest, but to no avail.

The preliminaries over, the Commander produced a leather-bound riding switch and handed it to Taffy Evans, saying in judicial tones, 'Right, Master-at-Arms, a dozen strokes, and lay on well' Then he jerked on the reins of the rocking horse, causing it to rear up and present Sally's rump as target for the first biting stroke. Grimly she hung to the animal's wooden neck, grasping its real horse-hair mane for scant comfort, and yelped as the plaited leather cut into her plump flesh.

Taffy took his time. Between strokes Sally looked over her shoulder, taking in the stern expression of the Commander, the gloating elation on Marcus's face, and the pop-eyed disbelief of 'Barnacle' Bates. There could be no mercy expected there! Fortunately she sensed that Taffy Evans was not using his full strength, which was as well, or he would have cut her bottom into ribbons! As it was each stroke burned and stung abominably!

What a team the Bos'un and the Commander made! As each stroke fell the Commander would let the horse, and Sally's whipped buttocks, down, only to rise again into the trajectory of the next downward stroke of the riding switch.

At the eighth stroke, Sally, who had tried to keep a count of the punishment, gave up, and just hung on waiting for it to end. If only, she thought between wails and gasps of pain, and pleas to be a better girl in future, if only she had never told Marcus that she had been brought up on smacked bottoms! If only, just for once, she could be a distributor of punishment, instead of a victim! She owned to being a silly, reckless, little fool, but. . .

Taffy brought down the switch on an already tender spot and Sally expelled an agonising howl. It was a combination of pain, misery, and a realisation of her ignominious position, dressed in a ludicrously sexy costume, and bent, half naked, over a rocking horse, having her bare buttocks soundly whipped for the gratification of four men, two of whom had been strangers until a few hours earlier.

Marcus watched the whipping with cold interest. That afternoon he had toyed with the notion of summoning her to his bed for an hour, as he had hardly seen her for several days, but he had decided that it might not be prudent. It might give his wife the wrong idea. Comforting her wasn't in his interests. In his opinion any punishment to Sally's deserving bottom should be painful, both during and after its application, and for as long as possible. His marriage was benefitting beautifully from these attentions to the defects in his irresponsible wife's demeanour. What a good idea of his father's to bring in an expert!

'Last three!' said the Commander to Taffy. 'Excellent work so far!'

"Crack!  - Crack! - CRACK!!!" As the horse rocked and reared in its final disciplinary canter, and Sally bawled to the full extent of her lungs, all others present enjoyed this finale, the salute to her welted behind of a skilled disciplinarian.

It was the most expertly delivered beating that Sally had ever endured, and was certainly far more than she had bargained for when she had set out, so full of mischief, in the Commander's car that morning. Somehow she slithered off the rocking horse and stood swaying on her feet, moaning and sobbing as she clutched her palpitating, cringing hemispheres, the tears streaming down her face.

'Alright’ said Marcus unsympathetically, 'You can make the coffee, just as soon as you are ready!'

'That’ he thought smugly, as he saw his wife painfully pull up her panties and head for the kitchen, 'is how married life should be!' He was 'Don Marcus', university lecturer, master of his own life and family, in the most scorching and primitive way. And the lessons would go painfully on, for as long as he chose, and until he was completely satisfied.

It certainly beat being a liberal with a small 'I'!

THE END

Marcus considered himself to be a civilised man, a small 'I' liberal, and yet here was Sally, his young wife of only a few months, offering a solution primitive in its primordial savagery. Suddenly he was shocked and excited, where, moments before, he had been furiously angry.

'Alright,' said Sally again, looking at the dented wing of their once immaculate M.G.

'Mia culpa. I did it. I was careless. I can't pay you, 'cos I don't have any money of my own, as you well know. So, take it out of my deserving hide. Put me across your knee and give me a jolly good spanking. It's what Daddy would have done.'

Standing there before her in the drive, clothed in righteous indignation, his mouth opening and closing like a landed trout, Marcus looked so adorably pompous that Sally could scarcely suppress her giggles. She did love him, but he was a wimp at times.

'What Daddy would have done ... ?' repeated Marcus in astonishment.

'Surely not what.. .. ‘

'Not what his Beatitude, the Rev. Canon Horace Willoughby-Yeats, would have done?' interrupted Sally irreverently. 'You bet, Either him or Mummy.

Daddy’s view of atonement was positively Judaic. He once gave me eighteen of the best with a springy cane for nicking 50p out of the offertory plate. After all, my need was greater than St. Jude's. I'd just laddered my last pair of decent tights.'

Really Marcus looked at this remarkable girl as if he were meeting her for the first time. She was the same petite, impish, blonde that he had married, a mere two months after meeting her at a Special Interest Holiday on English Drama that he had been running, but yet somehow she was not the same. There was a deviI-may-care, do your worst, hang the consequences, look in her cornflower blue eyes that he found both challenging and disturbing.

'So,' said Sally provocatively, arms akimbo, 'are you going to beat me, and forget it, or do you propose to nag me to death slowly, over the next six months, whenever I take the car out on my own?'

The vision of Sally, knickerless, and with her dimpled bottom up, across his knee suddenly appealed to him enormously. There had been undeniable hiccups in the smooth running of their marriage of late. As there must be, he appreciated, when a stuffy academic falls for a lively, lovely girl, twelve years his junior. He hadn't had much experience of girls, he admitted that, but he had never thought for one moment of spanking her.

He was a lecturer in English at the University of Petworth, staid, respected, but somewhat humourless. He sometimes wondered what Sally saw in him. He would have been surprised to learn that not only did she admire his academic brilliance, but also considered that he had 'hidden potential'. Sally liked playing her hunches regardless, and Marcus, she told herself, was going to develop as a human being, in ways that he little suspected. Ways which he would have dismissed as ludicrous.

Now suddenly it seemed to Marcus his own inspiration that the chastisement of Sally was not only something desirable, but long overdue. She was far too frivolous, and at one or two college functions had been positively embarrassing in her disrespectful attitude towards important influential senior colleagues upon whom Marcus's advancement depended. Perhaps a spanking was the curb she needed. Yes, thought Marcus, the salutary sting on his hand upon her soft, young buttocks might well be the answer.

'Alright.' he blustered, trying to sound authorative, as if the punishment of naughty young women was something that he indulged in all the time, 'you asked for it, and you're going to get it, and I hope it will be a lesson to you. Come into the house.'

Demurely Sally preceded him to the lounge. Marcus might have been startled to see the small triumphant smile which played around his young wife's lips. This was not how a sinner should look. Surely she should be apprehensive at the prospect of smarting flesh and humiliation of the spirit.. However, Marcus was so flustered by the breakneck speed of events since Sally had pranged the car into the garage door that he hardly noticed the roguish spring in Sally's step which spoke of mischief rather than fear.

Marcus seated himself on the wide leather couch, which had been a wedding present from Canon Willoughby-Yeates, and Sally knelt, and then wriggled herself companionably across his thighs, squirming into a position that would present her shapely but not overlarge bottom to best advantage, while leaving it softly resilient to the hand of justice.

Her skirt was very tight and black and Marcus debated if it would be better to work it up past her slim hips, or to unzip it and pull it down. He chose the latter means of denudement, experiencing an unexpected thrill as he masterfully undid the button that held the waistband, and firmly slid down the metal fastener to breach the bastion between him and retribution. Sally appeared undismayed, and raised herself a little to facilitate the skirt's descent to her ankles. Beneath it she was wearing stockings and suspenders and white nylon panties, and through the translucence of the silky fabric the flesh of her bottom could be glimpsed by Marcus as pale, creamy pink. After due consideration, he decided to leave her panties up – for the time being anyway.

The first ten minutes or so Marcus devoted to soundly smacking the lower thighs and lush undulations of the foothills of her buttocks. Yes, it was a fascinating experience to watch the creamy flesh colour to a coral pink, and then red, under the semi-transparency of those tiny nylon knickers! Then, tiring of that ploy he carefully lowered them and gave twenty more minutes of his time to bringing the whole of her nude bottom to a satisfying and angry crimson. Sally's cheeks quivered and shook violently, and she gasped, though did not cry out, as Marcus vigorously applied condign discipline to the soft cushions of her posterior. Having started, it must be admitted that he was now loath to stop, quite carried away on this wave of dominance. He was, he decided, evidently cut out to be an assertive husband, and if Sally was accustomed to this kind of punishment then there was little point in pussy-footing!

His right hand was stinging quite painfully from the unaccustomed exercise when he finally stopped and stood Sally on her feet. He looked into her flushed face, quite expecting to see ... What? Revulsion, subjection, anger? But the radiant expression that it carried showed that although she was now busily engaged in gingerly feeling a most horrendous smart in her scarlet bottom, she was very far from subdued. Also if she was suffering remorse at a couple of hundred pounds' worth of car damage she was hiding it well. It seemed that he had given her carte blanche to behave badly, to crunch the car whenever she wanted to. Marcus had the nasty feeling that she had out-manoeuvred him into giving her a 'punishment' that she wanted, and now he would have to forget about its cause, as in honour bound.

Sally looked meaningfully towards the stairs that led to their bedroom, but as Marcus showed no sign of responding to the unspoken invitation, she signed, pulled up her knickers, and kissed him affectionately before resignedly beginning preparations for the evening meal. A girl couldn't have everything, and she already knew that Marcus had to be ill to go to bed during daylight hours.

Marcus remained on the couch and pondered this new problem as something quite outside of his experience. Spanking might make a model wife out of a hoyden, but somehow he doubted it on this afternoon's evidence. He loved her, but . . .

{He loved her butt, as the Americans would uncouthly say. My God, what was happening to him? That was almost a joke, and he never made jokes, or understood them.}

'Pull yourself together, Marcus Fenwick M.A., B.Litt.' he told himself severely, 'and ask yourself what you are going to do about your wife. She is extravagant, has no sense of what it costs us to live in this style on a junior lecturer's salary. She is slapdash, untidy, and only a passable cook. She is hopeless in the garden, and so unreliable as to be useless as a joint wage-earner.'

Marcus appreciated that spanking could give him a control over Sally that he had lacked so far, but it was a two-edged sword, and one that he wanted to cut with, without slicing his own fingers. It was obvious that Sally liked corporal punishment far too much. His problem was how to turn a 'tum on' into a deterrent.

COMMANDER RONALD FENWICK R.N. (Rtd.), Marcus's father, who has paying his usual Sunday visit, straightened up from pruning the roses. He liked to tackle the overgrown 'jungle' of a garden, and fortunately was gifted with green fingers.

'Have you thought any more about my selling up my place, and making my home with you and Sally?' he asked Marcus, gesturing toward the delightful, but far too large for two, Queen Anne cottage which was their home. 'Roseacre's' far too large for me,' he continued, 'and it would make sense if I sold it, bought into your place, and came to you. I know that money's a bit tight for you. As you know, I get a bit lonely on my own, since your Mother died, and not only could I contribute towards expenses, I would be company for Sally, while you are away at the university.'

It was not the first time that the Commander had made the suggestion, and Marcus and Sally had given it serious thought, and decided, 'yes'. But now, delaying the news, Marcus carefully steered the conversation into talk of juvenile delinquency. Before retiring from the Navy, Fenwick senior had had a reputation for being a strict disciplinarian, and now Marcus was anxious to learn his father's views on a gang of teenagers, boys and girls, who were terrorising a local housing estate.

'Only one cure for those young louts,' the Commander snorted, 'Take down their unisex jeans and give 'em a damned good thrashing on their bare behinds.'

Marcus had suspected that that would have been his father's opinion, but it was useful to have it confirmed. Surprisingly he did not know too much about his father, and it was only since the old boy's retirement that they had become close. When his father was home on leave from the Navy, Marcus had usually been at boarding school, and then had come university, and his career. But the death of Marcus's mother had formed a bond between them.

Encouraged by his father's 'hang 'em and flog 'em' attitude, and with his own plans for Sally firmly in mind, Marcus now expanded this punitive discussion to include the family environment, discussing, severity, implements of correction and techniques. Ronald was uninhibitedly forthcoming, and it was an incredible piece of good fortune when he disclosed to Marcus that he had actually used to spank his mother during the early days of their marriage.

'Needed to, my boy, Lovely gal, but one of the flightiest young women I have ever met, and with me being away so much .. .'. He looked at his son searchingly as if suddenly doubtful of his parentage.

Marcus, slightly shaken, returned this confidence by telling his father about his recent discovery that Sally was spanked by her parents, almost up to the day of her marriage to him, and went on to describe in detail the accident to the car and its consequences.

'I hope that you warmed her bottom good and proper' said Ronald, with a chuckle. 'Reminds me of a WREN I had serving under me in Portsmouth - Gave her an extra three strokes for not wearing regulation knickers, if I recall. It happened like this - '.

But Marcus had learned enough to be going on with. 'How would you like to move in with us, and chastise Sally for me when the need arises?' He interrupted. 'She'd be delighted - for you to live with us, I'm not sure about the other' he added with unaccustomed honesty.

His father looked at rum in astonishment. 'But would you mind me boy?' -  Me chastising your Sally, I mean, it’s not as if I'm her father.

'Father-in-law, is good enough for me' replied Marcus enthusiastically.

'Besides, I know that she likes you. From my point of view I should quite enjoy seeing her getting her just deserts and it would be a salutary experience for her to be punished by a third party - and it's not something I'd like any old Torn, Dick or Harry to do. It certainly needs to be kept within the family.'

'How right you are.' said the Commander, his eyes gleaming with reawakened desire. He was no hypocrite, and recognised only too well the degree of sexuality in such a bizarre proposal, for both himself and his son. But the idea undoubtedly turned him on, as it would most red blooded men. It would be a cold fish indeed who could even contemplate the idea of spanking an attractive girl's bare bottom without feeling a distinct thrill. For the moment he wondered why Marcus was 'farming out' such a delectable responsibility. He shrugged. What the hell. Never look a gift horse in the mouth.

Nevertheless Ronald was canny enough to appreciate that he would need to keep a grip on his emotions, and realise that this was punishment and not sex. In the past, however much had he enjoyed spanking that delightfully curved portion which lay between his wife's suspender belt and stocking tops, and the occasional delinquent WREN, he had always kept the issue separate from lovemaking. When spanking had been a titillating foreplay before love then Helen, his wife, had known that it was intended as stimulation. Perhaps that was the mistake that Marcus was making. Secretly he felt that his son was a bit of an odd ball. Ah well, it takes all sorts, thought the Commander, who was given to thinking in clichés.

Marcus lost no time in initiating the new, strict, regime. On the very first evening after his father moved in with them Sally stacked the dinner dishes after their meal and said cheerfully, 'Well, they can stay there until morning. Perhaps the fairies will do them.'

'I don't think they will.' said Marcus aggressively. 'But you will. I am sick and tired of coming down in the morning and seeing unwashed plates with food scraps and congealed gravy on the table.'

'If only we had a daily woman.' Sally pouted. 'Perhaps we can afford one now that Ronald's here and contributing.'

Marcus banged his fist down on the dining table, making the crockery rattle alarmingly. 'I consider it a grave discourtesy to my father to talk of his money, when it's only a matter of laziness on your part.'

Sally sighed, and looked at her father-in-law, and raised an eyebrow.

'Sorry Ronald. Oh, dear, I've put my foot in it again. It seems as if I'm in for another spanking.' She spoke more archly than she intended, being rather embarrassed that Marcus's father should be witness to a family 'row' so soon after his arrival, but she was also glad that he was there, because this time any 'consequences' would surely be taking place in their bedroom.

Her bottom cheeks twitched in anticipation, visualising Marcus perhaps unleashing a hitherto unknown passion. How could he resist, turned on, and already on the bed ....

The supercharged eroticism of her thoughts almost made her miss the quietly menacing tones in which
Marcus now informed her that she certainly did deserve a spanking, but that this time his father was going to administer it.

For a moment she was bewildered and disappointed, but then brightened. Perhaps voyeurism was his turn on, she thought. Before she could investigate her own feelings about this intriguing subject Marcus's father took control.

'Right, Sally,' he said sternly, 'I warn you in advance that this will be a sound spanking, and will make your bottom very red and hot. You may cry if you wish, but if you struggle, or try to resist, or attempt to get up before I have finished I shall fetch my cane from the bedroom and start all over again.'

The Commander's icy tone made it abundantly clear that this was no fun thing. He really meant it. Sally gasped. The deliciously erotic stratagem whereby she had planned to seduce her passionless husband through spanking had suddenly turned sour on her, and her father-in-law, who she had previously admired as a kindly, bluff, old seadog, was changing into a tyrant before her eyes. What was Marcus about to let happen?

'If you feel that strongly about the sodding washing up, Marcus,' she protested, 'I'll go and do it. There's no need for all this drama. You should have said how you felt about it. Getting your father to spank me is a terrible idea. So it is that you should, come to that. I'm much too old to be spanked. It's utterly humiliating. So we'll forget about me ever suggesting it.' And turning on her high, pretty heels, flared skirt swinging about her knees, she headed for the kitchen.

The older man moved quickly, blocking her path with his body, and drew her to him. Holding her close he raised her skirt above the waist with his left hand and with the flat of his right palm landed two vicious smacks to the softness of her knickered bottom.

Sally yelped her dismay, and her soft round eyes filled with despair as she saw her husband's cold, unfeeling response. There was no help to be expected from him. She now realised that there was no going back. She had introduced spanking into the domestic scene, and now, like Goethe's 'Sorcerer's Apprentice' it had turned upon her a hundred fold. Automatically she obeyed the Commander's instructions and positioned herself on her knees on the carpet, with all her weight on her palms.

Her chastiser threw one leg over the obeisant kneeling body, clenching his trousered legs tightly about Sally's waist. She was now held securely, with her skirt pulled up to the small of her back to shamefully expose her panties, which in that strained position were pulled snugly into the dark furrow between the voluptuous globes of her buttocks. She gasped as a hand forced her down even further, so that her bottom reared, and the straps of her suspenders cut painfully across the flesh between stocking tops and panty-waist.

The Commander swung his palm in a blurred arch of movement, and brought it cracking down with a resounding smack on the tantalising spheres of Sally's nubile flesh. The speed and force of the ruthless assault, followed by the searing smart, made her try and wriggle free, but she knew herself to be firmly imprisoned.

Fascinated, both men watched the crimson patch that spread swiftly beneath the flimsy, silken panties, which barely covered the squirming upraised bottom.

'I warned you!,' snapped the Commander, 'what would happen if you tried to free yourself. Marcus, perhaps you will kindly fetch the cane that you will find hanging in the wardrobe in my bedroom.'

While he was out of the room the Commander continued his hand spanking with seemingly renewed force. Small yelps became shrill cries. This really was punishment, the kind of thing that she had left home to escape.

Marcus returned, carrying a supple Malacca cane, and his father paused for a moment as if to assess his helper's reaction. That Marcus had no sympathy for his wife's wriggling and painful gyrations was evident as he said, 'Dad, I think that to impress Sally with your role of supervisor of all of her future activities you should give her quite a sound caning. Better that she knows now the kind of correction that she can expect to receive in my name, and in my interest.'

Sally could hardly believe her ears, and her burning buttocks and throbbing loins robbed her of any further will be resist. Quietly she did what was asked of her, and in only a few moments she was positioned, as commanded, over the square oak chest in the middle of the room, which Marcus considerately covered with a rug.

'The quicker you learn, Sally,' said the Commander, 'that things around here are going to go the way that Marcus wants them, then the more comfortable it will be for your bottom'

The Commander! That was how Sally was beginning to think of him - Not Ronald, or Pops-in-law, or any of the old affectionate, jokey names. The new realisation of the meaning of his rank seared home like a stroke of the cane. One who commands – He who is going to command me, and I am going to obey! She thought.

Her insides jellified, and she foolishly attempted to protest that it wasn't fair. The protest was cut short by a searing stroke of the slim, wicked cane, scoring across her bottom. She gasped, and sobbed, 'It isn't, it isn't.'

'What isn't?' asked Marcus inquisitively, having heard only the end of the tearful little objection.

'Fair, that you should be the master in your own home.' replied his father, laying another stinging stroke of the cane across Sally' bottom, although not yet at full force.

Marcus smiled in haught superiority. If he had had qualms about his wife's bottom being caned they were now forgotten. Now he actually relished her agony. He would show her the natural superiority of men, and Fenwick men in particular. He would be the master of his house, every minute of each hour of the day.

'I think six of the best to begin with.' the Commander said, On the bare, naturally.' And Suiting action to words he inserted his fingers in the waist band of Sally's little knickers and pulled them down to below her stocking tops, the bottom so exposed was already hot and angry looking with one or two stripes where the harder cane strokes had made an impact.

Satisfied that there was no impediment to the painful progress of the cane, he laid it tentatively across poor Sally's scarlet bottom, as if to measure the swing accurately, and raised the wicked wand preparatory to the first promised stroke. Soon she was writhing again under its dreadful dominance.

'Oh, oh, oh.' she yelled, as both men gloried in the rod's contact with the jiggling flesh, and as the cane travelled hotly downwards over her bottom, six strokes somehow became nine.

All will to resist her husband's demands vanished, and she submissively sobbed, 'Stop, oh please stop. I'll do anything.'

'Three more.' said Marcus to the Commander implacably, triumph reflected in his voice. 'You might as well make it the round dozen.'

Sally was now about ready to establish a new and satisfactory routine, he reflected, Meals on time, a house kept clean, and television programmes only of his own choice. Sally's 'proper yelling', as the
Commander's flexible cane bit home for the final time interrupted his contented reverie, but no matter. Sally stood up, her hands clutching her scalded bottom cheeks, her face streaming with tears, her clothes dishevelled and looking woebegone and very sorry for herself.

His thoughts turned to the voicing aloud of more important matters. 'Go upstairs, Sally" he said, 'and make the bed up in the second guest room. II will be for me. From now on we are sleeping in separate rooms, because I have no wish to be disturbed when you rise every morning at seven and begin the housework under father's supervision. When I command you to my bed it will be for a visit of one hour's duration, maximum, probably less. Father will let you know when. Is that understood?'

'Yes, Marcus.'

'Good, now off you go, and straight to bed when you have carried out your duties. Just this once the washing up may wait until the morning.'

'Yes, Marcus.'

Sally fled. She was longing to soothe the 'scarlet torment' that was her ill-used bottom, but didn't dare. Not until her husband's bed was made and turned down ready for the Master to slip autocratically between the chaste white sheets.

In her own room, as she now supposed it to be, she viewed her welted buttocks in the mirror. Her own father had said often enough that she benefitted from thorough, knickers down, thrashing, and now here it was, back again. Whatever had possessed her to actually seek a spanking from her husband. She pressed her burning, naked flesh into the cold of the mirror glass, and sighed with the blessed relief of it.

Her thoughts relived the half hour. She had not taken much notice of Marcus's father before this, dismissing him as an amiable nonentity, retired, and therefore 'past it'. But now, thinking of him, the likeness to her own father's dominant attitude held a strange excitement. She got into bed, the tingling in her bottom chasing sleep away, and reflected ruefully how brief had been the interlude of 'normal' marriage. Her hand slipped down between her thighs. She was back, enfolded in an all too familiar prison of authority, and the perplexing thing was that though it should have been hateful, it was somehow strangely comforting.

To be continued . . . . .

Part 2 coming up next week

Up to town today to see my bankers. . .  or at least that is what I told Hilda. In fact of course it was to enjoy what London has to offer in such marvellous abundance at this season, and this year in particular with the heat wave It has been an abundance which I cannot previously recall.

I refer, naturally, to my own very special pleasure, my fetish some would say although I hate that word. Yes, the real purpose of my visit, like so many this summer, was to admire, indeed to rapture over, the generously exposed legs of young ladies.

This hot weather combined with the tourist season itself have, as I say, brought them out in great droves in out capital. The astonished eye is virtually bombarded with them on every side, so much so that at times I wonder if the excitement will be too much. Fortunately I retain excellent health and have no real fear on that score, but those legs, those exquisite girlish limbs, thronging every street really do keep the pulse racing in, at times, a seemingly alarming manner. Their net effect upon me is so often one of erotic shock.

I am blessed in my pleasure not only by the weather but by the vagaries of female fashion. In my youth, whatever the temperature, young ladies would never have displayed what they display today. Today they heart-stoppingly (almost!) show it all, right up to their you-know-what's. Indeed they not infrequently go beyond even that from the rear aspect, for some of these shorts do not even fully cover the bottom and so in addition to the marvellous legs one has two nice wedges of bare bottom cheek tictacking in front of one. Mostly, though, their shorts, which seem almost ubiquitous, stop at the very top of the darling thighs. Tight-hugging that soft and tender flesh as I myself yearn to hug it I have spent many happy hours discreetly following choice pairs of such flagrantly revealed legs through the streets of London and on unintended journeys all over the Underground.

There are skirts of course but they are invariably almost as short as the shorts. The object seems to be to display the full length of the female lower limb in its entirety, and when this is the very part of a young female person which above all others gives one pleasure. . .  well, one can only offer up profound thanks to the Gods at one's great good fortune to be alive today and endowed with excellent eyesight

Today I was privileged to observe some truly mouth-watering specimens. For full perfection in a young female of course the legs do not stand alone: I cannot quite ignore the other parts. My perfect young lady must have a pretty face, a softly feminine one ideally with full, bee-stung innocent lips; and what I modestly describe as her bust must be in evidence though I do not desire a big one, more what one might describe as 'pert'. Her bottom is naturally important, if only for its intimate association with the legs. A firm rounded one is my ideal and today's shorts do leave very little to the imagination in this regard, delineating as they do the separate cheeks most effectively even when they are not leaving part of them uncovered.

Yes all these anatomical parts are important but the key item, the crowning glory, in my perfect young Miss must be the underpinnings, her legs. At times I almost feel I could die of rapture for those exquisite calves, those delicious knees, those oh-so-soft but trembling-taut thighs.

My eyes caress and my hands I must admit twitch. Naturally in the crush of our metropolis one does at times come into physical contact: in the rush of the Underground, on the crowded street, in the department store. One's hands could anonymously fondle, and I have no doubt that some men do, for those bare thighs are at times an almost impossible temptation. I must confess that the temptation is well nigh overwhelming for me, but I do resist. But on the other hand sometimes without any action on one's own part the thighs do accidentally press up and make their own contact. Then one cannot take one's hand away, that is too much to ask. It stays there, transmitting what seems like thousands of volts of electricity.

Today I had such a contact in the lunch-hour crush all the way from Green Park to Leicester Square on the Piccadilly Line; perhaps not many minutes but it seemed like a glorious eternity of heart-surging intimacy with the thigh of a youthful tourist. And then not long after that the high spot of my day. In St James's Park as I sat observing the scene from a deck chair; three youthful Misses, laughingly chasing each other, all lovely downy legs and thighs flashing in the sun, when one of them suddenly yelped and stopped, sitting down on the grass.

She had twisted her ankle. She was the choicest of the three, short blonde curls and a rapturous soft mouth and quite heart-stopping thighs in those shorty shorts. I instantly sprang up - In more ways than one I admit - and went to her aid. Kneeling, I tested this divine Miss's injured limb. . .  all quite legitimate of course. She wore white high-heeled sandals (probably the cause of her downfall) and no socks so her ankle was bare. My hands, I confess were trembling.

And then, also more or less legitimately my trembling hands ventured up. It was possible she had twisted that mouth-watering knee as well. And the silky-sweet thigh?. . .  Could it also perhaps be injured in any way?

She looked up, with big blue eyes, voicing I must say not very ladylike expressions of pain ('Shit!' was one) . . .  while I, in my private Elysium, carried out my manual testing's. It was only a twisted ankle but one does have to make quite, quite sure.

Sitting now in my study with a relaxing glass of port I relive the scene, crystal bright in my memory. And not only that scene, for my imagination runs on. Did it perhaps not end there? Did I perhaps buy her an ice-cream ... and then invite her here, to my rather pleasant residence in the Sussex countryside? She would make a quite heavenly maid, a brief-skirted silky black dress perhaps replacing the shorts and blouse. She would be at my beck and call, to do with as I will.

Not that I would do anything at all outrageous, but there is one thing and I feel quite weak at the very thought of it. Those divine thighs. The thought of having her across my lap and smacking, quite sharply, the backs of those heavenly, heavenly limbs. . . . 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

It is two days since I wrote the above. I must record at the outset as I now write again why the characters are not in my usual firm script. My hand is shaking, from emotion, overexcitement.

My frequent visits up to town have always been occasioned by a distinct lack of such gratification on my home territory. The village which is a mile distant from my place does produce females in the same way that it produces young males but the specimens I have seen always seem almost a different species from those visiting and inhabiting our metropolis. Possibly pleasant enough girls but invariably gawky or lumpy, too fat or too thin; besides which their mothers seem to place a complete ban on short shorts. I have therefore long ago quite written the place off. Until this morning ...

She was in the main street with a lady known to me, Mrs Greenaway, who is active in the church. They indeed were heading in that direction with armfuls of flowers of some sort. I had driven over to pick up the papers and I must admit was thinking of making another trip into town, and there suddenly she was. A vision. A London-type vision in pink blouse and high-heeled white sandals and smart white short shorts. A blonde head and heart-rending, breath-taking, bare calves, knees, thighs. It was a miracle I did not crash the Daimler.

I abruptly parked and got out, on trembling legs. I caught up with them in the churchyard. Mrs Greenaway was her usual charming, somewhat deferential self (I am of course seen as a person of some note in these parts). She is somewhere in her forties I suppose and a not unattractive example of that age group. Her young companion, this creature seemingly, in Little Barkham, from another planet, was her niece, Pamela.

'Say hello to Mr Graythorpe, Pam . . . .'

I quivered as I got a shy greeting from adorably full, slightly pouting lips, while big blue·green eyes flashed a quick darting look. She was utterly, utterly divine, and her bare legs. her thighs . . .  Only with the greatest difficulty could I stop from staring and leering, at them.

Dear diary, I learnt that this vision is to stay with her Aunt Dorothy for a month. Not only that but Mrs Greenaway was worried that poor Pam might be at a loose end in our quiet little village and might get bored. . . . 

With my heart in my mouth and the world seeming to swim before my eyes - it is ridiculous, I know, that a sane 60-year-old man can get in this state - I heard myself suggest that I could use someone to help in the gardens. No skills required. If young Pam would like to earn a little pocket money . . . . 

Mrs Greenaway greeted this offer quite rapturously. Pam herself seemed pleased, blinking those big blue eyes and blushing adorably. Mrs Greenaway arranged her flowers in the church and then I drove them back here, half fearing, like a bashful schoolboy, that they might find it unacceptable in some way, The truth is, though, that for Dorothy Greenaway, and I imagine for Pam too, it is very grand. I left the aunt with my sister Hilda while I went into the garden with my adorable, blonde-headed, so-exquisite-that-it-hurts thighed Pamela.

She at first proved shy, but improved under the efforts of my gentlemanly charm. Pam is a dream cutie, and the sweetest one could ever imagine. She comes from Essex (O fortunate county that you are!) and her friend Sue wants to be a pop star. Pam herself is not sure what she wants yet. The glorious creature offered the opinion that the gardens are very lovely. They are indeed very good at the moment but today they were transformed. .  simply radiant.

In the summer house. in a purely avuncular manner, I briefly slipped an arm round her darling waist!!

Oh yes. As we walked back to the house Pam inquired, innocently wide eyed, if wearing shorts would be all right when she started in the morning. Would they be all right!! She went on to tell me that she had a denim pair that perhaps would be more suitable for gardening. I looked again at her tight, brief, white shorts (I had been looking, hot-eyed - though not too obviously I hope - throughout our tour of the gardens).

I wanted to say that as long as they were just as brief and tight and showed the whole of her heavenly thighs as her white ones did, it would be quite all right. But unfortunately one could not say that - not, at least, after a mere hour's acquaintance.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

Pam arrived this morning for her first day's work, riding a bicycle borrowed for her by Mrs Greenaway. Oh the thought of those rapturous bare legs flexing rhythmically along the road from Little Barkham. I am consumed almost with jealousy of any other male eyes which may have observed her! . .  For yes, the denim shorts are fully as tight and brief as the white ones. My heart was going like an express train as I awaited her arrival. I had scarcely slept a wink since yesterday's heady events, fearful that something could happen to prevent her arrival. But no, at 9 o'clock - at one minute 32 seconds past to be exact - there she was. A blue check blouse today and tennis shoes and her denim shorts. A blue ribbon in her blonde curls.

My sister Hilda had made a couple of sharp remarks yesterday. She has some idea that I like young ladies- but it is not a crime. Anyway Hilda was going off to her chum Audrey's for the day. And my gardener, Jim Gribbins, from the village, would not be coming until the afternoon. So I had all the morning alone with my exquisite young assistant.
 
I gave her some weeding to do in a strawberry bed. I didn't want her to do anything - except, shall we say, lie over my lap and let me languorously stroke her thighs. But perhaps that would not do at the very outset!

I provided Pam with a kneeler for those delicious knees and some gloves. She knelt, pert bottom up.  . I was in some kind of paradise even if I wasn't stroking those silky thighs. I must say she worked assiduously, while telling me something of her friends at school and of some local boys. . .  these spoken of scornfully but I could see also with some interest. My young charmer was evidently reaching the stage of interest in the male sex.

Pretty Pam was at least quickly losing her shyness with me, the friendly, charming older man who as she worked and talked feasted his eyes on those sublime legs. By mid-morning a shower had given an excuse to retreat to the summer house. I brought out coffee, and lemonade with a straw for Pam. We sat on one of the benches while outside the rain fell softly. My sweetest girl was inches from me, her innocent bare thighs the world's greatest temptation. I put on a grin like a Cheshire cat while my voice croaked out, 'What happens to naughty girls these days? In my time they got smacked.'

Writing it, it looks inane but it was all I could think of. She flushed and gave a shy smile. The erotic girlish thighs seemed to glow in the heavy atmosphere. Another grin, inane I am sure, from me.

'Is Pretty Pam ever naughty by any chance?'

Pretty Pam gave me a quick glance. . . .

'I 'spose so.'

'And does she ... ?'

She shook her head, then gave an Innocent big-eyed look. 'But my friend Debbie worked in a shop last summer and when her till didn't add up, this man there smacked her bottom'

I shivered With excitement, It was a heady out-of-the-blue opening.

'Pretty Pam wouldn't like that'

She shook her head, smiling, My hand reached out, it seemed with a will of its own, To land gently on the near-side thigh. It was another of those thousand-volt contacts - but this one surely a million volts. I struggled to control myself.

'So we'll just have to smack these lovely legs then, won't we?'

The big blue eyes met mine in a bolder look, It was almost as if she had been expecting my hand there. It stayed put, continuing to transmit its fantastic voltage. At last I gave a squeeze, then a couple of pats. I was sweating and it wasn't the heat. But I had to press on.

'Well?' I asked. croakier than ever.

She shook her blonde head flirtatiously. 'Will it hurt?' she giggled. Then got up and sweetly went over to look out of the window. My eyes followed as if held by a magnet. It seemed to me she swayed her denimed bottom just a bit more than was strictly necessary. Every part of me was throbbing. I got up and followed her over to the window. My arm went round her lissom waist .. then slid down onto the Slim curve of denim flank. There was no way on earth I could have stopped myself, And then further down onto the sleek bare thigh.

Pam giggled again. 'Will it hurt?' she repeated, then moved away.

Outside it had stopped raining . . .  'Shall I get back to work now, Mr Graythorpe?' she asked in a softly innocent voice. But her eyes met mine with a quick bold look.

After lunch in my study I smacked Pam's legs.

I have to write it down, I cannot delay it any longer. It was so marvellous, so sublime, almost unbelievable. But with that most supreme pleasure my head is a jumble of emotions. I am desperate for more, but should I ever have done it on this her very first day? What if Pam tells dear Aunt Dorothy. . .  and Aunt Dorothy forbids her to come again?

It was right after lunch, prepared as usual by Mrs Simpkins who comes round about 11. Pam had been subtly different following our visit to the summer house, giving me frequent sharp wide-eyed looks and. I am sure, conscious now of my eyes continually on her. This simply made my state worse. By lunchtime I was ravenous. Not for lunch but to get my hands properly on Pam's downy thighs.

We retreated to my study immediate afterwards. I had said I would show Pam some books. But as soon as we were in there with the door closed my arm went around her waist and there was my croaky voice, trying to make my hot desires sound jokey.

'Perhaps Pam should have worked just a little harder this morning. Perhaps she deserves just a little smack.'

She giggled coyly. It was a giggle which certainly did not say. . . 'No, don't you dare put your hands on me' . .  And the next thing I was sitting in my wing chair and Miss Silky Thighs was over my lap. I thought I was going to faint.

I did not faint, though. I kept full control as my hand stroked and caressed and then duly started smacking the backs of those trembling sweet thighs, while my other hand held her firmly round her waist. Pam made squealing sounds and squirmed and kicked her legs. It was just as I had dreamt it a thousand times: an almost unbearably exquisite pleasure.

I gave her quite a lot, making her lovely legs rosy red and really not wanting ever to stop. It was such a fabulous sensation, my hand sharply slapping her smooth, delicately soft flesh over and over again, and the sound of it was equally wonderful. But in the end I did stop. Fortunately I have some self-control left. She wriggled off my lap and stood up and rubbed those heavenly legs.

'That did hurt,' she told me with an adorable pout.

I could, as I have indicated, have gone on doing it all afternoon but there were other factors to be considered beyond my delectable sensual pleasures. Jim Gribbins had arrived and needed instructions, and there was Mrs Simpkins about too. I took darling Pam outside and introduced her to Jim and then, feeling a pang that he would be gazing at those legs (now not glowing quite so pinkly, thank goodness), asked him to find her a job. I cannot afford to have him. . . or anyone. . . see how besotted I am.

She left at 4 on her bike without our having had another intimate get together. But as I saw her off I got that big bold-eyed look again, and what seemed like a knowing smile.

'I'll be back in the morning then, Mr Graythorpe. Will it be just the two of us again then? You did hurt me a bit. But I didn't mind it'

How can I expect even a wink of sleep as I endure the interminable hours until 9am tomorrow?

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   * 

She arrived again right on time at 9, this morning not in shorts. 'Is my skirt all right, Mr Graythorpe?' The big blue eyes were bright, expectant.

I could hardly complain about the skirt (black cotton) which though slightly longer than the shorts was full and thus as Pam moved around - and certainly as she descended from her bike - managed to show at least as much as the shorts. Fortunately Hilda was going out again . . . just leaving, with a rather accusing look at me, as Pam arrived. Hilda's look made me squirm somewhat What did she think I was going to do with the girl?

What was I going to do? As Hilda's little car disappeared down the drive my charmer turned to me, eyes shining.

'Do I get spanked some more today, Mr Graythorpe?'

My head spun. I had of course been racking my brains for a way of leading up to this very subject and here was this sublime young Miss presenting it to me on a plate. With difficulty I kept myself on an even keel.

'I think I shall,' I pronounced. 'So we know where we are'

Where we shortly were was in my study again with Pam meekly laying herself over my lap as I sat in my chair. Saying nothing, her two hands came behind her and grasped her short skirt and without prompting she dragged it up, exposing a wicked-looking pair of brief pink pants, virtually transparent so that nothing was left to the imagination. Her voice came from down near the carpet.

'You can take my Knicks down if you want to smack my bum, Mr Graythorpe. My friend Debbie had it done on her bare bottom'

I gazed, struck dumb. I could hardly believe my eyes, or my ears. But unbelievable or not I know it was an offer that many men would have seized on. I am not one of them, however. Pam's scanty pink knickers were undeniably arousing and so was the pert bottom they so skimpily covered; but I had no wish to bare that bottom or indeed to spank it. For me a girl should always be allowed to retain her modesty. Certain parts of a young lady are her own affair and should remain unviolated.

I know some men will find this attitude strange; all I can say is that I have my standards and that is one of them. A girl's legs, her thighs, are of course something else entirely. There is no real invasion of modesty involved and I consider them a fit and proper region for chastisement To me they are often far more erotic than any bottom can possibly be.

Recovering my equilibrium somewhat I drew Pam's skirt back down to veil those somewhat scandalous knickers while explaining that it was not her bottom that was to be chastised. It was to be, as before, those lovely legs. And the lovely legs it was as I proceeded to my mind-stunning pleasure.

Some time later and the immaculate, quite utterly fantastic spanking over, I must confess to feeling distinctly sick. Some sixth sense caused me to ask Pam if she had ever been spanked before on her bottom. She hesitated and then gave an embarrassed smile. And then admitted that she had made up the story about her friend Debbie. In fact it was darling Pam who had worked in that shop and got in trouble with the till. It was she who subsequently had been made to take her knickers down for the manager.

Yes I felt sick, at the thought of my pretty Pam ... and that man. Baring her exquisite intimate flesh. His male hand outrageously smacking down on it. I felt sick and I still do when I think about it. So I try to dismiss it from my mind. And anyway I can see that it is because of this experience that Pam is so prepared to accept what I want to do.

Later in the morning I had the delicious girl over my lap for another session. Each time the pleasure has been even more sublime. I have told her she must not tell Aunt Dorothy (or indeed anyone) . . .  and I have also told her she is to be paid twice the amount agreed with her aunt. I am a craven fellow I know but I cannot help it. I am aware that I am in the grip of a hopeless addiction . . . and I am quite deliriously happy with that fact

I am wondering if I might tell Jim Gribbins to take a week's holiday and possibly suggest that Hilda do the same.

Four weeks the adorable creature is here for. . . and then . . ?

I must not think of that.

THE END. . for now that is . . .

Cindy knew that her cousin, Karen, had just been caned, Lying on the lawn in the early afternoon sunlight and idly turning the pages of a picture book, Cindy had heard - floating down through the window of the master bedroom at the rear of the house - her cousin's bitten-off squeals and cries.

"WHOO~HOOO! Oh,' NO!" and then the caning must have stopped, for all she could then hear were fanny, muffled moans.

It must be awful to be caned, Cindy thought. She knew what it was like to be 'seen to' herself, but so far she had only been spanked.

The day before, when Cindy had arrived to spend a week at her uncle's house, Karen had asked her a little shyly whether she made much noise when she was being 'seen to'. Cindy hadn't known what to say, because she hadn't told her cousin anything about it, so she had just compressed her pretty lips and shaken her head.

Half and hour later when Karen came out of the house towards her, Cindy pretended to be absorbed in her book. Karen threw herself down on her tummy on the grass beside Cindy and uttered a big sigh. Or maybe it was a sort of sobbing-sigh, but Cindy thought it best to make believe that she hadn't heard anything. Karen's ultra-short, white pleated tennis skirt matched her own and showed their legs almost up to the tops of their thighs. The brevity of them helped them to keep cool, Cindy's aunt said, and Uncle Simon agreed with her. Each time the girls jumped for the ball, or bent to retrieve it, the translucent white nylon panties they both wore would show their pert bottom cheeks to the full, just as their otherwise unfettered breasts jiggled under their flimsy white blouses.

Everything at Uncle Simon's house was different to Cindy's own, anyway. It was much larger and more luxurious, and all the beds were double so that you could really sprawl in them. And there were lots of mirrors. In fact they seemed to be obsessed with them. Cindy's guest room had three. Whenever she was dressing or undressing, she could see her lithe young figure from all angles, and It was the same in Karen's.

There were canes, too, in the house - slim, whippy pale yellow ones whose colour matched the headboards of the beds, and the wardrobes. There was one in Karen's bedroom, and one in the master bedroom, too - for Cindy had peeped in there. There were lots of mirrors in the big bedroom, too, and the funny thing was that there were even a mass of mirror squares on the ceiling above the bed.

"I've just been caned," Karen said suddenly, as if she had been waiting to confess it for long moments. She rolled on her hip as she spoke, to face Cindy, and began buttoning up her top, making the stretched material strain out over her maturing tits. "Mummy says it keeps me on my toes," Karen went on as both girls looked up to see her father strolling towards them in shirt and trousers.

"Karen, your mother wants you, Mr Dickinson has just called and-it appears he would like to have a few words with you," he said.

Both girls turned together and sat up, coiling their legs under them. Two years older than her cousin, Karen's thighs were slightly plumper than Cindy's and swelled up gracefully to the junction of her legs where the folds of her brief skirt dipped coyly to partly conceal the vee of her tiny panties.

"Oh! But you've just already ... I mean, I've just ... ." Karen began with a stammer, but rose up under his mildly-enquiring glance, affording Cindy a brief look as she went petulantly back towards the house, her bottom bulbing impudently where her pleated skirt arched over it.

A man peered through the French windows as Karen moved towards the door. Cindy sort of knew who he was. Girls of her age who were just into, or just finishing from the Sixth Form, talked about him. He had formed a private college for 'high school' girls and had a reputation as a disciplinarian, though that word was a bit too long for Cindy to form in her mind. She had heard that he used the cane a lot, and a tawse as well.

Alone then with her uncle, Cindy didn't know whether to get up or not. She thought for a moment that he might sit and chat with her, but instead he extended one hand down to take hold of her own, small warm one and drew her up. Instinctively, Cindy made to smooth down her skirt at the back, but there was no point in it. The 'house skirts' that she and Karen had to wear indoors were just as short and left their tightly-banding stocking tops showing as they walked. Likewise, whenever they sat down, their skirts were drawn up even higher.

"Come, Cindy," her uncle said softly now, just as if they were going for a little stroll. But Cindy somehow knew they were heading for the summerhouse. It was made of pine, with a green roof, and had a little veranda. It was a sort of special place. Karen said she had been in there sometimes, and so had a few of her girlfriends when they came to stay. Cindy had never been in there before, for it was always locked, but she knew it was special. A girl who had been 'summer housed' was somehow different - 'more advanced' they said.

When they reached it, her uncle unlocked the door, and upon entering Cindy thought that it looked larger inside than it looked from the outside. There was a divan with several nice cushions on it and a window sheltered by a bed of tall shrubs at the back providing total privacy. Beside the divan there was a small cabinet with its door open and Cindy could see a collection of wine bottles and glasses inside.

Her uncle followed her glance as he closed the summerhouse door and asked her if she drank yet. But then he immediately corrected himself and said, "No, of course you don't. Karen is beginning to like vodka, I'm afraid."

Cindy was scarcely listening.

She was looking at another couch in the centre of the floor - a black leather one on stubby legs that stood in the middle of a huge rug. It had a hump in the middle, like a camel's. It would be a funny thing to sit on, she thought. She stood uncertainly as her uncle came to stand beside her, casting one arm loosely across the back of her shoulders.

"Your tennis is improving all the time, Cindy, and we do want to progress you. . .  keep you polished up, as we say. Training is so important, is it not. You ARE being trained a little already, I believe. Turn and look at me, Cindy, there's a good girl”

“Now then . .Training is like being seen to, you know, and you always have to obey the commands of your coach, don't you?"

Cindy gulped and nodded. His hand smoothed her corn gold hair and he smiled. Would she obey? he asked. For a moment Cindy got mixed up in her mind as to what he meant, but she knew she had to be obedient when she was being spanked, and she supposed it was the same thing.

"Yeth," she lisped. A funny, tight feeling of excitement in her often made her lisp. Gazing self-consciously up at him, her nipples peaked through the thin material of her top, the shape of her tits showing faintly pink beneath. He was asking her now, in a grave, quiet voice, if she had learned what to do first. Again, Cindy felt a bit muddled, but then she noticed a slight frown gathering on his face. She knew that sort of frown when one hesitated for too long. She had never done it in front of her Uncle Simon before, but now he had stepped a pace back from her and was waiting.

Cindy bit her lower lip and fingered the floating hem of her miniskirt. She knew she had to 'show' first, and he was waiting for her to do it. With her moist lips alluringly parted, she drew up her skirt all around until her panties were fully exposed, the semi-transparent crotch humped out slightly where her already-flourishing curls bunched. . .

"Show, Cindy - you know by now what it means," he intoned. He saw the pink tip of her tongue peeping from between her teeth as she obeyed and pushed her tiny panties down to her knees unveiling the glistening, near-golden tuft beneath.

One, two, three, four, five, Cindy told herself, because that was how long she had to stand like that, 'showing', before she turned and displayed her apple-round bottom to his view. This was called 'displaying'. . and in the past few months she had always had to 'show and display' before she was spanked.

Again, nervously, breathlessly she counted in her head up to five, holding her naked bottom well bulbed as she did so, and thinking that perhaps her uncle would be very proud and surprised to discover how obedient she was. A step sounded behind her and Cindy stood as still as she could as his hands quested around and beneath her, feeling the emergent warmth and waiting readiness of the chubby hemispheres.

"Oh, yes," she heard him murmur as if to himself, and Cindy wanted to giggle and to cry at the same time. But then, as his hands left her warm derriere, she unclipped her skirt and let it fall. If she waited to be told, he might spank her harder. It was called 'being awkward', and she had been told many times now not to be. Stepping out from the small white pool of the garment. Cindy peeled her knicks off completely and then with slightly trembling fingers unbuttoned her top and let the sides fall apart.

He remained unmoving as she did so, but she could hear him breathing just behind her. His hands came lightly upon her shoulders and he turned her, glancing briefly down at the flat sweetness of her pearly tummy, the creamy whorl of her navel, her sprouting bush, and her blossoming-firm breasts that Showed their Pink-brown nipples.

For a moment they stood thus and Cindy had the mad thought that he was going to bend down and kiss her, but she was NEVER kissed before she was ‘seen to’. Sometimes after her spankings she was kissed and made a little fuss of before she put her knicks back on again.

He was impelling her now slowly towards the funny couch, his palm gently circling her warm bulbous bottom. And in that second or two, Cindy suddenly realised what the strange-looking hump was for. Coaxed Silently to kneel on the couch and then positioned with her knees in front of the hump, she found herself being pressed gently over it so that it came up under her tummy and made her bottom thrust right up.

It was then that her uncle bent and touched a button on the side of the couch. As he did so there came a faint Whirring sound and, with a faint squeal of surprise, Cindy felt the hump rising more until the upper part of her body on one side of it, and her legs on the other, formed a broad triangle. She was perfectly poised for . . among other things . . the cane.

Swallowing nervously, Cindy saw out of the corner of her eye the cane being flourished from its nesting place under the bottom of the couch. Was Mr Dickinson caning Karen now? . . Karen had murmured something the day before about having 'advanced lessons, upstairs and ...SHWACKKK!. . . .  "NEEE-OOOH!", Cindy squealed suddenly as the hissing path of the cane bit white-hot fire into her fully-exposed bottom cheeks.

OWWWAA, this was much, much worse than being spanked. It was . . .SHWIIITT!. . "GEEEE-OUCH!" the shrill cry echoed in the room as again the cane coursed in, scarcely pausing in its arcing flight from the first foray across her bum.

"Only four more, Cindy, this first time, and then we shall see how you progress." She heard and then screwed up her eyes and waited, squeezing her ardent bum cheeks in anticipation of the third. But her Uncle watched and waited. . . waiting until he was satisfied she had fully absorbed the first searing strokes. Matters of discipline should never be rushed as Simon well knew. If Karen had not been properly coached, then Mr Dickinson would not be able to progress her, as he was surely doing right now.

A Blistering . . TWHACKKKK!! broke the silence and caught the pretty teenager completely off guard 

"THOOO-WEEEEH!." her painful wail rent the otherwise quiet air of the summerhouse and strung high as her bottom was over the black leather hump, her slender hips rotated wildly, as she fought within herself to contain the white hot fire. The couch was narrow and her left knee slid sideways, making her foot come down on to the floor. She made to draw it back up, but a touch of the cane stayed her.

"No, Cindy, stay as you are. . .  Just as you are" came the command while she strained the toes of her left foot down on the rug, her legs thus scissoring apart. Turning her flushed face away from him, Cindy Whimpered and Wriggled, her rigid young nipples brushing tantalisingly against the leather beneath. His palm stroked her brazier-hot bottom and she jerked at first, but then she let it. Fingertips there touched gently, enquiringly where the pursed fig below her bottom cheeks sparkled. She was moist, just as she always was after a spanking.

Mouth open in a pretty ‘O’ Cindy tried to control her quiet sobbing and hissed her breath in as a fingertip explored her more intimately. With little, girlish gulps she felt his hand cup her underneath and hold her thus, holding her Still while her hot bottom throbbed. Then, finding her motionless at last, the cupping palm slowly withdrew, tickled by curls.

"Yes," She heard him say softly, and Cindy waited. . .  waited for what she was about to receive. The end of the cane tapped her hot cheeks enquiringly and she jerked a little, but again was still. Again it tapped, but now - as it seemed to her - more mischievously, as if to say that she was almost as good now, or almost as naughty now, as Karen sometimes was.

"You will learn gradually to come on to the cane, Cindy," his voice, gentle and persuasive and exposed as she was, it made her feel all hot and quivery.

"Cindy?" She heard him ask and heard herself say "Yeth. . . yes. . ." just as she had had to recently before she was actually spanked. Screwing up her eyes again, Cindy felt the cane being raised, even though she couldn't see it.

Sure enough it whistled in and landed with a deafening CRACKKKKKKK!

"OWWWW . . .AAAAAHAAAR!" the young girls long-drawn-out cry followed as the cane bit into her tender flesh, this time catching her right under the bulb of her stricken cheeks. Cindy gritted her teeth as the long fingers of fire invaded her crevices, clawing at the smooth black leather. . and somehow. .  somehow managing to keep her hips from jiving too madly.

Even through the blistering fire, Cindy knew now that she was yielding. Allowing herself to be ridden by the cane until the worlds of goodness and naughtiness merged and brought her deeper and closer to that throbbing, tingling fulfilment with which, so far, she had only really flirted with after her spankings . . . . .

THE END

The last thing I wanted was to be embroiled in the affairs of Abigail Price-Boynton. She was the most spoilt, insufferable little bitch of anyone's acquaintance. Unfortunately, she was my God-daughter. Her father, Herbert, Lord Rokesby, should have looked to the disciplining of her, because he was True Blue reactionary, and, in his vocabulary, anyone who disgusted, perplexed or disturbed him wanted 'Putting up against a brick wall and shooting!'. It would certainly have been a wholesale culling. Picketing strikers, demonstrating students, equivocating cabinet ministers, football hooligans, trade union leaders and homosexuals, it was all the same to him. I had been his fag at School, and he was no better then!

Now here he was quietly subverting every expected value of a father and off-loading his undisciplined daughter. His argument on the phone was straight to the point and persuasive. Abigail had gone plastic card mad and spent a fortune. To teach her a lesson he had paid her debts and then cut off her allowance. Abbie had redressed the financial balance by electing to become a cocaine courier. Paid in advance for her first assignment to be brought in from Cannes, where she had been on holiday, she had panicked when she saw the vigilant manner in which everyone on her flight was having baggage searched as they passed through airport customs. Abbie's little packets of 'speedball' weren't in her case but secreted within the cups of her bra, nevertheless with very cold feet she had feigned illness and gone to the toilets and flushed the contents of the two small plastic bags down the Loo. Now she could neither return the money paid to her, nor pay her 'employers' for the cocaine.

'They can get bloody nasty, those people.' said Herbert. 'Need puttin' up against a brick wall and shooting, the lot of them!' For once I rather agreed with this verdict, and in fact thought it lenient. Perhaps it was this that contributed to my agreeing that Abigail needed to get away from London, until the heat died down a bit.

'That place of yours,' said Herbert, 'Trenlochy Lodge, is ideal. No one's going to bother to come up to Scotland looking for her.'

'That's probably true,' I said, 'but.... ' I waited for the significance of the 'but' to sink in. I had visions of Abbie creating havoc in my peaceful Highland retreat. With her easy boredom, lack of staying power. and a temper that matched her magnificent red hair, I could see my respected position in the community disappearing rapidly.

'I can't imagine Abbie taking to the country life' I went on, 'It could be an unpleasant isolation for her, and so unpleasant for me in consequence!'

There was a pregnant pause at the end of the line, and then I detected the old wheedling tone in his Lordship's dulcet cadences.

'But you will do it, old boy, won't you, you do owe me a small favour if I recall.'

Damn and blast the man! Over the years Herbert Price-Boynton had furthered my business career quite considerably, and he was a friend, of sorts. I sighed, I knew when I was beaten, but I had to make the gesture all the same.

'To put it bluntly, Herbert, you've neglected her something rotten, and in consequence she's grown up from a playful kitten to a spiteful little cat!'

Reluctantly he agreed, which said much for his state of anxiety over his only daughter.

'Thanks, Jonathan. She'll give you no trouble, you'll see. I'll talk to her, tell her that if she doesn't behave herself and do what you tell her, I'll disinherit her!'

'Yes, do what I tell her.' I repeated. 'And if she doesn't? I won't have a financial hold over her. What do you suggest?. .  a well smacked bottom?' I said it half in jest, but as I did so I thought of the succession of Nannies, Governesses, and Headmistresses of expensive private Schools who had despaired of Abbie in the past. If just one of them had had the guts to take down Abbie's knickers and had really thrashed her aristocratic bottom she might have developed into a likeable girl.

'Hmmm!. . Yes, well it's a valid point' blustered his Lordship, 530 miles away in his London flat. 'Just do what ever you need to old boy. . . Whatever you think is best. .  I give you carte blanche. I can rely on you, old man. Always could!'

Abbie travelled alone from London to Inverness on the train, and there I met her with the Range Rover for the thirty mile safari to Trenlochy. I had discussed her stay with my housekeeper, Morag Hamilton, whose calvanistic conscience made her entirely approve of my intention to 'reform' Abbie, As we drew up at the lodge she quickly appeared to welcome us, a woman thin to the point of angularity, and uniformly, dourly grey. Hair, complexion, skirt and cardigan, but there was nothing colourless about her mind.

'Welcome to Trenlochy, Abigail,' she said with dignity. 'Mister Jonathan's told me about you, and I trust that you will enjoy your stay.'

She was reassuringly unimpressed by the fact that Abigail was of so called 'honourable' status. Baron's daughter or innkeeper's, it was all the same to her, and Abigail would have to earn her respect.

'Morag ... ' said Jonathan, 'Abigail will be in your complete care during the mornings, and will do her share of the housework. Any rudeness, or disobedience, you will know how to deal with, or you may, of course, refer to me.'

The housekeeper had smiled. 'Thank you, sir, but I expect I will be able to handle her. Now, come this way, your dinner won't be long, and you must be famished after your long journey.'

Abbie's room was probably a shock to her. It was up in the roof, and must at some time have belonged to one of the maids. It was small, spotlessly clean, and sparsely furnished, with only a single divan bed, a chest of drawers with a mirror, and an upright chair.

'The bathroom is next door.' Mrs Hamilton told her.

'Right,' I had told Abbie, 'get your things unpacked, I nor no one else will do it for you. When you get up in the morning you will put on your working dress, which you will find in the chest. Is that understood? Mrs Hamilton will call you at seven. Now, get changed for dinner.'

I had almost chuckled as I 'read' the thoughts that chased across Abbie's spoilt and expressive face. 'Working dress!. .  Seven o'clock! . . I never rise before noon!' You could almost hear her say it, but she somehow held her tongue, and I went off to prepare for dinner.

However, next morning Abbie was either 'trying it on' or had a very short memory, for she appeared at breakfast wearing a light summer dress with tan coloured tights. I suppose it was something that she had come down at all.

I said, 'Good morning, Abbie. I thought I told you to wear your working dress?'

'I've looked at it.' she said disdainfully. 'And I'm certainly not wearing that. I'm not a servant!'

I remember regretfully looking at my toast and marmalade. I hate cold toast. Ah well, there was, I suppose, no time like the present. I swallowed the remains of my tea, and pulled my dinner chair well away from the table, and then, before Abbie realised what was happening, I had clamped my fingers about her wrist and heaved her, face downwards, across my knees. Miss Abigail Price-Boynton was about to receive her first spanking, and on an empty stomach! Although it was not that part of her pretty anatomy that was about to feel the benefit.

The full skirt of her blue cotton dress was flipped up to the predictable accompaniment of cries of 'Don't! What do you think you're doing?' and 'How dare you!'

I may be old fashioned but I dislike the sight of tights, especially when worn over panties, as Abbie's were then. Idiotically they remind me of a robber raiding a bank! So I remedied this ugliness by ripping them off, and then peeling down the tight fitting panties half concealed beneath. . . Yes, that was much better!

'In future, Abbie' I told her sternly, 'you will wear stockings and suspenders! Tights are ugly and can cause thrush.'

'Sod you. I shall wear what I like, you lousy pervert!' she responded with spirit. I considered that it was high time for a change in Abbie's attitude. I raised my open hand and brought it down with a satisfying THWACK on the smooth, naked flesh imprisoned provocatively across my thighs. There was a yelp from Abbie by way of reflex action, and a splodge of angry colour materialised on the creamy whiteness of her magnificent haunch, which bucked in protest and made a futile attempt to escape the next searing smack.

It did, but only because the next landed on its twin globe with an equally satisfying and noisy report, but then it was the tum of the right cheek again - and then the left - and on, alternating between each cringing hillock, while Abbie shouted, swore, and threatened me with all kinds of unladylike things.

I was undeterred by this profanity. Encouraged rather, because it told me that I was getting my message home. I continued to spank her hard and rhythmically until both of her bottom cheeks were carmined an angry scarlet. When I tested them by lightly placing my hand upon them, they felt burning hot, and I hoped that they stung and itched like blazes, for I was wasting my time, and tiring my hand for nothing if they didn't. Yet it was an enjoyable occupation in its own right!

Soon I noticed that Abbie's gyrations were becoming less violent, and her curses a little less fish wifely. Now she lay passively across my knee and sobbed brokenly rather than shouted. I grabbed a hunk of her long and beautiful Titian hair and lifted her face so that I could look at her. Yes, she was undoubtedly crying real tears of pain and mortification, rather than those of temper. They ran down her pretty and woebegone cheeks, making her look like a punished naughty girl, which of course she was.

'Now then young lady' I told her severely, 'I can go on like this all morning if need be. . Is that what you want?'

There was no reply except for a sniff and a sob, so I aided her powers of conversation with four more stinging slaps, two to each scarlet buttock.

'Ow! Ouch! NO!, p-please, please stop it. .  No more! - No, of course not!'

'Very well then. but be warned young lady .The same thing, and worse, is going to happen each time you are disobedient. Do I make myself clear?'

'How could it be worse?' sobbed Abbie, very sorry for herself. 'My bottom feel like it's on fire and burning up!'

'Believe me, girl, that is only a sample of what can happen to you, and very likely will. The hairbrush, the tawse, and the cane are all far more painful than my hand, and I will not hesitate to employ them all if necessary!'

'Now,' I told her, 'We are going to your bedroom, and you are going to change into your working dress, to help Mrs. Hamilton with the rough housework. You will wear stockings and suspender belt, and never tights, or you will earn yourself an automatic caning. Right?'

'Yes,' she sobbed. There was little fight left in the poor little rebel. I almost felt sorry for her.

I lifted her to her feet and escorted her to her room, I had then watched appreciatively while she took off her dress, slip, and ruined tights, and instead donned black seamed stockings, fastening them to the clips of her suspenders, the belt of which fitted snugly around her waist. She had winced and pouted as she pulled a pair of white nylon panties over her hot and tender buttocks.

'Leave those off,' I suggested, 'until after your morning duties, when you will change again.'

Giving me a grateful look and complying, she stepped into a nylon waist slip which doubtless was both looser and cooler, and then buttoned up a nylon overall. I told her to wash her face and report to Mrs Hamilton. 'Tell her that first of all you are to bring me fresh tea and toast. I haven't finished my breakfast yet!'

'I haven't even had any breakfast!' wailed Abbie plaintively.

'Serves you right!' I rebuked her unsympathetically. 'In future you can have yours before you come down, so that you will be ready to wait on me. You may be allowed to join Mrs Hamilton for elevenses if you work well!'

For a moment there came a flash of the old stubborn petulance, and I wondered whether another rebellious outburst was brewing.

'Abbie' I snapped, 'Turn to face me.' She did, which brought her back towards the mirror. Now lift up your skirts. Quickly now!' She obeyed, startled by the note of command in my voice.

'Lift it right up . . that's it. .  Now then, tell me what you see.'

'My, er - bottom.' she stammered. 'Yes, it's red and sore, isn't it. Do you want an ebony hairbrush laid smartly across it, or a Lochgelly tawse?'

'No, please!' she faltered, almost in tears at the prospect.

'Then do as you are told. That is the last warning you will get. Now, go and report to the inestimable Mrs Hamilton.'

I then enjoyed a leisurely second breakfast, reading the newspapers which the postman brought up in his van with the mail, while a subdued Abbie waited upon me, reasonably efficiently I thought, for a girl who had never waited on a table before. I then took a stroll around the garden. When I returned I was amused to see Abbie, on her hands and knees, brushing the dining room carpet. In that subservient posture the clinging folds of her nylon overall and slip were taut over her round buttock, delightfully so.

'No hoover?' I asked her.

She blushed. 'There is one, but Mrs Hamilton says that I'm to learn housework the hard way.'

'Bottom still stinging?' l asked her. I went over to her and lifted her petticoats. She made no protest, seemingly the lesson had been well learnt, already the angry marks that my hand had made were beginning to fade from the perfection of her soft flesh,

'Not so much now.' She had given me a wry grin, which encouraged me, I began to have hopes for her. I wondered what I would do with her when she was sufficiently 'reformed' and what plans, if any her father had for her when he felt it safe for her to return to London. But destiny, in the unlikely guise of Allan Wilcox was already tiptoeing into Abbie's future.

Allan was on old friend of mine from way back. He was a widower, and before settling down to do something obscure in publishing, had led a no-nonsense outdoor life. Now he was on the phone.

'I'm in Inverness,' he announced, after the usual greetings, 'Can I come over for a couple of days?'

I told him that I would be delighted. 'I have another guest,' I told him, 'Okay?' I filled him in on Abbie, and over the phone I heard him whistle softly. 'Abbie Boynton? That little bitch?' A silence, then . . .  'I've got a score to settle with her.'

'Then come and settle it.' I invited. 'There's no reason why Abbie's vultures shouldn't come home to roost, they've been gathering for some time. What's it all about?'

'I'll tell you when I see you.' replied Allan, sounding as if the mention of Abbie left a nasty taste in his mouth. I'll just say this. The last time I spoke to Miss Abigail P-B it was on the telephone and I told her that if I ever had the opportunity I would give her the hiding of her life. And now it looks as if we are going to be thrown together as your house guests. Well, well, well!'

Allan Wilcox arrived just as Abbie and I were taking afternoon tea. I had not told her that he was coming, In view of his remarks about her on the phone I thought it better not to.

Abbie was looking particularly delightful. Her long copper hair loosely tied in a pony tail, and she was without makeup. She would have easily passed for sixteen, and the youthful effect was enhanced by an apple green, full skirted nylon dress. Her long shapely legs were shown to perfection in sheer, 15 denier stockings.

Abbie was servant only in the mornings. After lunch she changed and became my companion, which was why she was now at tea with me, rather than serving it.

Abbie had settled well to a life of domesticity, and there had been only one ripple on the pond of tranquillity, when she had called Mrs Hamilton a 'bossy old dictator' in that good lady's hearing. Taking my approval as tacit, the housekeeper had placed one sturdy foot upon the rung of a kitchen chair and propelled Abbie across her bent knee. It was unfortunate for her that Mrs Hamilton had a large wooden spoon in her hand, for an instant Abbie's skirts were up above her waist and the ladle was stirring trouble for the hapless helper as it whacked down on a tender and thinly knickered bottom.

'Some people,' Mrs Hamilton had said grimly, as she belaboured the nylon covered softness before her, 'need to be bossy. Others need bossing!'

A frantic and very tearful Abbie had howled the house down. . .

Later, however, she said something to me which I considered significant.

'I respect Mrs Hamilton for doing that. No one's ever cared enough about me to do it!' Then she had rubbed her bottom ruefully. 'l wish she wasn't such a strong woman, though. It must be all that porridge!'

Now, hearing the sound of a car on the gravel drive, Abbie got up and looked through the dining room window with avid curiosity. Visitors were rare at Trenlochy Lodge. Also rising I saw Allan climbing out of his car. Recognising him Abbie turned a sickly white and gave a gasp of dismay, precipitously running from the room. Allan rang the front door bell, and as Mrs Hamilton went to answer it, I saw Abbie emerge running from the back door and round the side of the house. She jumped into Allan's car, the keys still being in the ignition, and roared off, almost taking the gate posts of the drive entrance with her.

Running, I thundered past a startled Mrs Hamilton, who was preparing to do the hospitality hostess bit. 'Quick!I shouted to Allan. 'That was Abbie, in your car, if you hadn't noticed. Follow me!'

We raced for the Range Rover, and with Allan beside me we tore after his disappearing Citroen, I didn't know what Abbie was escaping from, but whatever it was the sight of him had put the fear of God into the girl!

Abbie's mistake was that she didn't stick to the road, such as it was, but turned onto the rough moorland that surrounded the house. On that sort of terrain the Range Rover had all the advantages, but even so Abbie had a fair start, and we could see the Citroen lurching and jolting at a tidy speed ahead of us. I suppose that we would have caught up with it eventually, but it was a half-witted sheep in Abbie's way that decided the issue. Looking up in consternation from its grazing it baa-ed in alarm, hesitated, and then decided to stay put and see what happened.

Faced with this ovine death wish Abbie swerved wildly, hit a tussock, the engine stalled and the car slewed to an ignominious halt.

Not waiting for us, Abbie, was out of the car, leaping across the heather following the sheep. She was really scared.

We caught up with her. Jumping out of the Rover Allan went after her and brought her down in a diving rugby tackle, in a flurry of kicking, waving legs and lacy lingerie, he bundled her in his arms, still struggling wildly, and panting.

'Now what?' Alan shouted struggling to contain the fiery young blonde

'Someone’ I told him helpfully, 'has to drive a car apiece, and that leaves the damsel in distress jumping about like a Dervish with St. Vitus Dance, Do you fancy her as a passenger?'

'Not like this.' he replied, taking a tighter grip on the hysterical girl he was now carrying.

I rummaged in the Range Rover, glad that working cars carry all sorts of useful gear, and produced a ball of strong twine, 'Put her down and sit on her,' I suggested. Then I tied Abbie's wrists together. She still looked as if she was going to be a damned nuisance though, so I yanked her full skirts up over her head and tied the ends in a makeshift hood. I have to admit that the sight was oddly charming, with Abbie's knickers, suspenders and nyloned legs fully exposed, but at least it kept her quiet - although judging by the muffled sounds from within the tied skirts, far from speechless. Then we dragged her into the back seat of the Citroen and drove sedately back home.

- - - - //- - - -

Accepting the inevitable, Abbie was allowed down from her bedroom, where she had been locked in, and now stood before us, a scene reminiscent of 'When did you last see your father?'

Allan glared at her with unsympathetic hostility. . .

'Well?' he demanded,

'It was only a joke,' Abbie blustered, 'it just went wrong, that's all, I think that you're stupid, making a fuss about nothing"

I cut her short, and looked at Allan enquiringly, 'Could you put me in the picture?' I asked.

'Certainly,' Allan glowered at her, 'As you know, Abbie's past is littered with stupid practical jokes, one of the least funny of which was brewing lethally potent wine, and, being friendly with my young cousin, Ruth. She persuaded her to serve it at a family dinner party, Most of the guests were unpleasantly ill, while Ruth became rampageously drunk and foul mouthed, and, to top it all, the Bishop and the Lord Lieutenant of the County had been invited. The disgrace to the family is something that it is not prepared to forget.'

Abbie, for the first time looked contrite. 'I'm sorry: she whispered, 'really I am!'

'Sorry is not enough.' said Allan, 'Ruth was severely punished, and so should you have been. You should have been caned as well as her!'

'The young blonde chewed her bottom lip . . visibly trembling. She new there could be no more excuses. . no more pleading. The game was up.

'Alright. .  If that's what Ruthie got.'  She looked resolutely at me, 'Lets get it over with?'

‘Right young lady . .Strip!’ Abbie frowned, cheeks flushed a delightful pink and put on her “do I really have to” face which I’d seen many times before.

‘Want me to have Alan do it for you?’

“You w-wouldn’t d-dare. . Daddy would never allow th..

‘Daddy’ I interrupted has given me full authority to chastise and punish you when I like and how I like. Now I’m going to count to three and if you still choose to defy me, Alan and I will get you ready ourselves!!    

What a pretty little viper she was. Pouting and tutting but never the less stripping almost completely naked. .  apart from her stockings and suspender belt that is.

‘You can leave them on’ I quipped ‘They frame the target area rather well’ I said , adding ‘You wouldn’t want us missing your bottom, would you now’

Abbie frowned, her discarded panties still draped untidily around one ankle, her delicate fingers intertwined and protectively cupping the juncture between her silky thighs.

‘Up you go young lady!’ I pointed, and with a sigh of resignation, she climbed up onto the dinning room table, her fingers tightly clutching the outer edges. Allan took the cane and measured it against the rounded perfection of her rump, judging its swing, Then he raised it level with the middle of her bottom, drew back his arms, and. . .  Swish!

It was almost as if the cane had come to life, and with a power of its own, and knew exactly how best to punish the plump, firmly fleshed and lushly contoured feminine bottom laid before it.

Thwwwwack!

I saw the smooth flesh indent with the force of the Malacca's impact. The cane curved around the full width of Abbie's buttocks, and clung for a moment as if loath to leave such a perfect target, then It sprang back, ready for the next stroke.

Allan's arm was raised again before Abbie had recovered sufficiently from the paralysing shock to squeal. . 'Ooohh!!' and to tum her head in startled dismay.

For a moment it looked as if she would try to get up, but then she sank back with a tiny groan as the rod descended with stinging force, two inches below the first vivid welt, which was now turning an angry red. Like a slow motion film sequence, Abbie's face began to crumple like a baby about to cry, then, as the full impact of the stroke made itself felt. she drew a long shuddering breath, and sobbed openly and unashamedly.

Resigned to the rest of her punishment Abbie pressed her tear stained cheek to the polished table, her youthful tits squashed beneath her delicate frame, her bottom perfectly poised. Implacably Allan delivered a further ten strokes to the anguished, writhing flesh and the practical joker sobbed and cried out, but remarkably remained in position with commendable fortitude, It was as if Abbie was expiating some of her sins.

At last the caning was over and Abbie lay slumped across the table, weeping copiously. Surprisingly, Allan went across and gently stroked her burning bottom.

'All over!' he said gruffly, 'Sorry, but it had to be done.' He turned to me, 'Do you mind if I take Abbie to dinner tomorrow night, in Inverness?'

I blinked in amazement. It was the last thing I had expected. 'Of course not, if she wants to go.'

'Do you?' Alan asked the still sobbing Abbie, There was a silence, punctuated by sniffs and sobs, and then came the reply. 'I don't mind, so long as I can take a cushion!'

It was only later that I heard about that dinner conversation, the chastiser and the chastised. According to Abbie, Allan offered to take her in hand and make a decent person of her!

'Is it too late,' he asked, 'to find a man who will give you smack bottoms as well as kisses when you deserve them?'

Abbie had gasped at the unexpectedness of what was certainly a proposal of marriage. However had Allan divined her needs so accurately? She had blushed, and squeezed her thighs together, and imagined the arousing effect of his stinging hand descending on her reddening bare bottom.

'It could be what I need!' she had answered.

They telephoned me from the restaurant to announce their engagement!

Abbie's marriage to Allan might have been called bizarrely predictable. When she behaved badly she expected to be punished and humiliated, and she was not disappointed! These were the times when she found herself standing on a tiny square of carpet before Allan's desk in his library, meekly agreeing that she deserved a thrashing.

For several moments Allan would regard her coldly, then would open a drawer and bring out a leather paddle, slapping it against his palm. The sharp slap would make Abbie jump nervously, and her bottom clench in anticipation.

'Bend over!' Allan said, indicating the desk. There was no alternative put for Abbie to obey, and she would do so, draping herself over its top, her head and lower arms projecting over the far side. It was a reminder of that first memorable time ever the table at Trenlochy Lodge!

Allan would be in no hurry to begin, and it was likely to be some time before he lifted her skirt and laid it over her shoulders. Time was in abeyance as he gratified his visual senses, delighting in her subservience, and Abbie would become increasingly apprehensive as she waited for the arrival of his hands at her waist, stripping down her nylon panties to denude her quaking bottom.

Not always! Perhaps without warning would come a loud Splat! before a fantastically scalding sting invaded her  tightly knickered bottom. It almost took her breath away as she gasped, and floundered to get up, but another stroke would distract her as it landed with equal venom, and might cause her to shrilly vocalise her anguish.

Desperately clutching the legs of the desk in an attempt to squeeze away the pain, she would think, 'God, how can I stand it!' It was not the first time she had vainly asked, nor would it be the last.

Fearfully she would wait for the next stinging stroke, but it might not come, and already Allan was putting away the paddle without even baring her bottom. He liked to vary his punishment. 'Nothing is as boring as predictability' was a saying of his.

'Get up!' he might say. 'That's only for starters. I'll see you in our bedroom in two hours exactly. Don't be late!'

In the bathroom Abbie would ease down the whispy nylon knickers and look at her reflection in the mirror. Across each cheek would be a hot, throbbing weal, the size and shape of the leather. Gingerly she would apply a libation of cold cream, and the tight-fitting panties would be exchanged for looser cotton ones. Then she must wait, her bottom glowing and smarting, for the appointed time, being careful not to sit down.

As the hour of punishment approached she would become increasingly apprehensive, and would present herself exactly on time. Hotly Allan would take her with his eyes, making her knees liquify. She was powerless to his will - and loved it!

'Are you ready to absolve your current foolishness?'

'Yes.' Barely more than a whisper.

'Then you had better remove your dress.'

Allan truly loved her, but there was, at that moment, no gleam of sexual desire in his eyes, and aware of it Abbie's humiliation was acute. He now turned her towards the bed, and she knew that a pillow would be draped across its end, ready for her to bend over. He would lead her to it and then, very slowly, draw her knickers down to her knees. The feel of his hands sliding down the curves of her buttocks would make her tremble like a leaf in the wind. Without being told she would press her stomach hard against the pillow, and bend over it until her elbows were on the bed.

'Look in the mirror!' She obeyed.

There, in the wardrobe mirror she would see her head and shoulders, and rising above them her bottom, lewdly naked and provocatively displayed, framed inside her suspender belt and the tops of her stockings, the black elastic bisecting the whiteness of her thighs. And behind, in the reflection, Allan, flexing a wicked Malacca cane.

It sliced through the air with a chilling 'hiss', but did not land, although her nates cringed in anticipation. Then standing to the right of her he was ready, arm raised, eager to bring down the cane on already tender buttock flesh. She might open her mouth to plead, but unspoken words became a gasp of pain as the rod sped down and a streak of fire slashed through her bottom.

As she lay helpless for a full six strokes, each stinging excruciatingly, a kaleidoscope of emotions jarred her mind, while tears streamed from her eyes. 'Allan was a sadist. That she had got herself into a marriage that was despotic slavery!' Yet, at the same time she knew she deserved, and needed, what she was getting. She lay sobbing and quivering, her bottom an incandescent ball of fire. 'If only Allan would make love to her!' she thought, 'It will make it all better, Would make all the torment bearable. But the temporary withdrawal was all part of the punishment.'

He would command her to sit, bare bottomed on the cane chair in the corner, ordering her to grip the slatted arms so that in no way could she comfort her burning stripes.

She hated it, but did not dare protest, let alone disobey. She had moved on one occasion, and it brought her additional punishment, and he had left her there for two hours, Instead of exercising his discretion. She could not bear that humiliation again.

She heard him turn on the television in the downstairs lounge, and looked at the clock. It might be half and hour, perhaps more, before he came. She hoped that he wouldn't forget her, become too engrossed in the TV programme. The cane seat of the chair was wickedly corrugated against her welted bottom. 'Cane on cane!' Allan had observed drily, and she was in direct contact with it. 'Oooch!' she groaned wretchedly, feeling a sudden desire to relieve herself. But she knew that she would have to wait. . . time, and patience, would make it all worthwhile.

After what seemed like an age, she heard him move in the room below and the television lapse into silence . . Allan's feet on the stairs, and she knew that the forgiving reconciliation would be worth every stroke, every fiery weal . .  Allan's hand was on the door handle, opening the door. . Abbie’s eyes flickered nervously as he released his belt from the loops of his trousers his manhood stiff and pulsating beneath his boxers. He pointed to the ruck of pillows on the bed, she eagerly complied watching her bottom in the mirror rising and bobbing expectantly behind. That evening Alan made love to her like never before after which she lay reflecting on those times spent with Jonathan at Trenlochy. She had learnt some painful lessons at the hands of both he and the irrepressible Morag Hamilton but she felt strangely thankful to both of them. . . .

Abigail Price-Boynton had finally come of age.        

THE END

Neither Gina nor Paula particularly enjoyed smoking. They only partook of the evil weed to show how big they were. They had no need of doing so at all as they were big girls anyway. Going on for 19 and attending Broadmead College for Young Ladies, the two friends were irked by the fact that they had to wear the regulation brown and yellow college uniform at all times.

They were allowed weekend leave, however, and as a relative of Paula's lived in a nearby town, they made a beeline for the station every Friday afternoon to let their hair down for a couple of days.

The near inseparable duo had, as it happened, very nice hair to let down. Gina's was dramatically dark and shiny, whereas Paula's was a deep, lustrous red.

Whether the pair realised it or not, many a male head in the village of Broadmead turned whenever Gina and Paula strode down the High Street. Even the vicar wobbled on his bicycle, staring at the pretty, young students as he passed them by.

If it was a warm day, college regulations wisely allowed for the brown uniform blazer to be discarded. The Broadmead brown and yellow striped tie still had to be worn though, but staff and prefects turned a blind eye to it being worn loosely with the top button of the yellow blouse undone.

Both Gina and Paula usually got away with leaving more than just the one button unfastened, thus allowing for part of their generous cleavages to be witnessed.

They also got away with wearing their brown skirts an extra inch or two shorter than most of the other girls' skirts. Their fulsome, exciting thighs were thus another focal point for male eyes - especially from the rear, when their curvy calves were on show, due to the regulation stockings being pushed down to their nicely turned ankles.

Their view from the rear was also a sight to be seen for two very good reasons - a pair of superbly formed young bottoms which swung tantalisingly from side to side with each step they took.

The village of Broadmead was blessed with a leisure pool which had been endowed by a local benefactor. Many a time the 'Pool Full' notice went up not long after Gina and Paula had been spotted walking towards the building, each with a rolled-up towel under one arm.

The pair waited on the station platform for longer than was usual before they heard an announcement to the effect that their train was running thirty minutes late.

'Nothing we can do about it,' sighed the red-haired Paula. 'We may as well go to the loo and change into some decent clothes.'

'Not yet.' Gina dumped her bag on the floor in the booking-hall-cum-waiting room and sat down on one of the red metal seats. 'Let's have a fag first. We can't smoke on the train.'

'Okay,' Paula agreed, and sat down beside her friend and took a proffered filter-tip cigarette.

Gina snapped her lighter into action and the pair blew out clouds of smoke. Neither of them inhaled and did not receive any advantage that the smoking lobby might put over to the public. For the two college students it was merely a cosmetic pastime.

They always closed their eyes as they blew out their first mouthful of smoke. This was always accompanied by a toss of their heads. They believed it was both mature and sexy to do that. Another mouthful of smoke followed and, at the same time, they opened their eyes to see just how many people were looking at them and considering just how daring they were to be puffing away in their college uniforms.

Upon this particular occasion, however, the opening of their eyes was instantly followed by spluttering and choking sounds. The reason for the cigarette smoke going the wrong way was due to the unexpected appearance of the Broadmead College Sports Master who was standing right in front of them.

Timothy Marshall was in his first post after qualifying and was not very many years older than the young ladies of Broadmead whom he instructed in physical education: netball, hockey and the like. Young, handsome and athletic, the fair-haired, tall master was considered as quite a hunk by the young college females, who were all in their late teens.

For all his youth and his relative inexperience in his chosen profession he was a hard taskmaster and quite a stern disciplinarian. He was not averse to using a training shoe as something other than a piece of footwear, as several smarting, Broadmead bottoms could testify.

'Hello, Mr Marshall.' Gina decided to brazen it out. The smoke as well as the words got stuck in her throat and she found it difficult to get the brief greeting out. Another cough, however, cleared her airwaves and she spoke again.

'Are you getting the same train as Paula and !?'

'Neither of you will be getting the train,' the young, sports master informed them, with narrowing eyes. 'Now, get to your feet when I'm talking to you and show some respect!'

Gina's tummy began to churn and she could tell from the expression on her friend's face that her own would be, too.
'Put those disgusting cigarettes out!' snapped Mr Marshall. 'You are both well aware that you are not to smoke in college uniform!'

The two girls stubbed out their hardly smoked cigarettes and were made to dispose of them. That done, they stood meekly in front of their superior, aware that a curious number of rail passengers had stopped to see what was going on.

Gina was furious that she was losing her street-cred - something which she valued very much indeed.

'Pull your stockings up properly!' The brunette knew her face was going as red as Paula's hair at the ignominious treatment. She did not like taking orders at the best of times, and this certainly wasn't one of them!

The bystanders, however, all seemed quite amused at the plight of the two girls, especially the young blokes amongst them.

'Straighten your ties and fasten your collars!'

The blue eyes of the young man displayed his anger and his face was set. Paula avoided his gaze as well as that of the onlookers. Gina, though, glowered at him as she adjusted her neckwear.

'I'm taking you both back to college,' Mr Marshall informed them. 'You are both "gated" for the weekend - and that is only the beginning,' he added, by way of warning.

The girls looked helplessly at one another. Their precious weekend activities consisting of drinking, wearing designer clothing and enjoying the company of boys was being taken away from them.

'Please don't,' begged Gina. 'Can't it all be sorted out on Monday morning?' . .  Indeed it could not.

Carrying their bags, the two girls forlornly trooped out of the station to the car park to where Timothy Marshall had left his vehicle. They cursed the railway company. If the train hadn't been late, Mr Marshall wouldn't have seen them. Just their luck.

The dark-haired girl in particular had, up until now, thought that Timothy Marshall was a very dishy guy. Attitudes could change so easily.

'Won't you miss your train, Sir,' suggested Paula tentatively as the car moved off.

'I can get a later one,' sniffed Mr Marshall.

'So can we, Sir,' put in Gina, optimistically.

The sports master's refusal to comment confirmed the fact that the girls were definitely destined to enjoy the Spartan surroundings of Broadmead College, rather than the high life of the neighbouring town. Not all the staff and students departed Broadmead at weekends so there was a great deal of interest when Gina and Paula arrived back there with Timothy Marshall. Many remarked upon the fact that the inseparable pair had never looked smarter.
Miss Gillespie, the straight-backed, bespectacled, grey-haired Principal said as much herself. She lectured the downcast duo about obeying College rules, the physical dangers of smoking and the important role of punishment.Both the brunette and the redhead certainly pricked up their ears at the mention of that particular word.

The Master and the Head got together and there was a great deal of muttering before they finally broke away.

'Your smoking materials will be confiscated,' the pair were told. Gina felt a bit uplifted after that. It didn't sound too bad. 'You will be gated for two weeks.' Paula looked at her friend. They had both expected longer.

'Finally,' here the Principal paused and looked from one girl to the other. 'You will each receive six strokes of the cane for breaching College regulations!'

The two culprits stared wide-eyed at one another. They had not been expecting that!

'B ... but, miss,' began Gina.

The woman held up her hand and cut her short. . .  'No ifs, no buts,' she said, firmly. She then stood up and turned to the sports master. 'I have to leave to attend a charity dinner. Will you do the honours for me please, Mr Marshall? There is a selection of canes-in the cupboard over there. Make sure that the punishment, book Is signed:

The girls could not believe their ears. Shock and horror showed upon their faces. Gina had been caned once before by Miss Gillespie and it had been a fairly light application, but Timothy Marshall was a strong man. Just a single whack from one of his trainers hurt like the dickens. One cut of the cane would be hell. . . . a half dozen ,would be sheer torture.

It was Gina herself who suddenly realised the significance of the punishment book. By then, however, Miss Gillespie had swept out of the room.

'We really only sign the punishment book It we are to be caned on our bare bottoms’ Gina forced a smile as she spoke to Mr Marshall and Paula's sharp intake of breath at the revelation was clearly audible.

'Correct!'

The sports master moved to tile cupboard. squatted down and, after a rattling sound, stood Up, wielding a long swishy cane. . . Both girls recoiled at the sight at it.

'Y-you're a man! You can't cane us on our bare bottoms!' . . This time it was Paula who spoke up

'On the contrary young lady, you have just signed 'the punishment book to unconditionally agree that I can do so,' Mr Marshall pointed out to them. He did not look at the culprits as he spoke. His eyes were only for the cane, and he fondled it affectionately.

Two pairs of young shoulders slumped dejectedly. Both faces now bore looks of resignation to their fate. It would be so ignominious for them to be caned on the bare by a male member of staff. They would be laughing stocks in the Common Room. They would not have any cred left at all after this!

'Which one of you is the oldest?' asked the master of them, almost casually

'I am.' responded the redhead, wondering at the reason for, the question, 'but only by a couple of months’

''Well then,' smiled the young man, benignly, 'I shall start with you, as you are the more senior. . . Hmmm?' he stroked his chin, He seemed to be actually enjoying himself.

'You are both tall girls so I think we'll have you over a chair back rather than over the desk. That way, your bums will be nice and high 'and well rounded out!’

He sounded to the stomach-sunk girls just as though he was making a selection from the menu in the college dining room!

The Master then dragged a high backed 'chair into the large space in front of the Principal's desk, told Gina to stand by the wall and then beckoned the other girl to come forward.

As the ashen-faced redhead took the few steps towards the chair, Mr Marshall slipped off his jacket and rolled up his right shirt sleeve to display a very muscular arm indeed. He then advanced upon Paula and pushed her down so that she was bent over the high wooden back.

'I suggest you grip the seat,' advised the young Sports Master

From her position Gina had a clear view of the proceedings. It was bad enough for her witnessing a punishment caning let alone knowing she was next!

Her heart Was thumping madly as Mr Marshall heisted up Paula's brown skirt and tucked it up above her waist. On view now were the girl's skimpy, white knickers. They would not have offered anything by way of protection from the cane, even If retained. They would, however, have offered a great deal in the way of modesty. Modesty was not long lasting. The Sports Master yanked her briefs away from her rear In one swift movement and the material sailed down Paula's shapely legs to settle around her ankles.

The redhead's marmoreal mounds were superbly shaped and deeply creased. Paula kept her athletic thighs glued together, Gina could not help but wonder if there would still be the same resolution on her behalf by the time the sixth stroke of the cane had been applied.

'You'll thank me for this one day, young lady.' intoned Timothy Marshall. as he positioned himself to the rear and the left of, the bent-over girl.

Gina thought It was a stupid thing to say. She was aware of the cane being raised in the air, but her eyes were glued onto her friend's buttocks. They were, indeed well rounded out as, Mr Marshall had said they would be, but very soon their velvety sheen would be defiled by angry looking marks.

The thin rattan came whistling down right on target.

CRAACK! . .

The sound made Gina rump and the impact sent Paula up on her toes, and she noisily and greedily sucked In air.

Straightaway the girl's magnolia skinned cheeks bore the pink imprint of the cane's visit,
Gina licked her now dry lips, her fingernails digging into the palms of her hands as she saw the wood flash down for a second time, its progress abruptly halted by Paula's up-thrust buttocks.

The thin rod seemed to bury itself in the contoured flesh before rebounding away. The pretty redhead gave out a high pitched squeal and the dark-haired girl pressed herself against the wall behind her.

Paula's nates performed a little jerky dance and Mr Marshall laid on another good, well-powered cut to land with an undoubtedly agonising SWICK! on the girl's lower buttocks.

'Ohhhhhhhaaa!' Paula howled . .  . her head came up and her back arched, buttocks swinging from side to side in an agonised reaction.

A very apprehensive Gina stared open mouthed at her friend's bare bottom displaying the weal's of the well applied cane, aware that the same terrifying experience also awaited her!

'Keep your bottom still please Miss.' Timothy Marshall sounded very polite, not at all like a cane wielding disciplinarian. . . Paula, sniffling now and with tears obviously not very far away, obeyed the instruction.

The wicked looking wand whirred its pain imparting path towards the scored clenching and unclenching nates that barred its way. . . WWHACK!! . . a much harder stroke had the young girls cheeks juddering violently. Paula yelled out and stamped her feet in reaction. Her pants became fully stretched with the movements of her feet and legs and her resolve to keep her thighs pressed together was instantly discarded. The line of her sex was now clearly visible, along with several deep red, pubic curls.

Whilst neither of the two girls could be considered as prudes and had no qualms about displaying their naked attributes in the right circumstances. . . these were all the wrong circumstances!

Paula managed to control her feet, but she failed to close the revealing gap atop her elegant thighs. Her shoulders shook and she was obviously crying.

Mr Marshall scythed the Cane through the air once more connecting with the very tender under curve of her twin cheeks . . . SWHWACK! . . Paula's hips gyrated under the fierce Impact and she was crying unashamedly as yet another warm red stripe appeared on her young buttocks.

Turning to observe the obscene contortions of her friend's derriere, Gina bit her lip. Her tummy turned upside down. . . . knowing it was her bottom that would next feel the sting of that awful cane.

Meanwhile Mr Marshall was patiently waiting until his target was almost stilled before lifting the cane to shoulder height. Gina. momentarily forgetting about her own imminent ordeal, blinked in some amazement as she looked at her friends striped rear. It almost seemed as though her bottom was rising deliberately to invite the cane. . . . Surely she could not be enjoying It?

The thin stick needed no invitation. It seemed to come down in a chopping motion this time, rather than a scything one, and it THWACKED!! noisily against the pretty redhead's rump.

Ayeeeaagghhhaaaa!! . Paula screamed, her cheeks instantly propelled into a bumping, circular motion.

The Sports Master now addressed the beaten red haired girl as he tucked his cane under one arm. 'As it was I who lowered your knickers, I think It only right that I should raise them. Do you agree!?'

Paula's red mane nodded in silent agreement. Timothy Marshall bent down and slowly heisted the girl's knickers back into position; taking great care as he gently hauled them over her scored mounds.

'Change places please,' instructed the young man, again taking the crook handle of the cane into his right hand.
The two girls did not look at one another as they swapped over, and then Gina reluctantly bent over the chair back and gripped the edges of the wooden seat. . . She felt her skirt being raised well out of the way and she felt her young buttocks trembling at the touch of Mr Marshal's strong warm fingers before he whisked her panties right down.. . It was a very nervous bare bottom that the brunette now presented for her share of the punishment.

'As I said to your friend,' she heard the Master say, 'One day, you will thank me for this,'

Gina thought It was bloody unlikely but she kept her mouth shut. She kept her thighs shut too, to prevent the man from seeing what he shouldn't see.

The whirring swish of the hurtling in cane made her tense her body all over. . SHWWACK!! . .The sound of it impacting with her fresh, firm bottom seemed incredibly loud, the impact sending a thunderous jolt right through her. She tried not to cry out, to pretend she was not really suffering any hurt, but her rasping breath gave the game away. She did manage, however to maintain her posture and her grip on the chair seat.

Gina heard the cane coming again. . . WHACK!. . It struck her full orbs at speed and the burning sensation already In her buttocks suddenly intensified.

'Owwwww!. . . Owwwaaaa!' she cried, Jerking her derriere agitatedly, her knuckles white under the skin as she clutched the wooden seat of the chair.

. . SWHOOSH CRACK!! . . .

The third stroke was quickly administered searing the tender flesh of the under curves, taking the young schoolgirl by surprise and provoking a high-pitched Squeal, her hips rotating in a furious circle in her desperation to create a current of cool air to assuage the throbbing, heat in her behind. . a behind that was still in motion when Mr Marshall arced the cane into it for the fourth time. . SHWITTTT! . . “Owwwwwweeeeaaaahh! Gina churned her stinging posterior furiously.

Through the pain however a thrilling tingle began to run through her loins.

 Whirrrr! . . .WHACCKK!

'Owwwwwaaah . .Ohhhhhhh!' . . .the girls legs buckled a little, but the chair back supported her. Her feet performed a furious dance, so much so that one foot disentangled Itself from her panties.

She hung over the back of the chair, with her long, nicely-sculpted legs widely splayed out, well aware that her moist pussy was now clearly visible.

'Close your legs please Miss.' begged her chastiser.

The brunette smiled to herself and despite the fiery heat In her buttocks she began to waggle them, tauntingly from side to side, as if challenging Timothy Marshall to hit them again. It was, of course, a challenge the Sports Master was only too keen to take up. . . . .

IT WAS A COUPLE OF YEARS LATER that Gina and Paula, meeting up for their monthly get-together in the next town to Broadmead, spotted Timothy Marshall looking in a shop 'window.

'He's still a dishy bloke, isn't he?' breathed the redhead

'Hmm.' agreed Gina. 'Remember that time he caned us?'

'I can't forget,' sniffed Paula. 'I was getting quite turned on by the finish.'

'Me too,' sniffed the brunette. 'C'mon. I've got an idea,' she whispered to the redhead Who began to grin broadly. .
The pair left their table in the "No Smoking" area of the cafe and they crossed the road to introduce themselves to Mr Marshall.

The young man was quite pleased to see them and he actually remembered their names. . . as well as that caning.

'You said that one day we would thank you for what you did sir?' Gina reminded him.

'Well, Paula and I would like to thank you now. She gave a meaningful Wink to Timothy as she and Paula linked his arms.

'We would like to thank you ,in a very special way!'

THE END