The final part of Fiona Lewison’s true story about her journey into the world of spanking. You can read part one and part two by clicking on the highlighted links.
love honour and obey
In early 1984 I got a job as a secretary/receptionist in an architects’ office in Holborn. It was the best-paid job I’d had so far, and I loved it. The place was old-fashioned even by the standards of the day, and the roles were clearly defined stereotypes; the architects were all men, and the people who performed the supportive tasks were all women. But for some reason I liked it that way. The boss was a very handsome man in his early 40s, and I had an idiotic crush on him from the very beginning. He was always kind and fair, but he was commanding and forthright, and intolerant of even the slightest mistake. Naturally, I took great care in everything I did. And, equally as naturally, I fantasised about being spanked by him. I dreamed of being summoned to his office, dragged across his knee and smacked on the bottom like a silly little girl. And afterwards, as I stood there in a daze, he would stare into my eyes, pull my knickers back up and straighten my skirt, and send me on my way with some kind and reassuring words. I would be forgiven and cherished once more, just as I was at Malory Towers. Of course, it never happened. But I still wonder what I would have done if he’d actually suggested it, perhaps as an alternative to losing my job. I might have run a mile, but on the other hand I might have grasped the nettle and taken my first real punishment. In the first few weeks I  felt an intoxicating mix of fear and excitement every time he raised his voice. But after a while the fear subsided, and the feeling became simply one of  excitement. It was a stupid, girlish fantasy that I took home with me every night, and I don’t think I’d ever been so happy, or so frustrated. But fate was to deal me a very different hand. I’d been in the job for six or seven months when a new ‘junior’ architect joined the firm. His name was John, and within a  year we were married.

John was from an island off the west coast of Scotland, and for me he personified maleness in its most beautiful form. He wasn’t particularly tall, he wasn’t particularly handsome, and he was chronically shy when he had to ask me to do something for him. But suddenly he blossomed, and at that point I became the shy one. He told me later that he fell in love with me at that very moment. I, of course, was already besotted. It seemed inevitable that one bright February morning, I was in a taxi with my mum and my uncle heading for the Register Office at Chelsea Town Hall. John wore a kilt. I wore a pink dress. A new life had begun, and I was the happiest woman in the world. John’s salary was more than enough to keep us both, so I gave up working and devoted myself to building a home and being a doting wife. My fantasy world faded into the background, as it didn’t seem quite so important anymore. If John had wanted to spank me it would have been the icing on the cake, but the cake was quite sufficient by itself. In any case, I wanted to leave any kind of decision about that subject to him. I didn’t want to raise it myself.

A few weeks later, we were invited to a ‘schoolgirls and headmasters’ party  at a friend’s flat. Finally, I had a chance to show off my uniform. I remember John being rather puzzled to discover that I had this perfect outfit folded neatly in a small suitcase, but he stared at me intently as I got dressed and clearly liked what he saw. I didn’t think much of it at the time, because a lot of men seemed to like the ‘sexy schoolgirl’ look, but I was nevertheless very pleased. John had hired a gown and mortar board, and we set off in a taxi hidden under long coats. John said later that he was very proud of me that night, but it was for reasons that I could never have predicted. We arrived at about 9pm, and there were maybe a dozen couples already there. I looked around at the other ‘schoolgirls’ and immediately felt like a fish out of water. They were all wearing a kind of ‘fancy dress’ uniform, with creased shirts, ties and buttons undone, short black skirts, suspenders, torn stockings and stilettoes. It was a ‘punk’ schoolgirl look, and it could not have been more different from the approach I had taken. I was dressed immaculately in a painstakingly ironed  blouse with the top button done up (of course), a real school tie tight around my collar, a real pleated games skirt, proper school knickers, white knee-socks, flat shoes and, last but not least, my prefect’s badge pinned on perfectly straight. I was really confused at first, because I couldn’t understand why they hadn’t made the same effort. And, of course, I felt like a bit of a fool, like I’d ‘missed the point’ somehow, and had taken it all far too seriously, which I  obviously had. But I couldn’t take it any other way than seriously. This was my Janus outfit, and I was very proud of it. Anyway, John loved it and that was really all that really mattered. We understood each other. We understood what was important.

And then one day my dream began slowly but surely to become a reality. We’d been married for about six months when we had a letter from John’s parents announcing that they were coming down to London for their wedding anniversary and wanted us all to have dinner “somewhere posh”. We settled on the Café Royal in Regent Street (which I noticed recently is no longer there), and I started a frenzied search for something nice to wear. I eventually chose a Laura Ashley floral dress which was very pretty, and eminently suitable for an evening with  the in-laws. The day arrived, and I felt uncharacteristically nervous. I fussed with the hem of the dress thinking it was too short. I agonised about what underwear to put on. I washed and dried my hair then thought it looked awful and did it all again. I’d bought a new lipstick and decided it was too red, too garish. Frankly, I was in a state. This meant that we were dangerously close to being late, which also meant that my temper flared and I became increasingly upset. John, of course, in that infuriating male way, had been ready for at least an hour. He looked effortlessly beautiful; I looked a complete mess. He said I looked lovely; I told him he was a liar. I screamed in frustration, and then my life changed forever. John took hold of my arm, turned me round and gave me a hard smack on my knickers. Suddenly I was back in my mid-teens in a frenzy  of anger and embarrassment. It was what I’d wanted all my adult life, yet I was furious with him for his presumption. I span round and tried to slap his face, but he caught my wrist before I could strike. Then he kissed me very  passionately and said we were leaving in five minutes. I was utterly speechless and just stared at him, bright red in the face and trembling with emotion. But here’s the thing: within five minutes I had slipped on my dress and shoes, taken one last look at my hair and make-up, and was ready to go. That single smack had calmed me down and made me aware of what I had to do. It scared me a little too, because it had hurt much more than I had expected it to, but mixed with this was the blissful understanding that John had done it because he loved me and cared  for me. He had also, of course, taken a huge gamble.

We got into a taxi and sat there in silence looking out of opposite windows. When we got to Pall Mall the traffic was awful. John told the driver to stop, and said we would walk the rest of the way. On the pavement, he turned to me and took my hand. The conversation is etched on my memory:

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“There’s no need to be sorry.”

“Yes there is.”

“No there isn’t. I deserved it. You can do it again if you want to.”

We had a lovely evening, and it wasn’t till the next day that we talked about what had happened. He told me, rather tentatively, that the smack seemed to stop me fussing unnecessarily and to galvanise me into action, and I could do nothing but agree. If I was being honest, it had worked wonders and I told him so. I apologised for losing my temper with him, and promised that I would never try to slap his face again. Then suddenly he popped the second most important question I’d ever been asked: was I being serious when I’d said he could do it again. I  didn’t hesitate to say ‘yes’, but I had to impress upon him that it was, for me, a serious business. I didn’t want a frivolous spanking before going to bed. It had to be real, it had to be for a good reason, and it had to feel like a punishment. And I told him that I would prefer it to be formal, i.e. not just a single smack but a proper spanking over his knee. He said he understood exactly what I meant and, silly as this may seem, we shook hands on it.

Nothing happened for quite some time, mainly because I was very careful not to provoke John. I was still ignorant about the reality of taking a proper spanking, and that made me nervous. That one smack had hurt. What would potentially dozens of smacks be like? Could I bear it? Would it make me upset that John could do something to me that caused so much pain? I simply didn’t know. Then, one glorious day, I found out. Oddly enough, it involved John’s mum and dad again. They were coming to Sunday lunch, and things weren’t going too  well in the kitchen, to put it mildly. John was incapable of boiling an egg, so I was doing everything and trying to get ready as well. The signs were all there, I realised later, but I just couldn’t stop myself. We started having a blazing row, during which I dropped the roasting pan and watched in horror as the chicken skidded across the kitchen floor like it was making one last bid for freedom. At that point I lost it completely and screamed at John: “Why do I have to do everything? They’re your f**king parents!” The implications of my outburst took about a millisecond to sink in. It was exactly the situation we’d discussed, and John had to act. He knew that and I knew that, but we stood there for a moment staring at each other not quite knowing what to do next. The  strange thing was that I was no longer afraid, but I had certainly become defiant, and eventually I yelled at him: “Well?”

It was all he needed. He took my arm, sat down on a kitchen chair and pulled  me over his lap. Within seconds my slacks and knickers were round my knees and I was being properly spanked for the first time in my life. It hurt terribly at first because I was resisting it. I screamed, I thrashed about on his lap, I  kicked my legs, I called him all manner of dreadful things. And then something changed. I still don’t understand exactly what went on in my silly little head, but after what can only have been a minute or so my feelings changed and I began to accept what my husband was doing. I closed my eyes and let him do it, and at  that point I was liberated. A huge weight was lifted from my shoulders. All  those years of dreaming seemed finally to have a point, and I began to cry, not  because I was upset but because I was deliriously happy and more deeply in love with John than I had ever been. It was undoubtedly one of the most fulfilling and beautiful moments of my life, and it brings a tear to my eye as I write it down. I felt like I’d been tamed, but in the most positive way. I felt chastised, but again in a positive way. Most of all I felt loved and cherished by a man who was everything to me. Eventually, John let me off his lap and pulled my knickers and slacks back up while I stood helplessly in front of him. It was something he was to do every time he spanked me, and I adored it. We cuddled in silence for what seemed like ages, then set about rescuing the chicken. I hosted my first Sunday lunch for the in-laws with a glowing bottom and a glowing heart.

And so began a regular pattern. Whenever I did something stupid or behaved  badly John would take me over his lap and spank me until I calmed down. We played games occasionally too. Sometimes I would turn him into a quivering piece of jelly by dressing up in my school uniform and taking a punishment from the ‘headmaster’. But mostly it was for real, and I loved it. All this sounds as though being punished was the only fulfilling aspect of my marriage, but that would be far from the truth. We were happy in many other respects, but I still  believe that the disciplinary element was the glue that held it all together so beautifully.

Sadly, John died five years ago, bringing the happiest time of my life to a close. But things have moved on since, and I’m happy in a different way. I have a new job, a new flat and a gentleman friend I met a year ago who is very good  to me. He knows my history, and has offered to ‘help’, but his heart isn’t in it and neither is mine. In any case, John’s spirit lives on, and I rarely, if ever, lose my temper. Looking back, it’s been an extraordinary adventure, from a  youthful dream, to my first smack, my visits to Old Compton Street and an ecstatic happiness with my husband. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss John’s strong arm round my waist holding me down on his lap, but nothing lasts forever. I have left ‘school’ and must fend for myself. Continuing that metaphor, I feel pretty sure that, if schoolgirls today were spanked when they misbehaved, some of them would miss it when they passed through the gates for the last time to face the real world. It’s an interesting thought, and one that I will cherish forever.

And in many ways, I have Janus and its ilk to thank for opening my eyes to this beautiful world. They were commercial enterprises designed to make money by feeding a hungry cognoscenti, but they were also a quintessentially British form of entertainment, and they deserve a place in this country’s pantheon of  sophisticated erotica. Of course, in the age of the internet, it is splashed across a thousand easily accessible websites. But, for me, nothing will ever come close to running for the 24 bus on Charing Cross Road clutching a paper bag that contained my dreams.

I would like to express my deep gratitude to Jon Rayworth, the wonderful Janus archivist, without whose help and encouragement this memoire would not have been written. Thanks Jon.

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A spanking story from Fessee 8 by Nick Fowler

awolIN 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 overabused 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 off!’

As Sally reluctantly obeyed, she reflected dismally on the events, graphically described in Fessee, No 4, 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 stern, 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 much painful spanking experience 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 some six 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 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 smackings, 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 seachest 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 offhandedly, 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, I understand. I’ll 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 situpon!

* * *

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 salutory if her buttocks are lightly treated with olive oil. The riding crop will, I am told, sting more!’

‘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 smack 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 howled, just howled. 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 satisfied. It certainly beat being a liberal with a small ‘l’!

More spanking stories can be found here.



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The second part of Fiona Lewison’s true story about her journey into the world of spanking. You can read part one here.



I’d quit nursing by this time, and was working as a temp with the Alfred Marks agency. I was young and single and keen to experiment and, as my fascination with punishment grew, I felt a need to be more involved. What I wanted more than anything else was to appear in Janus. I knew I would make a good schoolgirl. I knew I could look scared and submissive just how the other  models did, and I knew I could take a few whacks on my bottom if necessary. In fact, I wanted to take a few whacks. I wasn’t the prettiest girl on the block, but I was slim and petite and I knew I had a nice figure. I went to Peter Jones on Sloane Square and bought everything I thought I might need. A ridiculously short pleated games skirt, a white blouse, a real school tie, huge tight-fitting gym-knickers, white knee socks and a pair of very boring flat shoes. I even found a ‘Prefect’ badge in a shop on the King’s Road. I bought a pinstripe two-piece with a short skirt and some pretty underwear in case I had to be a ‘secretary’, and a flowery dress in case I had to be someone’s daughter or niece. I wanted to be ready for anything.

Buying the uniform was an interesting experience, to say the least. This was about 1980, and Peter Jones was a pretty stuffy department store in those days. I think the woman who served me knew exactly what was going on, or thought she did (i.e. dressing up for a boyfriend), but she was very helpful nonetheless.

“Are these for Madam?” 


“Is Madam going to a fancy dress party, perhaps?” 

(I panicked at this point): “Yes, that’s right. A fancy dress  party.” 

When I got outside I felt a strong urge to go back and tell her the truth:

“Are these for Madam?” 


“Is Madam going to a fancy dress party, perhaps?” 

“Actually, I’m going to be a Janus model. Do you know what Janus is?” 

“I’m not familiar with the publication, Madam.” 

“It’s a spanking magazine. You know, pictures of girls having their bottoms smacked.” 

“How enlightening, Madam.” 

I resisted the urge.

I went back to the Janus shop about a month after my first visit, and began to go quite regularly. Now, I felt confident enough to march straight in. I was ‘out’ and proud of it, or so I thought at the time. I didn’t have much money in  those days, and couldn’t always afford to buy something, but I was happy just being there, soaking up the pictures and enjoying my ‘membership’ of this club. It was around this time that I saw another woman in the shop for the first time.  Two women, in fact. They were about my age (22/23), expensively dressed and supremely self-confident. One of them led the other straight to a particular magazine, opened it and pointed to a photo. I stared unashamedly, and listened to their every word. The conversation went something like this:

First woman (indicating the photo): “How about this? What do you think?” 

Second woman: “Not sure.” 

First woman: “Too full-on? Yeah, maybe you’re right.” 

They then left as quickly as they had arrived, leaving me with a million unanswered questions. I hadn’t been able to see what magazine they were looking at, so I couldn’t even begin to imagine what it was about the image that was “too full-on”. Perhaps they were after something that suggested, rather than showed, a girl being punished. Something more subtle. But the shop was full of such pictures. That was the art of so much of that material, especially the covers. What did they want it for? What had driven these two successful-looking women into a shop that sold spanking magazines? I’ll never know, but it intrigues me to this day.

The next woman I saw in the shop was even more of an enigma. She was very young, perhaps 18 or 19, and her face was bright red with embarrassment. She smiled nervously, then took a cane from its hook and handed it to the man on the counter. It wasn’t the same man who’d been so good to me, but he didn’t bat an  eyelid. He simply bent the cane into a circle (which surprised me as I thought it would snap), secured it with a bit of Sellotape and popped it into a bag. She paid and scurried out onto the street. I was open-mouthed with astonishment.  What did a young girl want with a cane? (OK, I was still quite naïve back then!) Had she been sent to buy it? Had she bought as a gift for her boyfriend? Was it perhaps needed for a perfectly innocent photo-shoot? There were, and still are, lots of photography and film production companies in Soho. Lots of reasons ran through my mind, including a naughty thought that her boss had instructed her to bring a cane to work so that he could give her a good hiding for her spelling mistakes. It occurred to me that my spelling wasn’t all that good either …

This continued for about a year. I bought a magazine whenever I could afford  it, and rushed home on the 24 bus to get back into my lovely dream world. Then one day I wrote what I still refer to as ‘The Letter’. It was addressed simply to: Janus, 40 Old Compton Street, London, W1, and it was an application to be considered for a Janus photo-shoot. I enclosed a head-shot taken in a photo-booth  in Victoria Station and an out-of-focus snap of me in a bikini taken on a beach  in Greece. It could not have been more amateurish. I put a stamp on the envelope, and left it on the table by the front door so that I wouldn’t forget it in the morning. I still have it, which tells you that I didn’t summon the  courage to send it. Here it is, word for word:

Dear Janus 

I would like to be a Janus model. I’m 23 years old and my measurements are  32D/23/29. I’m not a professional model, and I don’t have any experience of spanking, but I’m quite good at acting. I know I’ll have to take some real  smacks, and that’s OK. I have a school uniform and a secretary outfit. I can be  reached most evenings on [XXX XXXX]. 

It seems naïve and girlish when I read it now, but I still get a pang of sadness every time I think about the missed opportunity. For all I know, the editor might have turned me down as ‘unsuitable’ or ‘lacking in experience’, but in any case my ambition to become a Janus star was not to be. I regret it to this day, although it might have caused all sorts of complications in later life.

Then I started going out with a guy called Steve, and my life changed dramatically. He was adventurous in everything he did, particularly in bed. I hadn’t had much experience with men, and the experiences I had had were not always happy ones, but Steve opened my eyes to all sorts of things I’d never done before. I felt happy and liberated. We didn’t do anything outrageous, but they were things I wouldn’t tell my mum about. And that was the point, really. I felt grown up at last. One day he asked if he could spank me. Now, you’ll have  to bear in mind that, although I’d fantasised about this moment for years, I’d never actually been spanked. It was still an unknown. I said ‘yes’ straight  away, partly because I wanted to please him, but I was very nervous about it.  Would I feel stupid, or embarrassed? Would it hurt too much? What should I do or say? Would I be any good at it? I simply didn’t know. I asked whether he would like me to wear my school uniform, and I don’t suppose it will surprise any of  you to learn that he jumped at the idea. So there I was, dressed very smartly and lying over the lap of my first ‘teacher’. I was back at Malory Towers in an agony of anticipation. For Steve it was a sexual act pure and simple, but for me it was something infinitely more important. I can still remember closing my eyes and breathing deeply as he lifted my skirt and took my knickers down and began to smack me. It should have been the happiest moment of my life, but it wasn’t. In fact, as is so often the case after such a long build-up, it was a huge disappointment, and for one simple reason: he didn’t do it hard enough. It was entirely understandable. He was a nice guy and the last thing he wanted to do was hurt me. For him, it was largely, if not entirely, symbolic. But I felt nothing but sadness. My only consolation was that 10 minutes later I was ravaged by an uncharacteristically rampant tiger. It had clearly turned him on, and that’s what it became for us: a sexual hors d’oeuvre mainly for his pleasure. I told him that he could do it harder if he wanted to, and he did, but the difference was marginal. I don’t blame him in the slightest, but he just wasn’t capable of satisfying me in what had become the most important of my needs.

We split up about a year later, and I drifted back to my fantasy world. I went back to the Janus shop a few times, and the magazines comforted me in my solitary existence. But I was becoming increasingly frustrated just looking at  pictures and reading fictional accounts, despite the fact that they still seemed quite real to me. I envied the models, and wanted desperately to take part somehow. What I really wanted, of course, was a man to spank me properly, to give me a punishment that hurt and made me come to terms with aspects of my  behaviour that were becoming self-destructive…


The final part of Fiona’s story, ‘To Love, Honour and Obey’ can be read here.

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The first part of Fiona Lewison’s true story about her journey into the world of spanking.



“My journey into the world of spanking began when I was a spirited schoolgirl at a special place called Malory Towers. I was generally studious and diligent, but I could be naughty too and that meant a punishment from the house captain. But this was only fair, and I was, in any case, madly in love with the house captain, even when she bent me over the end of my bed and I felt the sting of a hairbrush on the seat of my pyjamas. Punishment was justified and necessary, and a girl’s bottom was the best and safest place to suffer that retribution. The house captain was just doing her duty. She was looking after me. She loved me too. I knew this because she was kind to me afterwards. I had paid the price for my naughtiness, and the slate was wiped clean. She cuddled me, and I was safe and happy again.”

This was a recurring fantasy as a young girl, and I’m sure I’m not alone in blaming Enid Blyton for a lifetime’s interest in the subject. In my daydreams under the bed covers, I was spanked frequently, always by older girls and always with love. It was this combination that I found so profoundly attractive, even though I had no idea why at that tender age. It is still the case 45 years later. In between those times, my feelings have swung wildly. I have had spankings that were exhilarating and erotic, but the best and most rewarding (and the most useful) were those that had driven my imagination as a child: the elements of love and discipline combined in a punishment administered for my own good. This, for me, is perfection. Of course, the motivations and implications of such an intimate act are very different as an adult. The ‘house captain’ didn’t want to punish me, and she certainly didn’t enjoy doing it, unlike the men I’ve encountered since, but the result, for me, is much the same.

I grew up in central London, just my mum and I, and my childhood was a happy one. There was no formal corporal punishment at either of the schools I went to, and the worst you could get was lines or detention. I suppose I was in trouble about as often as anyone else. Pretty normal, really. My first real experience happened sometime in my mid-teens. My mum and I were staying at my uncle’s house in Worthing. I had behaved atrociously one afternoon, and my uncle lost his temper and gave me a single smack on the seat of my dress. It caught me completely unaware, and I remember being so shocked that I just stood there in disbelief. Then I was overwhelmed with embarrassment, and ran to my room where I burst into tears. My mum was very cross with my uncle, and I could hear a heated discussion downstairs as he tried to defend his actions. But as an adult, I believe that he was right to smack me. I was young and stupid and I’d been deeply offensive. Such methods are unacceptable now, according to most advice on the subject, but this was a very different time.

I still think it taught me a valuable lesson, mainly that I never wanted my bottom smacked like that ever again, or so I thought at the time. It was, of course, the beginning of everything.

In 1977 I was a student nurse at Westminster Hospital, which is now posh flats. I shared a room with a girl called Sarah in what was nurses’ accommodation on Rochester Row near Victoria station. The circumstances of the next shock I was about to receive are still shrouded in mystery, and perhaps deceit, but one of the nurses had somehow come by a rather risqué magazine. It was called Swish!, and it was full of pictures of girls being spanked. I was aware of the concept; I’d been smacked playfully by a couple of boyfriends. But I had absolutely no idea that you could buy a magazine devoted to the subject. They certainly weren’t for sale at WH Smith or John Menzies. Suddenly it all seemed a lot more serious. I leafed through it quickly, feigning a complete lack of interest. I joined in the general chorus of dismissive comments. It was “silly”. It was “perverse”. It was for “dirty old men”. One girl said indignantly: “I’d never let a man do that to me!” We felt a collective sense of virtuousness in our disapproval. Yet someone had bought it, or found it, or borrowed it. I still don’t know the truth.

My ‘problem’ – and I did consider it a problem back then – was that I was deeply fascinated by what I’d seen. The irony, of course, as I learned later, was that Swish! wasn’t a great example of the genre. In fact I thought it was rubbish, and still do. But it was my first, which puts it on a kind of pedestal. It did the job of awakening me to something that had obviously lain dormant for some time. I’m sure it found an audience and enjoyed some success, but for me Swish! just didn’t cut it. It was like looking at a saucy seaside postcard, or watching an end-of-the-pier pantomime. The girls were either giggling throughout their ‘ordeal’, or had an absurdly melodramatic expression reminiscent of an amateur dramatics production. And there was always the suggestion that being spanked was just a bit of fun; an act of foreplay before the ‘main event’, which in those days seemed to be sex with a stupid looking man with long hair and a straggly beard. For me, Swish! missed the point entirely. It belittled what I felt had to be a serious subject.

The next stage in my awakening took place in a newsagents somewhere in south London. I can’t remember exactly where it was, but it would have been sometime in the early 1980s. I was 22 or thereabouts. Alongside the usual top-shelf magazines was something different. I now know that it was Janus 12. I was so captivated by the cover that I lost all sense of reason and bought it. It was the most shocking thing I’d ever done, and I know I was blushing deeply as I handed over the money. The shopkeeper just smiled at me, and slipped it quickly into a brown paper bag. I’m grateful to him to this day for his discretion. I’d had visions of his holding it up and shouting across the shop to a colleague: “Just sold another of those spanking magazines, Fred!” I like to think he was a Janus fan too.


I rushed home to my little flat in Pimlico, poured a glass of wine and sat down to immerse myself in this new treasure. It was everything I’d anticipated. This was not a bit of ‘fun’, this was serious punishment. The girls weren’t enjoying it, they were hating it. They were frightened and embarrassed. It seemed completely real to me. As I expect everyone here knows, the model on the front was Gilly Norton and I thought she was wonderful. I believed in her as a schoolgirl, I believed the look of fear on her face, I believed the pain she seemed to suffer as she was spanked and caned by a man, someone who would obviously be interested in the contents of a young girl’s knickers. I could imagine the shame and humiliation. It was wrong, it was dreadful, it was delicious. And, of course, I wanted to be Gilly Norton.

Not long after this, I discovered, quite by chance, the Janus shop in Old Compton Street. I’d met a girlfriend for a drink, and saw the sign from the other side of the street. It was like a bolt of electricity down my spine. A week later, on a rainy Saturday morning, I was standing in that same spot across the street wondering if I’d ever have the courage to go inside. I imagine I’m not alone in having walked past the door several times doing an absurd circling of the block, trying desperately to suppress my fears. Was there someone I knew behind me, or in front of me? Worse still, would there be someone I knew inside? I was shaking, and thought a drink might help. A stiff gin and tonic later, I took the plunge. It was like an Aladdin’s Cave, and I remember a sense of fear and enchantment at the same time. There were maybe five or six men leafing through the magazines, and they all looked up to see who had come in. This, as you might imagine, was not ideal. To make matters worse, one of them hurriedly walked out. He was embarrassed, I suppose, and that made me feel awkward and guilty. The last thing I wanted to do was spoil anyone’s enjoyment, because I was there for the same reason. I was also very conscious of causing the shop to lose a customer. I considered leaving, but I just couldn’t. It had taken every shred of my courage to enter, and I was determined that it wouldn’t be a waste of effort. In any case, I was drawn to the shelves like a magnet. I quickly discovered that Janus wasn’t the only magazine that took the subject seriously. There were copies of Roué and Blushes that seemed impossibly naughty to me. Like Janus, most of the covers didn’t have images of anyone actually being punished. It was implied, very cleverly I thought, rather than in-your-face. These were covers that resonated directly with the intended audience without explicitly communicating the subject matter. It was sophisticated and compelling: a girl looking down, or into the distance, or over her shoulder at the viewer; an unhappy looking girl taking a cane from a cupboard. It was abstract to the point of obscurity, but I knew what was inside. I felt like I’d joined a secret club, and that I was hugely clever and knowing. It was an exhilarating and emotional moment.

Eventually, I picked two magazines that featured school punishments (I’m afraid I can’t remember what they were) and practically ran to the counter at the front of the shop. It was only then that I noticed a selection of canes hanging up by the door, and for a moment I didn’t know where I was or what I was doing. I’d never seen a cane before, and it forced me to realise that this whole thing was even more serious than I had imagined. I must have been staring at them, because the next thing I knew the man behind the counter was saying (and I remember this vividly): “Just those two, love?” He was a big chap, but he spoke gently and quietly and put me at my ease. Most importantly, he treated me with equality, just like any other customer. No innuendo, no winks, no inappropriate remarks. I was simply a woman buying a couple of spanking magazines. Nothing remarkable about that. If he’s reading this and recognises himself, I would like to thank him very sincerely for being so kind and helping me on my journey.

One of the magazines contained a photo-story about a schoolgirl being punished by her teacher. Nothing unusual in that in the world of spanking magazines, but to me this was in a different class (as it were). It had an atmospheric foreboding that really quite frightened me. The ‘punishment room’ was cold and austere, the teacher brisk and business-like, yet indicating by a glance and a lascivious grin that he enjoyed this aspect of his job perhaps more than he should, and the girl seemed genuinely apprehensive. It almost felt like I was looking at some stills from a documentary on corporal punishment in schools. One photo stood out as encapsulating the awful reality of such an act. The girl is kneeling on the seat of an old school desk, and the teacher is in the process of pulling her knickers down. She is looking round at him with a mingled expression of fear and resignation. Her bottom is a private and very personal place, and it is being stared at by a man. It is horribly exposed and vulnerable, and the reason it’s so powerful is that there’s absolutely nothing she can do about it. There is no alternative, there is no escape. The photo has remained in my head ever since, mainly because I found it abhorrent and stimulating at the same time. From that moment on, I knew something very important about my sexuality.


The second part of Fiona’s story, ‘Dear Janus…’ can be read here.


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A spanking story from Janus

Royston Arnold could hardly believe his luck. Within days of resorting to a truly amazing mail order package to help satisfy his increasing need to follow his once- beloved Hilary Hanbury-Boyce in chastising the bottoms of errant village maidens, here was one out of the blue.

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