A Caning Story from Janus 27. More stories can be read here.

New term at St Elia’s
by Johnny Chesham

PENELOPE FORSTER sat in the railway carriage looking out at the Sussex Downs with a resentful expression on her pretty, freckled face. Tomorrow was first day of term at St. Elia’s High School for Girls and any minute now she would be joined by all the other schoolgirls reminding her that her freedom was over. She had enjoyed the vac and met a super boy too, but now she was back to all the rules and discipline of a strict girls’ boarding school.

As the train drew into the junction she saw hordes of girls in the blue and white striped blazers of St. Elia’s swarming about in straw hats, navy blue gym-slips and white knee-length socks, waving hockey sticks and satchels, reminding her all too clearly of the school life she was so tired of.

In a flash she saw the answer: ‘Of course,’ she thought, ‘I’ll get myself expelled!’

Why hadn’t she thought of it before? St Elia’s was full of rules and regulations that everyone tried not to break. If she set out to break them all surely they’d pack her off in no time, back home to where that handsome young man had been so interested in her uniform and even asked her to pose in it for him!

The others piled into the carriage. Among them was Georgina Worsley, a slim, attractive young lady with long brunette curls who slept next to Penelope in blue dorm. They were best friends, both fed up with St. Elia’s and both keen on the boys from the village who always looked at them and whistled when they walked by in their short navy gymslips and white blouses. Georgina was form captain this term and wore a new metal shield on her blazer lapel.

‘Hello, Penny!’ she said. ‘I spotted you looking miserable from down the platform!’ she added with a smile.

‘Hello, Georgie!’ Penny replied laughing. ‘You’re right, I was down in the dumps, but now I think I’ve got an idea to put everything right!’

‘Oh, tell me all,’ asked Georgie intrigued.

‘Not now,’ Penny said with a glance towards a Senior Prefect in a nearby seat, ‘Wait until tonight.’

An hour later the train drew into Castleton and crowds of schoolgirls leapt onto the platform. Last term some girls from Oakwood Priory, the nearby day school, had caused a row and sure enough there were a few in their uniform of grey blazers, grey pleated skirts, berets and ankle socks. There was a sudden hush, however, when onto the platform strode Miss Faversharn, Headmistress of St. Elia’s, an attractive but severe looking woman in her forties with an air of authority which brought instant obedience. Surrounded by Prefects, she directed the girls to taxis and buses in a swift and orderly fashion, an imposing and elegant figure in tweed suit and brogues.

Penny and Georgie trudged up the drive to St. Elia’s, a rambling but impressive ivy-covered building surrounded by playing fields. The afternoon passed in busy new term formalities and both girls were glad when it was time for dorm. They took off their blazers and gymslips, put them carefully away and sat on their steel-framed beds in bras and navy blue cotton knickers.

‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ Georgina said, ‘What’s this great idea of yours?’

‘Quite simple!’ replied her friend, pausing for effect. ‘I’m going to get myself expelled!’

‘You’re what?’ cried Georgie in amazement and listened with fascination as Penny explained her plan.

‘But what’s more,’ she concluded. ‘I’m going to need your help. Can I count on you?’

Georgie looked seriously at the pretty, blonde schoolgirl for whom she had such admiration and answered, ‘Absolutely, Penny.’

‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down!’ Penny exclaimed and threw her arms around her friend. Any minute now Matron would come round for lights out so they gave each other a quick cuddle and an affectionate good night kiss before climbing into bed.

* * *

Monday afternoon was to be devoted to hockey trials which were of great importance at St. Elia’s. Skipping games was a serious offence at any time but missing trials was unthinkable. Everyone would be involved and Penny decided this was her chance to slip away to the village. It was a glorious afternoon as she strolled over the Downs and she soon found herself in her favourite tea shop. She tucked into tea and toast with eclairs and vanilla slices and was thoroughly enjoying herself when she sensed a chilling presence enter the room.

She looked up and sure enough there was Eleanor Burns, the School Captain, and her friend Rosamund Grant.

Eleanor was a very attractive 18-year-old and much admired for her prowess at games, but was also dreaded as a strict disciplinarian with a rather cruel streak. Similarly Rosamund was a charming Prefect with a winning smile which many felt concealed a rather sadistic disposition. They wore striped blazers and ties but because of their seniority wore short, navy blue pleated skirts with black nylons and suspenders.

‘Now, Forster,’ the Captain intoned, ‘Isn’t it rather early in term to be breaking bounds?’

‘At least Georgina Worsley’s got some school spirit,’ Rosamund Grant added with a knowing sneer.

Good old Georgie, thought Penelope! Now for it, she said to herself, no good doing things by half. She looked up calmly at her superiors and said firmly: ‘Why don’t you two piss off?’

They stood there stunned with open mouths. After a second Rosamund collected herself enough to say ‘That’s enough to get you expelled.’

Thank God for that, thought Penny. But suddenly Eleanor’s eyes flashed and she said with a cruel smile, ‘No, I think we’ll deal with this young lady ourselves. Miss Faversham is extremely busy with trials and shouldn’t be disturbed.’

Oh no, thought Penny! It was a rule at St Elia’s that the School Captain could at her discretion administer corporal punishment. Penny had assumed she would be sent straight to Miss Faversham for an offence they all knew was worthy of expulsion, but Eleanor Burns had decided she would forgo that for the immense pleasure of herself giving Penelope Forster the beating of her life!

‘Report to my study in thirty minutes,’ she added crisply as the two seniors turned and walked smartly out of the tea rooms attracting appreciative glances from a parson and businessman at a nearby table.

Penny looked down at the eclairs in dismay. It had all gone wrong! She had bitten off much more than she could chew and now she would simply have to take the punishment though she shuddered at the thought.

She trudged back to St. Elia’s with her head bowed and made her way through the oak panelled corridors to the School Captain’s Study. She hesitated outside the door and trembled at the sound of a cane swishing repeatedly through the air. She winced as she heard Rosamund’s voice say ‘Try this thin one’. For a moment she thought of bunking but knew there was no escape. Biting her lip and tensing herself from head to toe she knocked on the door.

‘Enter,’ a firm, stern voice rang out.

Eleanor Burns and Rosamund Grant stood arms folded behind a polished mahogany desk, to the rear a mantelpiece on which stood a number of cups and trophies. Framed photos of hockey and netball teams lined the panelled walls. On the desk reposed a selection of straight and crook-handled canes, an old gym shoe and a wire hair brush.

‘Take your knickers off,’ the School Captain said matter-of-factly.

Penny blushed. She bent down, put her hands up her gymslip and pulled her regulation navy blue cotton knickers down to her knees, standing there in helpless humiliation with her head bowed and eyes down.

The School Captain looked at her knickers with a sneer and ordered, ‘Touch your toes!’

Penelope bent down obediently and touched her toes with her fingertips. Eleanor Burns flexed a pliant, straight cane. She walked round the desk, probed the cane under the offender’s gym-slip and disdainfully flicked it forward to reveal the firm, pink orbs of her buttocks. Rosamund Grant took off her blazer and picked up the gym shoe with a smile. Penelope held her breath, every muscle taut, for what seemed like an eternity.

Suddenly the gym shoe smacked into her left buttock with an almightly stinging THWACKKK!

She shrieked out her pain, but before the shock left her it hit again and again in rapid succesion. She winced in agony, biting her lip as the stinging rubber rained down on her reddening cheeks harder and harder. Rosamund hammered the shoe down with mighty blows, the smacks of hard rubber on tender bare buttock flesh ringing round the study mingling with Penny’s yells and moans. Her face contorted in pain as she reached a plateau of panic that she just couldn’t stand any more. As if by telepathy Rosamund Grant, by now breathing rather heavily, stood straight and stopped.

Thank God, thought Penny, slightly raising herself.

‘How dare yon move without permission!’ Eleanor almost screamed. ‘That was just the warm up!’

Penny’s spirits sank and she braced herself again in dismay. The School Captain selected a long, thin, crook-handled cane from the desk and positioned herself with legs apart and left hand on the small of Penelope’s back. Penny squeezed every muscle vice-like in an agony of anticipation. She could hear cheering from the hockey field and thought what she would give to be out there now.

Suddenly the cane slashed through the air and landed like a razor on Penny’s naked, red buttocks!

‘YEOWWW!’ she shrieked out in shock and pain. Eleanor raised her right arm high and brought the cane down with tremendous power again and again in mighty strokes. Penny’s efforts to maintain some self control and dignity suddenly collapsed and she burst into floods of tears. Deep red weals crisscrossed the firm young buttocks as Penny yelled out her anguish uncontrollably, tears now pouring down her red cheeks.

Lumpy red welts blossomed under the firm, persistant lash of the angry cane, Eleanor’s face set in determined concentration as she rained down blow after blow on the twin, quivering cheeks by now flaming red with thin bluish bruises. Penny yelled out in torment as each new cane stroke whipped into her agonised buttocks now red raw from the relentless bombardment.

Rosamund looked on at her friend’s superb performance and flushed with unashamed admiration.

The School Captain steadied herself and suddenly transferred the long, whistling strokes to Penelope’s upper legs – a new and unsuspecting target. Bright red lines immediately appeared in the firm, pink flesh below the inflamed buttocks as Penny shrieked and sobbed. Eleanor inflicted more and more flashing strokes of the merciless cane as if possessed by an inexhaustible energy. Penny’s face was now a contorted mask of pain, wailing and sobbing very loudly.

The bell for Evensong suddenly rang out but Eleanor seemed oblivious as she lashed the whipping, swiping cane into the raw bruised cheeks now all bright crimson. Rosamund Grant, looking slightly concerned, coughed quietly and the School Captain looked up flushed with blazing eyes and slowly ran her fingers down the length of the cane.

‘You are dismissed, Forster,’ she said with a slight thickness in her voice.

Penny slowly raised herself and pulled up her navy blue knickers around the flaming cheeks of her backside which were chafed unbearably by the tight elastic. She held her handkerchief to her eyes while with the other hand she tried to give some comfort to her throbbing buttocks.

Crying openly and with her eyes fixed to the ground Penny curtsied, said ‘Thank you, Miss Burns,’ and ran from the room.

Rosamund rushed up to Eleanor, planted a warm kiss on her full, sullen lips and blurted with real feeling: ‘Good show, Captain!’

* * *

Georgina gasped at the sight that greeted her on entering the dorm. Penny was lying face down on her bed with her knickers around her ankles, her hands clasped round her bright crimson buttocks as she sobbed her heart out into the pink pillowcase.

‘Darling!’ Georgie cried out in shock and rushed to her friend’s side.

Penny looked at her through tear-filled eyes and slowly described the events leading to the beating of her life. Georgina laid her hockey stick by the bed and reached into her locker.

‘Let’s try some of this,’ she said, taking out a white glass jar of cold cream. She scooped out a handful of the smooth white cream and gently laid it on Penny’s left buttock. It felt like ice on a burning desert. Lovingly she spread it carefully around the delightful curved forms, bringing some slight comfort to the ravaged flesh and hard, raised welts that had now appeared.

Penny squealed as the seared nerves protested but lay passive, gladly accepting the gentle massaging palms and the fragrant viscous cream. Ceorgie’s hands took on a life of their own as they gently moulded the perfect curves of Penny’s bottom and thighs. Poor old Penny, she thought with deep sympathy and was about to lean down and plant a gentle kiss on the scorched, tormented flesh when the door suddenly opened and Matron walked briskly into the dorm.

‘What on earth is going on here?’ she exclaimed in her Scottish brogue.

Matron was a quite attractive woman in her late thirties wearing a blue tunic with white apron and hat rather like a staff nurse in appearance. Around her waist she wore a thick blue leather belt. She was a sensible, no nonsense type of nurse with very strong views about the upbringing of teenage girls.

‘Awfully sorry, Matron,’ answered Georgina, quickly withdrawing a hand which seemed to have strayed between Penny’s thighs. ‘Penelope’s rather sore and I was just trying to soften her skin a little.’

Matron looked at them for a moment with searching eyes as if assessing the truth of the situation. Her frown of suspicion finally softened and Georgina breathed a momentary sigh of relief.

‘That’s as maybe,’ answered Matron, picking up the jar. ‘But what, may I ask, is THIS?’

Georgic shuddered. One of the strictest rules at St. Elia’s was that all cosmetic substances were expressly forbidden and Matron was notorious for her rigid enforcement of this rule. She knew she could expect no mercy. With a look of immense distaste Matron confiscated the jar and put it in her apron.

‘You will both report to Miss Faversham at 9.30 tomorrow morning,’ she ordered frostily and strode purposefully out of the dorm.

‘That’s torn it, old girl,’ said Georgie in dismay.

Still face down, Penny groaned.

‘With my luck they still won’t throw me out,’ she responded, knowing she would simply faint if even the slightest punishment were to be inflicted on her tender, ravaged rump the day after such a beating. Even sitting down would be agony all week as she well knew.

‘Chin up, old girl,’ Georgie said without much conviction.

Penny stretched out her arm and their fingers entwined tenderly. Georgie knelt down and stroked Penny’s soft blonde curls. She turned her head and their tired, worried eyes met in a gaze of affection. They leant towards each other and sealed this most wretched of days with the consolation of a loving, good night kiss…

* * *

At 9.30 precisely the two pretty schoolgirls stood side by side in full uniform outside the Headmistress’ Study. On the oak panelled door a shiny brass plate read Miss Cynthia Faversham, M.A. (Oxon.) – Headmistress. They exchanged a last look of apprehension and dread before Georgina bit her lip and knocked faintly on the oak.

No sound emerged from the study except the swish of a cane singing through the air like a rapier, then a thinner cane whistling at a slightly higher pitch.

They looked at each other in dreadful anticipation as a tremendous thwack of the cane hitting an armchair sounded through the heavy door followed by several more in quick succession. They were both afraid of Miss Faversham at the best of times and now each could feel the other’s fear as clearly as her own. Both schoolgirls were pale and trembling as Georgina tried to find courage to knock again.

But suddenly a cultured, stern voice rang out: ‘Enter!’

The two offenders slowly entered the study with heads bowed and hands clasped in front of them, trembling with fright. Much of the study was lined with books; on the mantelpiece a large silver trophy with blue and white ribbons and above it a framed portrait of Her Majesty which dominated the room with an air of regal authority.

In the centre of the study was a large mahogany desk which had been cleared but for the jar of cold cream, three crook-handled canes of varying lengths and thicknesses and a heavy two-foot ruler with an ivory edge. An armchair of well worn leather was to the left of the desk and to the right French windows looked out onto the playing fields.

Framed in the windows was the tall figure of Miss Faversham flexing a long, straight cane elegantly in front of her with an air of imperious authority. Under her black academic gown she wore an expensive tweed suit, black stockings and stilettos with rather high heels. Her brunette hair fell in neat curls under the tasseled black mortar board. The fine features had a certain aloofness and a rather cold, hard expression was natural to her beauty.

The two offenders stared shamefully down at the carpet in total submission to her supreme authority.

Miss Faversham’s eyes bored into them through her green tortoiseshell spectacles as she pursed her lips preparing to speak.

‘It has been brought to my attention that in flagrant violation of a school rule you, Worsley, have seen fit to introduce this noxious substance onto the school premises,’ she announced gravely whilst indicating the cold cream with a look of grim contempt.

Blushing with shame Georgina bowed her head further and answered in an almost inaudible voice, ‘Yes, Miss Faversham.’

‘It would appear,’ the Headmistress continued, ‘that you, Forster, were an accomplice in this serious offence.’

Penelope cast down her eyes and swallowed, ‘Yes, Miss Faversham.’

The Head’s firm gaze scanned the two offenders standing before her in abject humiliation. She had in fact noticed Worsley during the hockey trials, noting that her figure had matured considerably since last term, something not uncommon in girls of her form and that she was becoming a young lady of considerable charms. Happening to inspect the changing rooms after the game, she had seen Worsley in the shower and her impressions bad been confirmed by the lovely young body there revealed to her.

The girls looked down in the silence of immense guilt. The pause seemed endless. Penelope guessed from the Head’s statement that a sound thrashing was inescapable for both of them. Her whole backside was still an aching, red-raw inferno that made moving painful and she simply couldn’t conceive of further chastisement of its tender, ravaged surface.

Miss Faversham, however, had her own ideas.

‘It has also been brought to my attention that you, Forster, were rightly and duly punished yesterday by the School Captain. Nonetheless the offence for which you are now before me undoubtedly merits a sound beating.’

Penny’s head began to swim and she wondered if she was going to faint… the Head was perfectly correct and was entitled to thrash her again… she was shaking with nervousness and confusion… she knew she couldn’t take the pain… and Miss Faversham never altered the rules…

‘However,’ the Head began suddenly, ‘I have decided on this occasion that your punishment will be to fag for the School Captain all term. Furthermore you will be gated for the whole of this term and serve two hours extra work each evening. You are now dismissed.’

Penny couldn’t believe her ears: Miss Faversham wasn’t going to beat her! Every fibre of her body gasped with relief. With a wince she managed a curtsy, said, ‘Thank you, Miss Faversham’ without raising her eyes and walked stiffly from the study, still wondering if she was imagining it.

Georgina looked down nervously at the carpet frightened and alone before the all-powerful figure of the Headmistress. The girl wondered why Penny had been let off, it was most unlike Miss Faversham, and now what would become of her?

The Head scanned the length of the lovely young schoolgirl in striped blazer, gymslip and white socks. She was indeed delightfully pretty. Miss Faversham walked to her desk and picked up the long, heavy ruler, then seated herself in the armchair. Bells chimed in the Sussex landscape.

‘You will position yourself across my knee, Worsley,’ the Headmistress suddenly commanded.

‘Yes, Miss Faversham,’ Georgina replied quietly and walked across the study, her legs like jelly and her head bowed. She dropped obediently to her knees before the imperious figure of the Head, feeling desperately ashamed of herself. Then she leant forward across the tweed skirt with her elbows on the carpet, her face a few inches off the floor.

‘It is my intention to remove your knickers,’ the Headmistress announced with inflexible authority.

‘Yes, Miss Faversham,’ said Georgina blushing deep crimson.

The Headmistress placed her right hand on the schoolgirl’s thigh just above the knee and slowly pushed it under her navy gymslip feeling the exquisite curve of the leg. Her fingers reached the navy blue cotton knickers but seemed to fumble at the elastic and pass on up to the buttock, smoothing down the creases of the skimpy knickers and moulding the enticing form of her rump. Then an exploring left hand caressed the left thigh and also reached the ripe young cheeks, carefully smoothing down the knickers stretched taut over the soft but firm orbs.

Georgina waited in an agony of tension for the inevitable onslaught to begin. Was it taking a long time or was she just imagining it? She was too distraught to be able to tell.

The Headmistress caressed both buttocks lovingly through soft, cotton knickers… she hardly regretted the other schoolgirl’s absence… suddenly as if collecting herself she slipped her long varnished nails under the elastic at the gusset, indenting the girl’s flesh, then slowly drew the knickers down to the girl’s knees. With her left hand she softly folded the gymslip over, revealing the naked cheeks, like the ceremonial unveiling of some sublime sculpture. They were firm, white and of delightful shape, unblemished but for a few goose pimples and the reddish lines of the elastic.

Georgina gritted her teeth in an agony of anticipation and flushed hot and cold. The silence seemed absolutely endless.

Suddenly Miss Faversham raised the ruler high above her head and brought it swinging down with all her force across both buttocks with a tremendous SMACKKK!

Georgina howled out her shock and pain in a shrieking ‘YEOWWW!’

Before she could begin to absorb the stinging pain of the blow another landed on the same spot, then another and another in rapid succession. Her right leg kicked up involuntarily as the stinging ruler smacked home across her throbbing rump and a first tear rolled down her cheek. Her buttocks went pink and wriggled uncontrollably, she gasped and shrieked as the ruler rose and fell as if possessed of a life of its own. Miss Faversham’s brow knitted in concentration as she rained down one powerful blow after another across the stinging, reddening target.

Georgie’s very pretty face winced and contorted in pain, a mask of perspiration and tears. She gasped at the agonising force of the ruler smacking her tender buttock cheeks and screamed out as the edge of the merciless ruler wickedly tortured the scarlet flesh.

Sobbing piteously she held her head on the floor as she helplessly endured the shower of blows rained down on her by her relentless Mistress, inwardly begging her to stop but knowing that the slightest protest would only intensify her agony. And how long would the anguish go on? This uncertainty was almost as bad as the pain itself.

As the vicious ruler beat into her rump she vowed she would never again disobey Miss Faversham, so total was her domination.

But at last the ruler rested still on her swollen, searing buttocks. She sobbed, a completely broken spirit, her raw, chastised posterior humbly presented to her mighty Mistress and tormentor.

Miss Faversham surveyed her handiwork. The buttocks and upper thighs were thoroughly red with the odd deeper welt from the ruler’s edge and raised lumps where carefully aimed blows had been imprinted on top of each other. So far so good, she thought.

‘You will now position yourself across the desk,’ the Head commanded sternly. Georgina slowly lifted herself to her feet, now a dishevelled parody of the neat schoolgirl who had entered the study, her striped tie undone, long dark hair unkempt across her face, knickers hanging round her ankles, her face bowed in profound shame and mortification.

As if reading her thoughts the Headmistress commanded: ‘Remove your knickers completely, Worsley.’

‘Yes, Miss Faversham,’ Georgina answered weakly, kicking off her navy knickers leaving the crumpled garment rather pathetically on the carpet, her last slight hope of protection gone.

Her legs felt like jelly but she managed to walk stiffly across the study. She stood close to the edge of the desk and leant painfully forward across the top holding the further edge of the desk with her hands; a perfect target. The desk top was hard and uncomfortable beneath her aching ribs as she turned her head slightly to look imploringly at her formidable tormentor, tears trickling down her cheeks, her breath coming in whimpers.

The Headmistress flexed a long, fearful cane as if transfixed by the pliant power she held between her hands. She walked around the desk and positioned herself with legs apart, a carefully measured distance from the sobbing schoolgirl. Her left hand smoothed down the navy blue gymslip and lingered on the curve of the chastised bottom beneath. Then she folded the garment over to reveal the hot blotched buttocks and thighs separated by her shiny bush of dense, dark hair.

Miss Faversham held the cane just above the centre of those once silky smooth buttocks which she herself had transformed into flaming mounds. Georgina screwed her eyes up tight, every muscle a vice of tension awaiting the coming onslaught. The moment seemed to go on forever. She heard a church bell ringing away across the Downs. The Headmistress was poised like an Olympic jumper awaiting the perfect moment to launch herself…

Suddenly she jerked the cane high above her head and brought it down with every ounce of her weight in an almighty THWACKKK across the middle of Georgina’s rump!

The girl shrieked out in agony and shock, her legs kicking up automatically as a merciless shower of mighty whacks followed in unbelievably quick succession. Her bum wriggled frantically in a futile attempt to escape the flashing cane which scorched her buttocks with an anger rare even in Miss Faversham. Her whole rump was blazing under its furious, stinging lashes. Wincing and gritting her teeth desperately at the ever-increasing pain, her head swam and she wondered if she would faint. Her buttocks which had previously been thoroughly red blotched were now striped with almost mathematical precision by rising red ridges and crimson weals down to the tops of her thighs.

‘YEOWWWW!’ she howled over and over again, her cries echoing around the wails. Georgie wept her heart out as the Head thrashed down stroke after stroke as if possessed by some superpotent force. The deafening THWACKS mingled with her howls, shrieks and screams, her buttocks vainly squirming, legs kicking wildly after each new whipping blow…

Then as if by some divine intervention there was a firm knock at the door. Miss Faversham paused, collected herself and answered in her cultured tones:

‘I am engaged at present, who is it?’

A Scottish voice replied, ‘Begging your pardon Headmistress, Lady Fairfax has arrived and is looking over the library.’

‘Very well, Matron,’ she called out. ‘I will join her directly.’

Miss Faversham set aside her cane, calmed herself and adjusted her suit and hair. Lady Fairfax was a wealthy old girl and an important benefactor of St. Elia’s.

She turned to the pathetic figure of Georgie crying loudly across the desk too frightened to move. The Head uttered the commanding words ‘You are now dismissed, Worsley’ and strode purposefully from the room.

* * *

The next afternoon Penny found herself hard at work in the School Captain’s Study. She was thoroughly miserable, her expulsion plan just wasn’t working.

What a term she thought to herself! It was only Wednesday and already she’d been thrashed, gated, and to cap it all now she was down on her knees with a dustpan sweeping up for Eleanor Burns in the undignified role of fag – a position normally filled by much younger junior girls, and only very rarely awarded to a senior as a humiliating punishment. Added to that, because of her, poor Georgina had been severely thrashed and was even now in the dorm trying vainly to soothe her blazing bottom.

Things couldn’t get much worse!

Penny got to her feet and began dusting off the bookshelves. She stretched awkwardly to reach the top shelf, lost balance and down came half a dozen books in a heap on the floor.

‘Oh hell!’ she yelled, hoping Eleanor didn’t come in.

She began putting the books back when out of a diary dropped a pink envelope. On the front was written ‘To Darling Eleanor’. What a laugh Penny thought! Some steamy love letter from one of Eleanor’s boyfriends! Listening carefully for footsteps outside in the corridor she slipped the letter out and unfolded it. Her sly smile of amusement changed to a look of astonishment as she read on.

It was a steamy love letter all right, but it was from Rosamund Grant!

As the truth dawned on Penny other thoughts ran through her mind. She folded the letter back into the envelope and put it in her pocket, quickly finished her tasks in a preoccupied mood and made her way back to the dorm. She was walking on air. Being expelled suddenly seemed unimportant. The letter could change everything.

Georgie was lying on her bed on her tummy reading a girl’s magazine and wincing noticeably as she changed position. Penny sat on the edge of her bed in a state of some excitement.

‘Georgie, you won’t believe what I’ve found!’ she cried.

Georgina was much too keenly aware of her red raw buttocks still throbbing and immensely tender from yesterday’s thrashing to raise much enthusiasm. However, as she read the letter which Penny handed over her expression changed to one of amazement.

‘Gosh!’ she exclaimed. ‘I knew they were close friends but this is pretty strong stuff!’

‘You’re not kidding,’ Penny agreed. She took the letter and read out in a mock romantic voice: ‘I long for the touch of your ripe young breasts.’

They both burst into peals of laughter! Then Penny grew more serious.

‘The thing is, Georgie, this is our chance to settle scores with those two little tyrants, isn’t it?’

Georgie’s expression changed too. She hadn’t seen that side of it.

‘You don’t mean…’ she began.

‘I mean this letter’s going straight under Miss Faversham’s door while everyone’s at supper,’ she said clearly and with determination.

‘Crikey,’ Georgie said. This was going to make some waves!

* * *

The next morning Miss Faversham’s face bore a concerned expression as she sat behind her desk rereading the pink letter which had appeared under her door the previous evening. This was a serious matter and she had called on Matron for a discussion.

‘There’s the reputation of the School to think of, Headmistress,’ Matron reminded her.

Miss Faversham realised this. If two such senior girls were expelled the Press would get hold of it. In short there would be a dreadful scandal. On the other hand something of this sort could not possibly go unpunished…

A Caning Story from Janus 27. More stories are available here.

Angela
by Tom Horner

‘THERE ARE some young women who are just asking to have their bottoms smacked!’

Richard looked at David in surprise. He followed the direction of David’s eyes across the pub, and realised that he was staring at a small group of people standing at the bar. The group consisted of three young men and a girl. The girl was about 20, her auburn haircut in a pageboy style. She stood in the middle of the young men, talking animatedly, her chatter punctuated by flashes of her wide eyes, glimpses of a bright wide smile, and tosses of her pretty head. It was a performance that any man would have found hard to resist and the three young men in the bar were no match for this jinxy little minx. She had them transfixed, lapping up her performance like three cats round a bowl of cream. She was smartly dressed – a secretary perhaps – and when she turned her back, the tight material of her grey skirt rippled with the movement of her slim buttocks.

Richard gave an appreciative grunt. She was a delightful creature, but one that was clearly in need of a firm spanking.

‘I see what you mean,’ said Richard.

‘I rather thought you might,’ David replied, turning to him with a smile.

Richard had known David for the three years since starting to work at the same firm. David was some years older than Richard, about 50 he thought, and a good number of points further up the managerial scale, but nevertheless for some reason he seemed to have decided to take Richard under his wing. Over the past three years they had become quite close, often going to the pub together at lunchtime or after work.

Despite this friendship, Richard really knew very little about David, or his personal feelings. This sudden expression of interest in the pert young girl at the bar came as something of a surprise, although the sentiments his senior voiced were by no means alien to Richard’s own feelings. But he was even more surprised by what David said next.

‘Yes, I thought you might have the same interests as me. I got the first inkling when I saw the way your eyes follow Jean around the office – particularly when she bends down to the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet!’

David gave a chuckle as Richard stared into his drink in embarrassment, thinking of the many times when, in his imagination, David’s sophisticated secretary, Jean, had touched her toes for six of the best on her bare bottom.

‘But I only knew for certain yesterday,’ David went on, ‘when I saw the copy of that magazine in your briefcase. I used to read it myself, but since I met Angela I haven’t felt the need so much.’

‘Angela?’ Richard stammered questioningly, still scarlet with embarrassment from having been confronted with his own most intimate secret.

‘Yes, my current young woman. I’ve known her about two years now, I suppose, but she’s a headstrong little madam, and needs regular discipline of the firmest kind.’

Richard knew that David was not married, but he had never heard him mention a girlfriend before. Was he suggesting now that he had some young woman with whom he put into practice all those things which Richard had so far only read about in magazines? It seemed to be too amazing to be true. But what David said next was even more so.

‘Yes,’ he continued in that same smooth tone, ‘Angela needs to have her bottom warmed at fairly regular intervals. In fact she is due for a session tomorrow evening. Why don’t you come home with me tomorrow, and see how reality compares with your fantasies. I’m sure that you will enjoy it, and your presence will give an added piquancy to the session for Angela and me.’

This was an invitation which Richard had no hesitation in accepting. And so it was that he found himself the following evening seated in a comfortable armchair in David’s large house, sipping a drink. He was awaiting expectantly the arrival of Angela, and wondering just what she would be like. At 6.15 precisely, the door bell rang.

‘That will be her,’ said David, leaving the room.

He returned a few minutes later ushering a young woman into the room in front of him. As soon as he saw her, Richard gave a start of surprise. He knew this girl – she had been at University at the same time as him! They had never been introduced, and indeed Richard doubted whether she would remember him at all, but he had known her. Only then she had been ‘Angie’, not ‘Angela’.

She had been one of the prettiest girls in the University, and it would have been difficult not to have noticed her. Richard always counted it a good day if he managed to sit near her in one of the refectories, and watch her talking to her friends.

He remembered one particularly pleasant afternoon he had spent in the snooker room in the Students’ Union. He had gone there with a friend to play a frame, but had found the table occupied by Angie and one of her girlfriends. The fact that they were not very good meant that it lasted a considerable time. Normally this would have infuriated Richard, but the sight of Angie, repeatedly bending across the table, the faded blue denim stretching tight across her bottom, made up for the long wait. In fact it was almost with regret that Richard saw the black disappear into the pocket for the last time.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ she had said, smiling sweetly as she handed him the cue.

But that had been five years ago. Now the faded blue jeans were replaced by a smart blue suit, the tight pencil skirt reaching just to her knees, the short jacket finishing at her waist. Her thick black hair had been cut from its almost waist-length, to finish now at her nape. But the face was still the same – the wide blue eyes, the tip-tilted nose, the full mouth, that he remembered.

She smiled and held out her hand as David introduced him to her. It was clear that she did not remember Richard. Perhaps he had changed more than she had done, or maybe she had simply not noticed him in those days. Whatever the reason, Richard decided that it would be better not to remind her of the time when their paths had crossed previously.

As David fetched her a drink, Angela chatted in a cheerful way about the tough day she had had at the office. Richard, looking at her, found it almost impossible to believe that this delightful young woman was the person who David had led him to believe, willingly accepted corporal punishment, and whom David had promised Richard himself would see receiving such treatment before the evening was over.

In fact, Richard did not have long to wait for proceedings to begin. After a few minutes the conversation lulled, and David looked determinedly at Angela, as she sat, curled up like a cat her legs tucked beneath her, on one of the armchairs.

‘You won’t forget why you are here this evening, will you, my dear?’ he said.

Angela’s eyelids fluttered. She looked down into her drink and murmured in a small voice:

‘No David, of course not.’

Then she glanced across in an inquiring way at Richard.

‘Oh yes,’ said David, ‘That is precisely the reason that Richard is here. He is very interested in the punishment of naughty girls.’

‘I see,’ said Angela, continuing to stare at the floor, and avoiding Richard’s eyes.

‘Well,’ continued David, standing up. ‘I think we may as well get started. So finish your drink, Angela, and fetch the cane like a good girl.’

Angela gulped down the rest of her drink and stood up, handing the glass to David. There was a large leather-topped desk at one end of the room, and Angela walked over towards it. Richard’s heart was beating at high speed as he watched her cross the room, her hips swaying under the tight skirt. Then she reached the desk, and squatting down, opened one of the drawers. From it she withdrew two items – two canes, yellowish in colour, one with a crook handle, the other straight. She turned to David, holding them up.

‘Which one do you want?’

‘Bring me the rattan, but leave the bamboo on the desk,’ David commanded.

The straight cane was laid on the leather, and she came back to David holding the crook-handled rattan. As she handed it to him she looked straight into his eyes.

‘I have been a naughty girl,’ she said. ‘I am in need of punishment. Please cane me as I deserve.’

‘Of course, my dear,’ replied David. ‘Prepare yourself.’

Angela returned to the desk, with David following her, flexing the cane. Richard could see that it was very supple and swishy. Was he really going to see it applied to Angie’s bottom? Or was this a complex illusion, perhaps even designed to make fun of him?

When Angela arrived in front of the desk she stopped and took off her jacket, laying it neatly on the desk-top. David beckoned Richard, and he moved forward to stand next to his host.

Angela still had her back to them. Her hands now fell to her waist. She unclipped the skirt, and undid the zip. Even with the zip unfastened she had to wriggle a bit to ease its tightness down her legs. As it descended her bottom was revealed to Richard’s eager gaze. It was inadequately covered by silk knickers of pale blue, which failed to conceal the enticing roundness of her buttocks. She was wearing stockings and suspenders rather than tights. At last the skirt was off and placed neatly beside the jacket. Then she bent across the surface of the desk reaching for the far side with her fingertips.

David gave a loud ‘tut’.

‘Come now, Angela,’ he said, ‘let’s not have any false modesty just because we have a guest with us. You have a delightful bottom. It is that that Richard wants to see being punished, not the expensive underwear with which you pamper yourself. Take them down please.’

Rather reluctantly Angela pushed herself upright. Her hands went to the waistband of the knickers. Then she stopped, and peeped back over her shoulder at David.

‘Please,’ she said, ‘let me keep them on. They won’t protect me at all.’

‘No,’ replied David sternly. ‘They must come down. And I don’t care much for your reluctance to obey. Let’s have no more of it, or we’ll have to let Richard see what happens to you when you have to make a trip to the room upstairs.’

‘Oh no, please,’ said Angela hurriedly. ‘I’m sorry – I’ll do what you say.’

Her thumbs slid into the waistband of her knickers and pushed them down to the floor. Stepping out of them she laid them on the desk with her skirt and jacket. Then she bent into position again. Richard now had the delightful view of Angela’s bare bottom offered up for the cane. It was as beautiful as he had imagined it would be all those years before, when he had watched it bent over the snooker table. It was so smooth and white. Richard would have loved to stretch out a hand, first to stroke, and then to smack.

But it was David who was measuring the rattan across Angela’s cheeks. He tapped it once or twice across the crown, making the flesh ripple.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘keep your legs straight, and your tummy flat on the desk, please.’

As Angela tensed her legs, and pushed herself flat against the desk, David turned to Richard.

‘That way it makes sure the target is presented at the perfect angle,’ he explained. And indeed, Richard had to admit that the minor adjustment had made Angela’s bottom even more prominent – and splendid.

‘Keep still now!’ The cane tapped once more. ‘I’m going to start!’

David raised the cane, and then swished it in across the centre of Angela’s bottom. To Richard, almost overcome with the excitement of witnessing his first real-life caning, it seemed as though time stood still as the whippy stick kissed the firm flesh with a sharp smack. It lingered for a moment, and then came away, leaving a rapidly reddening tramline as evidence of its attention, neatly drawn across the centre of Angela’s bottom. Angela’s only obvious reaction had been a sharp gasp of breath, and a slight toss of the head, but Richard could now see the muscles in her thighs tensing as the pain reached her.

David swished the cane in again with a full swing – Smack! As Angela wriggled, a little more this time, and tightened her grip on the desk, Richard had to admire David’s accuracy. The second stroke had ruled another red line exactly half an inch below the first.

The third stroke went in the opposite direction, across the top of the cleft, and this time Angela gave an almost audible crying and her bottom began to sway from side to side.

To Richard’s surprise, David paused.

‘Well, Richard,’ he said, ‘I dare say you’d like to take a more active part in the proceedings.’

Richard’s throat was dry with excitement. He could do no more than nod his head.

‘But I believe that you have never caned a naughty girl before?’

A shake of the head this time.

‘Very well. In which case I can’t allow you to use this rattan – it needs an experienced hand to use it correctly. But by all means use the bamboo on the desk there, to complete Angela’s punishment.’

Hesitantly but with the most incredible sense of anticipation, Richard picked up the straight cane. It was thinner than the rattan – but not as supple or swishy. Richard realised that this would make it easier to be accurate with it.

It was magic – he could only just come to terms with his good fortune.

‘That’s it,’ said David, ‘Get the feel of it. Try a few practice swings, and then you can give Angela the remaining six she is due.’

At this point Angela pushed herself up from the desk, and turned to David with appeal in her eyes.

‘Oh, please, David – don’t let him. It’s different taking it from you – but from a stranger…’

She stopped as she saw the look of anger in his eyes.

‘If I say so,’ David replied with controlled rage, ‘you will take it from a tramp off the street.’

He put his hands to her shoulders.

‘I’ve already warned you once this evening about disobedience. You have now earned youself a trip to the room upstairs when we have finished with you here – and the longer you take to get back across the desk, the longer the visit will be!’

Angela’s head dropped, and with a sigh she resumed her place over the desk, wriggling herself into the precise position in which David had originally placed her.

‘Now, if madam has finished her little tantrum, perhaps we can continue.’ David’s face lightened and he smiled at Richard. ‘Come here, and I’ll give you a lesson,’ he said to him.

‘Stand at this distance to her so that the cane will meet both buttocks as equally as possible. It’s inevitable that a right-hander will touch up the right cheek more than the left, but try to make it as even as you can.’ Following David’s instructions Richard placed the cane across Angela’s bottom, in between two of the red lines left by David’s strokes.

‘I should go a little lower if I were you,’ David advised. ‘Like most girls, Angela is particularly sensitive in that area, and it will reduce the risk of your crossing one of my strokes – which should be avoided unless you are intending specifically to increase the severity of the punishment.’

Richard adjusted the position of the cane, pressing it against the firm flesh of the lower half of the girl’s bottom. He thought he sensed her tremble a little. He became sharply aware of the contrast between Angela’s arched buttocks and the whippy, springy hardness of the cane.

‘Look at Richard, please, Angela!’ David ordered.

‘It is very important to be able to see the girl’s face when you are punishing her,’ he explained. ‘Helps you to judge the effect of the punishment more accurately.’

The mass of black hair on the desk moved, and Angela’s pretty features were turned towards Richard. She moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue, and her eyes were full of mute appeal, to which Richard was quite impervious. He was in the position ha had dreamed of so often – a cane in his hand, and a beautiful young woman bent over before him, her bare defenceless bottom correctly presented for his attention. He was determined that this was going to be a punishment session which both he and the girl would remember for a very long time. But now David was giving a few last tips.

‘Take the cane back slowly, and then whip it in with plenty of wrist. It’s a kind of flicking action you should be aiming for, so that the tip of the cane really gets moving.’

Richard matched his actions to David’s words, and the cane met Angela’s bottom with a resounding thwack! Her buttocks tensed, and she shut her eyes, but otherwise there was no reaction. Richard was pleased to see that the red line had appeared exactly on the spot he had been aiming for. David added his congratulations.

‘Yes that’s it,’ he said. ‘Now you’ve got the idea give the cane a bit more air, and give her the last five nice and slowly. Try to spread them evenly from the first one down to the tops of her thighs.’

Richard then proceeded to administer what he later liked to think of as a ‘sound beating’ – a ‘six-of-the-best’ such as a stern headmaster might have used to bring tears to the eyes of the toughest young schoolboy. But on this occasion it was not the thick hide of a delinquent adolescent on the receiving end, but the sensitive flesh of a 24-year-old woman.

Richard watched Angela’s reactions carefully as the strokes whipped in, and he had to admit that she took it well. He felt a perceptible change in his own state of consciousness at each successive application – a series of explosive heightenings of his sense of being. Only when his fourth stroke hit slightly off-target, and landed on almost exactly the same spot as the third, did his beautiful victim’s lips part in a brief squeal of pain. It was at this point too that she started to cry a little. But she made no attempt to rise from the desk, or to avoid her punishment in any way. And when the sixth swingeing stroke had left its angry red line across the white flesh at the very tops of her thighs, she just lay in place sobbing quietly.

Richard suddenly felt a little embarrassed. He had become so absorbed in caning Angela that now he had finished he felt rather awkward, standing there with the cane in his hands.

David soon came to his rescue. He took the cane from Richard, and patted him on the shoulder.

‘Well done!’ he said. ‘A splendid performance for a novice. I can see it won’t be long before you graduate to the rattan. Let me refill your glass, while Angela recovers herself a little.’

He led Richard back to the other end of the room, poured some more drinks, and then took down a book from the shelf.

‘Have a look at this,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ll find it of interest.’

As Richard browsed through the book, which turned out to be a lavishly illustrated history of corporal punishment, he noticed that David had returned to Angela. Bending half over her, he was whispering to her. His right hand rested on her punished bottom, caressed it a little, and then slid between her thighs. As he continued to whisper close to her left ear, Angela’s bottom began to writhe, sensuously at first, and then wildly and passionately as her thighs clamped tight on David’s insistent finger. At last her body went rigid, and then suddenly relaxed. It took all Richard’s self-control to stop himself reaching a climax at the same time. But he did not want that just yet, for he was not sure that the evening had yet provided all its interest. Was there not still the mysterious ‘room upstairs’ to come?

As David came back to Richard, Angela got up from the desk. Gathering up her clothes, and dabbing ineffectually at her eyes with her left hand, she half-ran from the room.

‘She’s going to have a shower,’ David explained, as Richard, with longing eyes, watched the door close behind Angela’s blazing bottom. ‘She’ll be back in a few minutes.’

In fact it was about ten minutes later that Angela reappeared, looking very different from the dishevelled and tearful girl who had fled the room. She was dressed in a white towelling wrap which finished at mid-thigh. As far as Richard could tell she was wearing nothing else. Her glorious long legs glowed pink with the effects of the shower. She took a drink from David, and then turned to Richard with mischief in her eyes.

‘You certainly know how to punish a girl, don’t you?’ she said. ‘I thought you were going to slice my poor bottom in two!’

‘Well… I… er,’ Richard stammered, feeling himself blushing.

‘Don’t be a tease, Angela,’ David broke in. ‘You’ll have him apologising to you in a minute. Give him a kiss, to show there’s no hard feelings.’

Angela placed her glass on a nearby table and put her arms round Richard’s neck. As she kissed him full on the mouth the wrap fell open. The warmth of her naked body close to him, and the scent of her expensive perfume, made Richard’s head swim. But as he brought his arms up to pull her closer to him, she slipped away. She pulled the wrap around herself again, but not before Richard had caught a tantalising glimpse of her small firm breasts and the smooth white plane of her stomach above the dark triangle between her lissom thighs.

Angela picked up her drink once more, and they fell into general conversation – rather incongruously, Richard thought, in the light of the earlier events of the evening. But the only reference to those came when Richard asked Angela if she would like to sit down, and she declined with a rueful grin, and a rub at her towelling-covered cheeks.

Richard had begun to think that perhaps the ‘room upstairs’ was just a threat, and that the evening had passed its climax, when David, glancing at his watch, suddenly changed the mood. His voice was stern and hard as he spoke.

‘It’s time, I think, my girl, to bring the pleasant part of the evening to an end – for you at least. I have not forgotten, even if you may have done, that you are due for a trip to the room upstairs. So finish your drink, and follow me, please!’

Richard’s excitement began to rise again at these words, and looking at Angela, it seemed that there was something close to fear in her eyes as she drained her glass. She started to follow David towards the door, but he turned again.

‘You may as well leave that down here,’ he said, indicating her wrap. ‘You won’t be needing it.’

The towelling slipped from her shoulders and fell in a heap on the floor. She was totally naked now, and Richard, in a certain state of shock had time to confirm his previous impression of the beauty of her young body, for she made no attempt to cover herself, letting her hands rest meekly at her sides. The pinky brown of her erect nipples contrasted delightfully with the milky whiteness of her breasts.

She turned once more to follow David, and Richard’s eyes dropped to admire the proud swell of her buttocks from the delicacy of her slim waist. Her bottom seemed suffused with a delicate pinkness, the marks of the caning fading, but still discernible.

The other two seemed to be virtually ignoring him, so Richard followed them through the door, his eyes glued to the entrancing swing of Angela’s hips.

As they mounted the stairs, Richard thought what a strange trio they must look. Two men, fully dressed in business suits, with a totally naked girl between them. He certainly felt that he was in the best position, for the movements of Angela’s hips and legs and buttocks as she climbed the stairs were raising him to new levels of excitement and anticipation. He could sense too that Angela herself was all atremble with nervous expectation.

The room into which David led them on the first floor had once been one of the back bedrooms of the house. It was large, but very sparsely (and strangely!) furnished. As David closed and locked the door behind him, the first thing that Richard noticed was the piece of furniture which occupied the centre of the room. It was something he had never seen in the flesh before, but recognised at once from the pictures he had seen in books about historical public schools. There was no doubt from its strange two-stepped shape that this was a birching-block!

But this was not the hard wooden structure of the public school. It was covered in dark blue velvet, and it looked as though the top was padded. There was something almost sensuous, and quite definitely erotic, about this item of equipment.

Any doubts which Richard may have had about the use to which the block was to be put were dispelled when David went to the large oak cupboard, which was the only other item of furniture in the room, and produced a birch. It was about two foot six inches in length and consisted of five switched taped together.

At the sight of this fearsome instrument Angela shuddered. David broke the silence, but what he said did little to relieve the tension in the room.

‘I made this one specially for this occasion,’ he said, giving it a few hissing practice swings. ‘I am sure you will find it very effective, my dear. Now onto the block with you, please, so that we can get started.’

Richard felt sure that Angela must in some ways have been relieved to let her knees, which were now visibly shaking, sink into the soft velvet. She leant across the top of the block, then stretched right over it as instructed. David criticised her posture until he was satisfied that it was just perfect.

Angela’s stomach was now pressed tightly against the velvet, and her buttocks were raised but relaxed, curved beautifully in all their defenceless naked glory.

David commented upon the merits of this mode of presentation of her posteriors and then said, ‘Feel her and see.’

Richard came forward at David’s invitation and reached out a hand to Angela’s left buttock. The warm flesh was beautifully soft to the touch, despite the slight ridges left by the caning. His fingers slipped into the deep divide between the buttocks, and Angela flinched slightly, but made no other protest. There was no doubt that with her knees very slightly apart, and her bottom cocked up over the block, Angela was perfectly positioned to receive an extended punishment.

Meanwhile David, standing in front of Angela, had removed his jacket, and was now undoing his cuff-links and rolling up the sleeve of his shirt. The birch he had placed on the floor, under Angela’s nose, so to speak, as if giving her the opportunity to examine in close-up the implement which would soon whipping across her unprotected flesh.

‘You may have noticed,’ David said, ‘that Angela obtained a certain amount of satisfaction from the attention we gave her earlier. Things are very different here. As she well knows, a session in this room is for punishment, and punishment alone. It would be quite contrary to my intentions if the birching which she is about to receive became in any way a source of pleasure to her.

‘That would mean that the lesson of contrition and penitence which she is supposed to be learning would be lost. For that reason, if no other, the punishments which she receives on such occasions are always severe. This evening, for example, I have decided to give her twenty strokes of the birch.’

Angela had obviously been waiting with extreme nervousness for sentence to be pronounced, and she reacted with a low moan. This did not escape David’s attention.

‘There had better not be any complaints from you, my girl,’ he said, ‘or I shall double the number of strokes this instant. And do try to take your medicine with some degree of fortitude. As usual, any undue reaction to a stroke, vocal or physical, will lead to that stroke being repeated. Now let’s begin, shall we?’

Richard stepped clear as David came round behind the block. The birch was laid against Angela’s pouting cheeks, and tapped, once, twice, three times, before David drew it back, and then brought it down with a hiss and a smack, in a full-blooded stroke across their centre.

It was only as the rod spread itself across the broad swell of Angela’s bottom, that Richard realised that to be on the receiving end of a birch such as that which David was wielding, must be a bit like being beaten with five thin canes at once. But Angela made no audible complaint, though the toss of her head, and the whitening of her knuckles, showed that she had felt it.

‘One,’ David announced, as a broad scarlet band appeared across Angela’s bottom. ‘Only nineteen to go, my dear!’

Richard watched with fascination as the birching of the proud young beauty continued. David obviously intended to take things slowly, and his delivery of the first five strokes had no particular rhythm to it. Angela took them all as well as she had the first, and the room remained silent apart from the hiss and thwack of the birch, and David’s deliberate count after each stroke.

After the sixth, however, she cried out, earning herself a repeat. And thereafter, every few strokes, as the birch explored every inch of her soft curves, leaving its scarlet visiting card at each point of call, she could not control herself, and yet another stroke was added to the total.

She stuck for a long time on eleven, and it was then that Richard noticed that her eyes were riveted on David, as if willing him to utter the next number. David gave no sign of noticing this silent pleading. Eventually she managed to bite her lip, and hold herself sufficiently steady on the block to satisfy him, and he said ‘twelve’. The relief, combined with the pain, finally made Angela’s tears overflow.

Richard was not sure how many strokes in all Angela took that evening before ‘twenty’ was reached. By the end he was totally drained with the nervous excitement of watching this beautiful woman being punished almost beyond the limits of endurance. In the whole of his life he had never encountered anything a fraction as erotic as the flagellation of Angela’s naked buttocks with the mercilessly vicious birch.

But the strange thing which he noticed towards the end, was a change which came over Angela as the birch hissed and smacked relentlessly against her increasingly sensitive flesh.

Her eyes remained fixed on David, and were still full of tears, but the fear was gone now, to be replaced by a shining brightness. It was as though she had transcended the pain to reach a new plane of enlightenment. It was clear that she was suffering intensely: the clenching of the muscles in her back and arms and the involuntary twitching of her buttocks proved that. And yet the look which her eyes gave David was not one of hate but, it seemed, of love!

It was clear to Richard that he had much still to learn about the subtle relationship between pain and pleasure. He dearly hoped that his teachers might continue to be his stern friend, now wielding the birch yet again, and the beautiful girl whose body lay defenceless and squirming with pain over the block.

A Caning and Tawsing Story from Janus 44. More stories can be found here.

The Voice at the End of the Line
by Julie Holmes

The telephone rings. I cross the room and lift the receiver, reciting the number automatically, annoyed at being disturbed, not even suspecting what’s about to happen.

‘It’s time for us to have a chat,’ a disembodied male voice rumbles. ‘We need to discuss some misdemeanours that have come to my attention.’

‘I don’t understand – who are you? What do you want? I think you’ve got the wrong number.’ I can hear my voice rising – a mixture of fear and confusion – and struggle to remain in control. ‘I’m replacing the receiver now,’ I tell him.

‘No you’re not: you’re going to listen to me and do as I say.’ For some reason I feel compelled to listen rather than follow my instinct to end the call and disconnect the phone. There’s something vaguely familiar about the voice; something about the tone. But it’s huskier and more impersonal than anyone’s I can think of. I think of old films with clandestine calls being made with handkerchiefs held over the mouth-piece. If I weren’t so shocked, I’d find the image amusing.

‘What do you want?’ I ask again.

‘To talk, to settle accounts. To make you realise the truth about yourself.’

‘I don’t understand. Who are you?’

‘You ask too many questions,’ the Voice replies. ‘Your task is to listen, to answer truthfully when I ask you questions and to do exactly as you are told. Do yon understand now?’

I’m so shocked and scared I don’t realise I’ve been asked a question, so don’t respond. ‘Do yon understand now?’ he repeats, louder this time, quite threatening.

‘I think so,’ I manage to mumble.

‘Good. But speak up. Right, you know why I’m calling, don’t you?’

‘No. No, I don’t. Who are you?’ As soon as I say it I realise I’ve asked another question and for no obvious reason my hands tremble and I gasp and start to stutter an apology.

‘Quiet!’ he raps. ‘Tell me what you are wearing.’

‘My housecoat,’ I reply.

‘Just your housecoat? Anything underneath? Any shoes or slippers? Tell me everything you are wearing,’ the Voice persists.

‘I’m wearing my housecoat. It’s long, dark blue, some sort of velvety material. It has long sleeves with buttoned cuffs and a high mandarin collar, only the top couple of buttons are undone. The buttons go right to the hem, but I’ve only fastened them to my knees. Underneath I’m wearing a navy blue low-cut bra; it’s front-fastening. I also have very small matching panties and I’m wearing flesh-coloured tights.’ It seems silly, but it’s almost a relief to have managed such a fully detailed answer. I stand straight and prepare for the dialogue to continue.

‘Any jewellery? Any shoes? Are you wearing make-up? How are you wearing your hair?’ He’s impatient. I feel like a dunce in the classroom who’s failed to give an obvious response to a simple question.

‘I’m not wearing any footwear. My hair’s tied back with a rubber band; I was putting on my make-up when you called. I still have to put on my blusher and lipstick. I’ve got a choker around my neck – it’s about an inch wide, navy velvet – I wear a lot of navy blue – with a Victorian brooch at my throat. I’m wearing a gold watch.’ I pause, realising that I’ve told him all this to cover up my nervousness. ‘And a couple of rings.’

‘What sort of rings?’

‘A dress ring – sapphire – on my right hand. And a gold band on my left.’

‘Your left hand? A wedding ring?’ His tone is harsh. I take a deep breath.

‘Yes. A wedding ring. I’m married.’

‘Why are you half-naked at seven o’clock in the evening? Why are you putting on so much make-up?’

‘I’m going out. For a meal. With somebody.’ Why am I answering him and why do I let myself feel so afraid?

‘Are you going out for a meal with your husband?’ he enquires and from the sound of his voice I can tell he knows I’m not.

‘No,’ I tell him. A pause. ‘I’m going out with a colleague from work.’ A longer, more eloquent pause. ‘A male colleague.’ Then in a rush: ‘My husband’s working late and, anyway, he doesn’t mind. He knows.’

‘Does he? Did you tell him?’

‘No. He just knows. It’s okay. Anyway, it’s none of your business. What do you want?’ I’m almost screaming, from fear and indignation.

‘SHUT UP!’ he yells. I feel my body tremble, feel tears of fear creep into my eyes. I breathe deeply and listen for his next question.

‘Which room are you in?’

‘The living room.’

‘Close the curtains. Take the mirror off the wall and prop it on the sofa so it rests on the arm furthest from the telephone. Do it now, then pick up the receiver again.’

‘How do you know the layout of my flat? Who are you?’ I am so scared now: is he a friend, a neighbour, a burglar?

‘Just do it,’ says the Voice, deep and threatening. If only I could identify that elusive voice: I’m certain now that it must be a fairly intimate acquaintance. I try to imagine the voice in a different situation, but still I cannot quite place it. It sounds as though he’s speaking through a mouthful of cotton wool. I do as he has told me and say so when I retrieve the telephone receiver.

‘Now,’ he continues, ‘hold the phone in your left hand, unbutton your housecoat from your knees to your waist with your right hand. Have you done that?’ I tell him I have. ‘Good. Now keep listening to me while you remove your tights with just your right hand. Put your hand inside the waistband and pull them down slowly. Very slowly. Keep your hand flat against your belly as you do it. Feel your flesh, the way a lover would. Come on now, don’t linger too long. You’re not supposed to enjoy it that much! Get those tights right down; down your thighs, over your knees – feel them baggy at your ankles; take them off over your feet. Ready?’

‘No. I can’t manage one-handed. I can’t get them over my bottom,’ I moan.

‘DO IT!’ he yells. They come off but get ripped by my nails in the process. ‘Just do as I tell you, when I tell you,’ the low tones rasp. ‘Take the elastic band out of your hair and shake it loose over your shoulders. Just with your right hand, of course.’

The band’s tight and some of my hair is tangled in it but eventually I manage to do as he says. Tears slip silently down my cheeks: at the same time as I try to work out who this man is and how he manages to exert such influence on me. I worry about the effect crying will have on my make-up, so carefully applied only a few minutes ago. What is happening to my world? ‘I’m ready,’ I tell him submissively.

‘Good. Stand with your feet apart, about shoulder-width. Now tell me about your date tonight.’

‘It’s not a date. I’m just having dinner with a colleague. There’s some business we need to discuss, there wasn’t time at work.’ It sounds feeble even to me, although when I said it on the phone to Paul, my husband, this afternoon it sounded perfectly plausible. Paul certainly accepted my tale although, to be honest, I made a point of calling when I knew he’d be busy and wouldn’t want to talk. In any case, he’s out most evenings himself. That’s partly the trouble: if he were at home more I wouldn’t be looking around for distractions like Donald. I’m not sure I even like Donald all that much. My mind wanders but is brought to heel again by the Voice.

‘Don’t bother lying to me. I know about Donald Danvers and the quick business talks over drinks and meals. They take place at his home where very little is eaten and I suspect not much talking is done, although probably drinks are consumed and as for business – well we don’t want to get vulgar, do we?’ There’s an evil, malicious tone to his voice now.

‘Look, you’ve obviously been spying on me. I don’t know who you are or why you’re so interested in me but just leave me alone. Hang up and stay out of my life!’ I shout.

‘Take your knickers off.’

‘What? Didn’t you hear what I said?’

‘Shut up and get those knickers down now,’ he says coldly. ‘Just the one hand remember.’ I hate him; I loathe myself, but I find myself obeying his orders. I feel almost like an automaton, under his remote control.

‘Now take your breasts out of your bra, but don’t undo it. Lift the left one out first, then the right. Take your time. You can enjoy it if you want to,’ he adds, almost friendly. He doesn’t know me that well, then: I hate wearing a bra with no panties. I don’t know why but it makes me feel uncomfortable, even if I’m on my own. I always put my briefs on first and take them off last when getting dressed or undressed. I know I’m blushing as I carry out his commands. The cups of my bra dig uncomfortably into the underside of my breasts which are fully exposed and pushed unnaturally high, like some fantasy illustration in a men s magazine.

‘Now spread those legs wide. Wider than your shoulders. It’s a good job you’ve got central heating, isn’t it? I’d hate to think of you standing in a draught.’ Central heating or no, I shiver and my skin prickles with goose-pimples. My nipples harden. ‘Tell me about Donald,’ he says.

My throat is dry and once again I’m close to tears. It takes a great effort to find my voice and keep it steady.

‘My husband’s gone off me. He comes home late. He ignores me. We don’t…’ I try again. ‘We don’t have sex very often. I met Don at work. We get on okay. It’s something to do. That’s all.’

‘What would Donald say if he saw you now, posing almost naked for a stranger? What would your husband say?’ Ridiculously, he sounds genuinely interested.

‘I don’t know how Don would react. I don’t know him very well really. Paul would probably be angry,’ I tell him.

‘Only probably? Aren’t you certain? Tell me exactly what you think he would do,’ the Voice persists.

‘He’d be angry with me, that’s all.’ I hate discussing my husband like this more than anything else this monster has made me do so far. I don’t have time to analyse what my feelings are – guilt, embarrassment, anger, shame? – but I’m in terror of what is to come. How much longer can this go on? What more can he do to me? I don’t understand what kind of satisfaction he gets from this situation. I want to scream, to refuse to go along with him any longer, but am unable to resist the urgings of the Voice.

‘Tell me what he’d do exactly. Would he hit you for instance?’

‘Oh no. He’d never do anything like that. He’d just be annoyed that I’d gone along with you. He’d want to know who you were. I suppose he’d assume that I knew you and had chosen to have an erotic telephone conversation with you.’ As soon as I say it, I realise my error.

‘So you find our conversation erotic, do you?’ I can hear the contempt in his voice and I shiver.

‘That’s not what I meant. I only meant that Paul might interpret it that way. Wrongly, of course.’

‘I don’t think he’d be wrong: I think you are enjoying our talk. If not, you’d have hung up by now. You are enjoying it aren’t you? Standing there naked except for your choker and the bra pushing your tits out. Are your legs wide apart? Open them wider.’ He pauses. ‘Are you enjoying our conversation, Julia Holmes?’

The use of my name is a shock. Although he obviously knows a lot about me and has been to my home at some time, somehow, as long as he didn’t call me by name, I could distance myself from him. I mumble that I’m not enjoying it at all, but as I say it I wonder if that’s entirely true.

‘I’m growing tired of this conversation. I disagree with you. I do excite you. All men do. You’re just naturally promiscuous, Julia, and Paul knows it. You are a wanton, easy slut and need to be brought into line. Do you understand?’ His tone has become sharper, authoritative, like a Victorian master addressing an erring scullery maid.

‘No I don’t understand!’ I bluster.

‘Stop lying! I don’t like women who lie. And, as I said, I’m getting bored with this conversation. Let’s get down to business. You’ve been behaving like a whore ever since you got married, and probably before, but I won’t concern myself with that. How many men have you slept with since marrying Paul?’

I’m beyond lying or arguing. ‘Five,’ I reply. ‘Or six. I’m not certain. Six I think. Yes, six.’

‘Six! And you think Paul doesn’t know?’ He sounds incredulous.

‘I’m sure I’ve been discreet. Anyway, he wouldn’t mind.’

‘Wouldn’t he? Well, I mind! It’s obscene the way modern women flout their wedding vows. They mock the institution of marriage itself. Just because you go to work, it doesn’t mean you can forget your station in life. You’re a woman and your function is to serve and respect men in general and support and obey your husband in particular. You seem not to understand this, Julia, so I’m going to help you learn. Go and put some shoes on. The high-heeled navy blue mules, since it’s your favourite colour. Go and fetch them, then tell me when you’ve got them on. Put them on in the bedroom and walk across the living room to the telephone with them on. Quickly!’

I don’t argue. Absurd though the idea is, I’m half-convinced he can see into my flat. I put the receiver down next to the telephone on the coffee table and run to the bedroom. I scrabble around in the wardrobe, but can’t find the shoes he’s described. Finally I locate them under the bed, put them on and walk back to the telephone. I feel ridiculous. I’ll never wear these mules again.

‘I’m wearing them,’ I tell my caller. ‘What now?’

‘Getting impatient? Calm yourself. Pick up the telephone and put it in the corner of the sofa at the opposite end to the mirror, between the arm and the back. Have you done that?’ I tell him when I have.

‘Good. Now continue to hold the receiver to your left ear and tell me what you can see in the mirror. Go on.’ I comply.

‘The mirror’s not very big. I can’t see my face or below my pelvis. The arm of the sofa would block the sight of my legs anyway. I can see the choker, with the brooch glinting; my hair’s falling over my shoulders, covering my bra straps. I can’t really see my bra because I’ve pulled my breasts out of the cups as you told me. It makes my breasts look bigger than they really are and pushes them up high. My nipples are quite pale so they don’t really show in the mirror, apart from the tips because they’re a bit darker and slightly hard. It’s a bit cold without my clothes on. My tummy’s rounder than is considered fashionable but it’s not flabby. My pubic hair is a sort of light brown.’

‘Look over your shoulder. Tell me what you see now.’

‘I see my hair hanging below my shoulders. I see my bra crossing my back. I see my hips and my bottom. There’s a slight line across my bottom showing where my panties were. It’s quite firm and high and my thighs are in good shape. I belong to a health club, so I’m quite fit and I have an all-year, all-over suntan.’ I realise I’m starting to sound quite boastful and wonder if that’s wise.

‘Bend over the arm of the sofa: be careful not to disconnect us. You can rest your elbows on the seat. I want you to look in the mirror. Put your feet close to the sofa so that your arse is high and you can see it in the mirror. And spread your feet wide.’ It’s amazing how quickly even the most bizarre situation comes to seem normal. I no longer find it strange or repellent to obey the Voice.

‘Now I’m going to go through with you the punishment your terrible behaviour warrants. Even if Paul chooses to ignore your infidelity and disrespect, someone has to bring you to heel. You make your husband a laughing stock and act like a bitch in heat. It’s time you learnt some humility and self-control. Spread your legs wider. Let your arms and belly take the weight. I want those legs really stretched and that bum wide open and displayed. That’s good. How many of your lovers have seen you like this? You’re really quite an exhibitionist aren’t you? I’m sure you’re enjoying our talk more than you’ll admit.’ I groan; I’ll admit nothing to this pervert.

‘You are an immoral slut and are about to be suitably chastised. Stay still. I’m taking off my belt. It’s wide; thick leather made supple by age. It’s got a very heavy buckle. Take your punishment well and I won’t use the buckle end on you. I’m stroking the backs of your legs one at a time, from your knees upwards. Feel it? Feel it stroking you? Are you afraid of what it’s going to do? Tell me what you feel.’ It’s true, I can feel the aged leather moving up my thighs. I shiver with anticipation and tell him so.

‘Good. You are right to be worried. My belt is going to warm up that backside of yours. I think six strokes, one for each of your lovers. Here comes the first; I’m lifting my arm high, the belt’s rising high; now it’s coming down, fast and hard. It strikes right across the centre of your cheeks. You flinch but you can take it, can’t you? Hm, there’s a nice pink band where it landed. Does it sting? Can you take the rest?’

‘I can take it,’ I mumble. I’m surprised to realise that I really felt the lash of the imaginary belt and my buttocks have tensed in anticipation of the five still to come.

‘The next one’s going to be high up. Keep looking in the mirror: watch yourself finally being treated the way you deserve. I’m raising the belt. Here it comes, on the top of your bum cheeks before they divide. That one will bruise. Was that you gasping? Good. That shows the punishment’s having the right effect. Number three’s going to be low down. The top of your thighs where the crease of your bottom crosses. Keep those legs long, straight and wide apart.’

We live through the third spectral stroke together. My breathing is getting heavy; my face is flushed. The choker is digging into my neck but I can’t get into a more comfortable position.

‘The next two are going to criss-cross your backside. They’re coming close together, top right to bottom left, then top left to bottom right. Here’s the first. Now the next. Just one more to go. Nice and simple, I think. Straight across the middle of your bottom, just above the first. Now!’

I’m shaking and sweating and there are tears making my mascara run. I feel exhausted. ‘What now?’ I moan.

‘Now? Now we move on. Have you ever been caned?’

‘Caned! No, of course not.’ Once again, I’m caught completely by surprise.

‘Well you’re going to be now. Stay in position. Be sure to keep the telephone receiver pressed to your ear. I want you to hear me clearly. I think another six, don’t you? And each one will land on one of the stripes made by the belt. Get ready. Here comes the first.’

I hear a swish, what I imagine a cane would sound like slicing through the air. He must have a cane that he’s flexing near the telephone. That first ghostly swipe cuts into my bottom as he said it would, highlighting that original track from the belt. Imaginary though it is, I can feel the difference between the two disciplinary implements: the belt gave a hot, even band; painful, but not unendurable. The cane is sharper, thinner. It stings and makes me dread the five to come.

‘Here’s number two. It’s going to be high, remember.’ I hear the sound of the rod ripping the air and shriek as my mind feels it land not far below the base of my spine. A violent flame of pain scorches the top of my arse. The realism is phenomenal.

I stand upright and start to massage the area with my free hand. ‘I hope you haven’t moved,’ I hear the Voice warn and lower myself over the sofa once more, replacing my arm on the seat. Sticking my bottom out to the very best of my ability.

‘Okay. Here’s the low one now. Keep those legs perfectly nice and straight.’ My teeth clench as I feel the bamboo inflame the delicate skin, crazing me intimately. ‘Look in the mirror. Tell me what you see now. In detail.’ I look and feel mortified at the sight, gasping from the shockwaves of the cane.

‘My hair’s all messed up. My eye make-up’s smudged. My bottom’s raised high and I see a broad pink band with a bruise starting and in the middle of this band there’s a thin raised weal. It hurts like bloody hell! I can just see the start of the two belt marks that I know cross over my bottom. My chin’s resting on my right forearm and my left hand holds the phone to my ear.’

‘You’re very articulate, Julia. I bet you were glad to have a rest weren’t you? Well, you’ve three more stripes to come yet. Here comes the top right to bottom – pardon the pun – left.’ I hear the whine and experience the sting, but before I can react its corresponding blow strikes in the opposite direction. Fighting the impulse to scream I console myself with the knowledge that I have only a single stroke left to come.

‘Just one more to go,’ the Voice echoes my thoughts. ‘I’ll count to ten to give you time to think about your punishment and why you deserve it.’ He counts slowly. I listen to the ascending numbers, brushing tears from my face with the back of my hand. As the Voice says ‘ten’ I hear the cane’s journey upward, then down and sob uncontrollably as my tense cheeks flinch under the hallucinatory whipping stroke.

‘I think you’re learning your lesson quite well,’ the Voice coaxes. ‘Now show me you understand why it had to happen. Tell me what you’ve done that’s so bad.’

I struggle to regain control of myself. ‘I’ve slept with other men since I got married; I’ve not respected my husband,’ I recite.

‘And what do you deserve?’ he asks.

‘I deserve to be punished physically and to be humiliated. I need to learn that my husband is in control and my life must fit into his and he deserves my respect simply because he is a man and especially because we are married.’ One part of my mind finds this liturgy totally natural, while the other is surprised that I can even think these words, let alone say them to a stranger. I know that the second, sceptical view is societal brainwashing, the falseness-at-large that wars inside me with my contrite self-knowledge.

‘Describe the punishment you deserve and have just undergone,’ he persists.

‘I deserve to be made to strip and display myself as I have been told to do,’ I say in sincere humility, my better self winning at last. ‘I deserve to be strapped and caned on my bare bottom, six strokes of each, so that I am forced to reconsider my behaviour.’

‘You know,’ he says, ominously chatty, ‘you really are a quick learner. That makes me a bit suspicious that your contrition may not be genuine. I think the lesson needs to be reinforced.’

‘Just by chance,’ he chuckles evilly, ‘I have a tawse here. Do you know what a tawse is? It’s an instrument used in Scotland to punish errant schoolboys. It’s a leather strap about two feet long, a couple of inches wide and almost half-an-inch thick. It’s cut down the middle from one end to more than halfway along so that each stroke has the effect of two. I think you need a good all-over bum-warming from my tawse, just to finish off. I can’t decide how many strokes you deserve, so I’ll keep laying them on and you count them and we’ll see how far we get.’

‘Here we go.’

Again, I can hear the sound of the strap being raised and then come crashing down through the air, so I assume he really does have one. Two strokes have gone by before I realise I’ve not been counting aloud. ‘Two!’ I shout.

‘Too late,’ he says. ‘We’ll have to start again.’ Now I count each one as my mind and body tell me it’s landed. My legs ache from their strained position in the high heels and my back aches from being stretched over the sofa arm. The bra cuts painfully into the soft underside of my breasts and my eyes and throat burn with crying. The cheeks of my bottom twitch every time an imagined whack lands; I’m certain it’s all swollen and bruised. I’m crying so hard I can barely make my voice work, but my counting keeps pace with the strokes of the tawse.

‘Eight… Nine… Ten…’

‘Ten! There, I think that should be enough this time. Now, listen very carefully. I’m going to leave you for a while, but don’t hang up. Keep that position and watch yourself in the mirror. Don’t get up or rub your bottom. Just stay exactly as you are until I tell you to move. And think about what a good husband you have and how you can atone for your past behaviour. Contemplate long and hard, Julia.’

I hear a sound which I presume to be his receiver being placed on a table. I gaze at the mirror and barely recognize my reflection. Where is the confident, rising young career-woman now? Have I really treated Paul so badly? Why did I go along with that stranger on the phone instead of simply cutting him off? In fact, why am I still co-operating with him?

Too late I hear the main door to the flat open. There are footsteps in the hallway, and then the living room door opens slowly. Still I maintain my position. In the mirror I see my husband standing behind me, a long thin cane and a heavy tawse in one hand. With the other he is removing his old leather belt.

‘I think six strokes,’ he says in the voice I couldn’t quite place on the telephone. ‘One for each of your lovers.’

A Spanking Story from Janus 61. More stories can be found here.

Typecast
by Andrew Grantham

‘I THOUGHT the spanking I gave you last time might have taught you a lesson,’ sniffed Colin Rodgers, the manager of the small insurance branch office.

Mandy, the 20-year-old on the receiving end of the lecture looked appropriately sheepish as she stood in front of the young boss’s desk. The blonde was just under medium height with a body that was very well put together, being shapely where shape was called for and flat where flatness was required.

She cocked her head to one side as the lecture continued. Her blue eyes, as big as saucers, inspected the young man behind the desk. Her heart lurched. Colin was dishy by any standard and, when it came to the male of the species, Mandy had very high standards indeed.

‘I know you don’t like Mr White at Head Office,’ grated the manager. ‘But to replace the ‘W’ of his name with an ‘S’ on the circular we produced was downright derogatory.’

Mandy had to force herself not to smile. She thought that what she had done had been an act of sheer genius. Mr White at Head Office was an absolute pig. So, too, was his colleague Mr Walker.

There are plenty more secretaries at the Job Centre, you know,’ Colin threatened.

The blonde wisely refrained from saying that all those girls at the Job Centre wouldn’t let their bosses smack their bottoms.

‘Perhaps another spanking might make you take more care in future,’ he suggested. Through the mirror on the wall directly behind his pretty secretary, Colin could see the bulge her young bottom made beneath her tight, navy blue skirt.

‘As long as you don’t give me the sack, Mr Rodgers,’ tweeted Mandy, knowing full well that the sack was the last thing she would get.

‘Not this time,’ he told her, getting up and locking the door of his office.

Behind his back, Mandy smiled smugly, feeling feverish shivers running up and down her body. She had been looking forward to this moment for days, ever since her deliberate ‘mistake’.

With the door closed, Colin Rodgers took off his jacket and hung it on the knob. He also removed his tie. Then he sat down on an upholstered couch against the back wall of the office.

‘Come here, Mandy!’ he ordered.

The dark-haired, firm-jawed young man watched with accelerating heart as the submissive girl took a few steps towards him. She really was deliciously pretty with small, high breasts and sturdy, finely curved legs. Her lovely posterior which he looked forward to baring for the second time might almost have been constructed to a specification set down by a dedicated spanker.

The flush on Mandy’s cheeks highlighted her basic sexuality as she stood in front of her boss and lowered her skirt to reveal a white, scallop-edged slip beneath. That came down and off came her wedge-heeled shoes.

‘Over my lap!’ he instructed, trying to sound as stern as possible. ‘Put your head on this side!’ He tapped the seat cushions to his left.

His secretary carried out his command, pretending not to be aware of the state of his arousal as she stretched herself across his lap. The tail of her blouse hid her bottom, but Colin soon pulled it above her trim waist to expose her black nylon covered sit-upon.

He used both hands to peel away the flimsy covering. The panties reached her knees and were turned inside out. Colin’s breathing quickened at the sight of Mandy’s perfectly rounded and neat little bottom.

The manager placed his left hand on the small of her back to hold her in position and he used the other to explore the silken surfaces of the magnolia globes completely at his disposal. They were meaty, deep-clefted and he knew from experience that they wobbled delightfully under impact.

Colin felt the girl go rigid and her bottom tensed up. Mandy pushed her face into the settee cushions. She wasn’t as brave as she had been just a short while earlier when she had positively looked forward to the hiding. The blonde realised she now had cold feet over a hot bottom.

His hand left her rear. There was a pause and she felt her bum-flesh sting suddenly as the first slap landed. It took away her nagging fear and doubt and an unseen smile came to her lips.

Colin raised his hand and repeated the smack, the afterburn causing the 20-year-old to wince. Already he was hitting far harder than he had done the last time and he had only just got started.

Colin began to pepper the girl’s derriere with hard, stinging slaps, first on one side of the crease and then on the other; but always overlapping slightly so as to maximise the existing hurt and to open up a new area at the same time.

Mandy jerked back her head and began to thrash it from side to side. Eventually she started to squeal and she flayed her legs about showing no regard at all for modesty. She humped her hot little bottom up and down as the blistering fire from her tormented nates engulfed her body.

Mandy knew she couldn’t complain; she had asked for it all down the line.

Colin paid her thighs some attention by way of a change. It was a painful change and the blonde clawed the fabric of the settee with her nails.

‘No more – please, Mr Rodgers,’ she panted.

Colin didn’t know whether she meant it or not, so he continued to rain blow after blow on the now-scarlet target which jiggled, contorted, rose and fell.

Mandy began to shriek and his left arm gripped her more tightly as she oscillated her hips and buttocks very fast indeed in reaction to the scalding hurt being inflicted upon her nether regions.

‘Please! Please! No more!’ she screamed, twisting her head to appeal to him with wide, wet eyes.

Colin stopped. He didn’t want things to go beyond a darned good spanking, highly tempting though the prospect was. It wasn’t what Mandy wanted at all.

* * *

‘Mr Walker from Head Office on the line for you, Mr Rodgers,’ trilled Mandy, putting the call through. ‘He sounds rather annoyed.’

She licked her lips and sat back in her swivel chair. Her beautiful body began to heave with excitement at the prospect of having her bare bottom smacked again over her boss’s lap. He might even go further this time. She would certainly encourage him, of course.

The blonde girl was smugly content. She thought that typing an ‘n’ instead of an ‘l’ in Mr Walker’s name on the circular that had gone out had been a stroke of sheer genius on her part.

A Caning Story from Janus 124. More stories are available here.

The Winning Stroke –
by Paul Melrose (Alex Birch)

Thwaaaack! The small black rubber ball struck a spot on the wall just above the ‘tin’ and dropped into the corner with hardly a bounce, foiling the desperate attempts of the young pony tailed blonde girl, who had changed direction in mid stride, to reach it. She skidded into the corner of the squash court, almost colliding with the wall in her failed attempt to play the ball before it bounced a second time, and squealed in frustration as the small missile avoided her desperately extended racket. As she did so her dark haired opponent who had played the winning shot jumped into the air with racket aloft, a winner’s smile etched across her pretty face.

“9-3, 9-7..” she shouted in exultation, “..wow, Claire, that’s the first time I’ve ever beaten you!” then ran over to where the young blonde was getting her breath back and put her arm around the smaller girl’s shoulders. Claire Francis forced a grin and kissed her friend on the cheek.

“Well played, Sarah!” she said ruefully, “My coaching must be doing you good. That’s the fittest I’ve ever seen you over a whole match. I’ll just have to play on two legs next time!”

Sarah Cole grinned, playfully smacking her friend on the rump with her racket as the two girls left the court arm in arm and went straight up to the club bar without bothering to shower and change. Sarah was the elder of the two by three months at nearly nineteen, the girls having formed a close friendship ever since the third year at Comprehensive School and now they shared a flat.

In appearance they were as different as chalk and cheese, Sarah dark skinned, beautiful and serious natured, with a tall willowy frame and long, shapely legs, while Claire was a radiantly pretty ash-blonde with freckles and a permanent happy smile, slightly more rounded in shape than her friend though without a hint of fat, her firm, full breasts and shapely plump bottom frequently drawing wolf-whistles from the workmen on the building site opposite the flat. Claire would just grin and waggle her bum to provoke even louder comments for such was her nature, often reducing Sarah to hapless embarrassment by her behaviour. Yet they were a perfect contrast to each other as flatmates, each contrasting personality providing a catalyst for the other.

“Loser pays,” Claire volunteered generously, “usual is it?”, and strolled up to the bar as her friend nodded in accord. When Claire returned with the iced cokes, Sarah was ploughing through the jobs page of the local paper.

“C’mon, Sarah,” Claire begged in exasperation, “I thought we were having fun today not looking for work,” but the tall brunette shook her head impatiently.

“We’ve got to find something,” she said anxiously,” because the rent’s due soon and we haven’t a cent between us since I got made redundant. I know you enjoy coaching the kids here but it doesn’t bring much in. We’ve both got to get work soon. Hey, look at this!”

Claire looked over her friend’s shoulder and read, ‘Young women wanted for challenging and exciting work. Should be between 18 and 30 and in good physical condition. Phone David Chalmers of Galway Securities’ then a London telephone number.

“Nothing ventured,” Sarah said with some excitement, “it might be nothing except delivering Yellow Pages but we might as well find out. We’re perfectly qualified in the fitness department and it might be fun.”

oOo

Two days later, Claire and Sarah sat in a shabby office above an estate agents in Holloway Road answering a string of questions from a dark suited good-looking man in his mid forties who had shaken hands with both of them on arrival, his warm smile disarming them both.

“So, girls, you want a bit of adventure in your lives?” David Chalmers enquired, his eyes looking them both up and down with obvious approval. “Well, you’ve come to the right place but I must impress upon you that the work is highly confidential and will require you to sign a legally binding vow of secrecy if I take you on. You know what that means, don’t you! You must not discuss anything connected with your work with anyone… anyone at all… or you will be taken to court for breach of contract! Are you happy about that?”

Both girls nodded enthusiastically and Sarah ventured, “Mr. Chalmers, what does this work entail? Is it dangerous or are we asked to break the law?”

Chalmers hesitated for a moment, then shook his head and smiled.

“No there’s no James Bond stuff,” the two girls grinned, “but we do deal with divorce cases and getting evidence of adultery which can be messy, plus a bit of industrial espionage work from time to time. That’s why I use women in this role because they attract less suspicion. It does require a clear head and a bit of nerve because if you get caught doing any commercial spying, I will not admit to employing you for obvious reasons. We may have to get you into places using phony credentials but I promise you no breaking in is involved, only perhaps the copying of some documents and sometimes taking some revealing photographs. Can you accept that?”

The two girls looked at each other, faces glowing with excitement, and Claire replied, “I think you can rely on us, Mr. Chalmers!”

Chalmers smiled happily and took some forms from the drawer of his desk.

“You both look very fit and healthy if I may say so,” he said admiringly, “Do you work out?”

Sarah blushed at the compliment and replied, “We both play at the Beaufort Squash Club. Claire coaches the juniors there, you know!” glancing proudly at her friend.

“Excellent,” Chalmers beamed happily and pushed the forms across the desk. “Then welcome aboard subject to your signing the secrecy agreement and a check that you have no criminal convictions of course. We pay only on results and the rate you get depends on who is ordering the work. Understood?”

The girls looked at each other hesitantly. Not as good as a guaranteed salary but better than nothing in their current predicament, so they both nodded their assent. Chalmers told them he would make contact in three days once their personal vetting was complete and the two girls left the office on cloud nine, for suddenly their dull and boring existence had opened up new and exciting possibilities… and a chance to pay the rent.

As promised, a telephone call three days later led Sarah and Claire back to the Holloway Road office where, after pouring a drink for them, Chalmers welcomed them formally to Galway Securities before slightly lowering his voice for effect.

“Now, as it happens, I’ve got the perfect job for you two to start and prove your worth. A company called Molecular Plastics based in Finsbury Park makes stuff for the Ministry of Defence, among others. Our friends in high places think they are also selling stuff to Iran, possibly plastic explosives, and that’s strictly no-go. We need to get into the Managing Director’s private office, get into his filing cabinets and look for evidence of any suspicious correspondence which bears out this suspicion. Now then – they’ve got an Open Day reception for potential industry buyers on Thursday and my sources tell me they need a lot of agency hostesses to serve drinks etc etc. Who better than us to supply two of them? We’ve got you in there with forged CVs and a couple of genuine looking ID cards from ‘Executive PR'”

He grinned as the two girls’ mouths dropped open.

“Impressed, eh? Now there will be thirty or so girls there serving drinks, so they won’t miss you two if you creep away once the presentation starts. If someone sees you, just say you are going to the ‘Ladies’… it’s on the same floor as the MD’s office.”

Chalmers produced a floor plan at this point and clarified locations. He reached into his pocket and produced a key which he flourished in front of Claire and Sarah.

“Then, when the coast is clear and you’re certain there is no security about, use this key which we.. er.. borrowed from an over amorous security guard at some cost to the virtue of one of our young ladies, to get into the office and find the filing cabinet. We believe they are dealing with a company called Riza Trading as middle men for this operation. If you find any files that look relevant, use the photocopier on the MD’s side table and return the originals to the files.”

He grinned as the girls looked slightly nervous for the first time, Sarah blushing slightly as she guessed what the young woman had been required to do.

“What will we be wearing for this shindig?” Claire demanded with a worried frown and Chalmers chuckled once more.

“The company is providing a sort of basque for the drinks girls. You might look a bit like a Playboy bunny but nothing worse. Well? Are you game?”

Claire and Sarah stared at each other nervously before both nodding their heads firmly in affirmation as Chalmers grinned broadly and shook their hands on the contract. A new horizon had opened up for them both.

oOo

By Thursday, Claire and Sarah were alternately excited and nervous as their debuts in the espionage business drew nigh. They’d had a call from Chalmers telling them to arrive an hour before the reception commenced at noon, where they could change into their outfits and then be given thirty minutes instruction on how they were to carry out their hostessing duties. By the time they arrived, had been shown the cloakroom and met some of the other girls their nervous tension had begun to ease, both now excited by the thought of the work ahead.

There were some twenty girls in a small cloakroom designed for no more than ten, but fifteen minutes and a confused pile of dresses and underwear later, they were attired in rather gaudy basques, so tight that no underwear could possibly be worn beneath. The cups were cut so low that most of the cleavage was exposed and the groin cut so high that most of the girls bottom cheeks were on display, just a small strip of material protecting modesty, front and back. When the girls stood upright, the tightness round the crotch was only too evident, Sarah and a few other taller girls wincing audibly as the material tightened around the pubic bone.

After a brief introduction to the Company’s marketing staff who explained how they had to circulate, ensuring a smooth and continual flow between bar and reception lounge to keep the free drinks tray topped up, Sarah and Claire were ready for work.

Visitors began to arrive at about 11.45 and by 12.15 both girls felt like old pros’ at the game, so smooth had the routine become. After a few initial cries of indignation they had even become adept at avoiding the odd hand which ‘accidentally’ groped their bottoms as they circulated so, by 1.30 when the technical presentations began, the girls could briefly relax in the kitchen with a drink of their own.

At 2pm, Sarah and Claire slipped out of the bar area and made their way upstairs, meeting only one security man on the way, to whom they smiled politely and walked on slowly, with pounding hearts, back to the cloakroom. After checking there was no one else around, the two girls took the key from their bag, removed their awkward high-heeled shoes and tiptoed out onto the corridor and towards the Managing Director’s office. Gulping with fear and excitement, Claire unlocked the door quietly and both girls walked in, careful to lock the door behind them.

The office was large and well furnished, with a large desk near the window and a couple of black leather armchairs resting on an expensive carpet in the middle of the floor. Two filing cabinets, still with the small keys in the locks, stood by the side wall and the two girls grinned with delight. This would be easy!

They took one cabinet each and began to open each drawer in turn, looking for Riza Trading and anything to do with exports to Iran, until Sarah whispered, excitedly, “I think I’ve found something!” then removed a number of folders and placed them on the adjacent desk. The girls began to scan the correspondence and, as Claire rifled through the papers, so Sarah would photo-copy anything promising. After ten minutes the girls had become so engrossed in their work that neither heard the creak of a door but suddenly jumped out of their skins when a deep and angry male voice shouted, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Claire and Sarah whirled round in astonishment to see a well dressed middle-aged man framed in a doorway which had appeared to be part of the wall, so subtly did the door colouring blend into the wood panelling. He walked forward briskly and stood in front of them, arms folded and eyes blazing with anger.

“Well? I’m waiting!” he thundered and the two girls shrank back in fright. Claire felt excited, despite their predicament, for he was good looking in a mature sort of way and very dominant. A strange thrill coursed through her loins.

“We were.. we were just…” she began bravely then gave up any attempt to lie and took a deep breath. “We were photocopying your confidential papers. There – now you know. We can’t deny that we’ve been caught red-handed! Look..” she pleaded, “..we’d just started. Please let us go. There’s no harm done.”

The man grinned and shook his head in disbelief, then looked them up and down very closely, causing Sarah to blush deeply.

“You don’t seem exactly dressed for espionage,” he observed tartly, “or is that your idea of a disguise? It doesn’t cover much does it! Anyway, no harm done be damned! You think you can just walk out of here after this, young ladies? Well you can think again! One push on this..” and he rested a finger on a button on his desk, “..and the police will be here within three minutes and you two will be well on your way to a jail sentence. You must be mad to think I’d just let you go!”

Claire’s heart was racing madly but she tried to look brave despite the sound of Sarah’s sobbing behind her.

“Who put you up to this?” the man demanded, “Come on I want names or I call the police!”

“Nobody,” Claire replied quickly, “We were just after a fast buck and we thought you might have something the papers might buy. Look, my friend’s very frightened, please let us go.”

The man shook his head. “Not a chance, but wait a minute… you, blondie, I know you from somewhere don’t I? Yes the Beaufort Squash Club, that’s it! You’re the Juniors coach there! My nipper has had lessons from you! Claire Francis that’s who you are! Now..” he looked hard at the weeping Sarah, “you – crybaby – I know your pal’s name so who are you?”

The jibe struck home and Sarah choked on her tears. “Sarah.. Sarah Cole,” she muttered woefully, “Oh this is all a big mistake, please let us go!”

The man ignored her plea and looked them up and down once more. “Well, now we’re acquainted, I’m Kenneth Grant and I’m the MD of this Company. What a good job I chose to come up here and open the safe in my secretary’s office or you two would have got away scot-free. I don’t really believe your story and I think you are working for someone but I can’t prove it. You two are rank amateurs, that’s obvious, but I ought to prosecute you, with all the attendant publicity, and I will – unless you do exactly as you’re told!”

The white faces of the two girls told all as they waited for clarification.

Grant walked around them and looked them up and down once more.

“Very nice,” he said with grim smugness, “you’re both beautifully built. Must be all that squash. Now let’s see how fit you are. I want you running on the spot, knees up as high as you can until I say stop!”

“Now look here…” Sarah began, her voice angry and indignant, but Claire held her arm and whispered, “Just do it.”

Both girls began to run on the spot but Sarah howled in agony from the first as the extreme movement caused the tight restraint around her crotch to bite into her intimate cleft.

“Oh Christ!” she cried out, stopping dead, “I can’t do it in this outfit, it’s cutting me in two!”

Grant nodded his head sympathetically. “How inconsiderate of me to expect you ladies to perform in those costumes –,” both girls breathing sighs of relief which soon turned to gasps of horror, “– so you better take them off!”

Both girls blushed crimson and Sarah cried, “Now look, we’re naked under these – and if you think…” but once more her pragmatic friend whispered, “He’s got us over a barrel, Sarah, it’s that or the police,” then began to reach behind and unzip her costume. Sarah, tears forming once more, reluctantly followed suit and within seconds both girls were stark naked in front of him. At first they tried to shield their breasts and sex with their hands but Grant was having none of that.

“Hands on your heads and start running on the spot again, knees up as high as you can!” he ordered and watched with glee as the two girls sullenly obeyed his demeaning orders. The little blonde who coached squash proved to be a real exhibitionist, fixing him with a cool unabashed gaze as she paraded bouncing boobs and occasional glimpses of pink cleft beneath the cluster of pubic hair while exercising her naked body, but the tall brunette, slightly the prettier of the two, he thought, was obviously deeply humiliated as her firm breasts, glistening with sweat now, bobbed up and down in front of his eyes. She tried to keep her thighs tightly together as her knees rose up and down, desperate to prevent him getting a good look at her intimate parts. Her hapless embarrassment turned him on, particularly as her pathetic efforts were doomed to fail.

“OK, that’s enough,” Grant said sharply and both girls came gratefully to a halt, Sarah prevented from putting her hands back between her legs only by a sharp warning.

“Now I want you both to lie on your backs on the carpet, legs towards me!”

“So this is the pay-off,” Claire said angrily, “This is where you screw us and then let us go!”

Grant snorted sardonically. “I’m afraid you overestimate your charms, my dear. No, I want you to lift your legs high in the air, bring your knees back to your stomachs and cycle in the air for five minutes.”

Sarah let out a gasp, her face crimson. “Th-that’s disgusting..” she cried, “..you’ll see our.. our..”

“..little holes?” Grant said smoothly, “indeed I will.. both front and rear.. and it will be interesting to compare them. Now get on with it or I call the police!”

Sarah was weeping softly as both girls lay on the carpet as instructed and began to perform the humiliating exercise. Again, Grant noticed that the little ash-blonde had no compunction about raising her bottom and pedalling for all she was worth, showing him the most delightful sights on the way, while it took the brunette some seconds to follow suit and then she was reluctant to bring her knees right back.

There was only one remedy for disobedience and, moving forward swiftly as Sarah’s legs rose, he lifted them right up with one strong hand and pushed her knees right back to expose her bottom and sex in all their glory then, with his other hand, he smacked her hard across both exposed bottom cheeks.

The sharp smack was enough, the weeping Sarah offering no further resistance and, once the time was up, both girls were lying back on the carpet, breathing hard, their firm bodies coated in a moist pink sheen.

“Right you can get up!” Grant ordered sharply and the two girls struggled to their feet, faces bright red with exertion and embarrassment.

“Is that it?” Sarah demanded angrily, “Have you seen enough now, you dirty swine? Can we go now?”

To her horror, Grant shook his head and grinned. “Did you think those exercises were simply my voyeuristic fetishes?” he asked. “Oh no, they were much more than that. They were a prelude to your punishment. Your body temperature is raised and your circulation is increased. You should be grateful. It’s much easier to take a caning on a warm bottom than on a cold one!”

Claire’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish and Sarah, red-faced, her modesty forgotten, just stood wringing her hands in a state of shock.

“You.. you’re going to cane us?” Sarah cried weakly, the tears now filling her eyes, “OH my God, no!”

“Oh my God, yes,” Grant answered, “and I want you over the back of that armchair, leaning over as far as you can, legs apart and bottoms stuck right out. You’re getting eight strokes each across your bare bottoms and then you can go home. Consider yourselves lucky! No police, no courts, no prison record. Not a hard choice is it! Now who’s going first?”

The two girls were in turmoil but they knew he was right. They had no choice.

“Go on, Sarah,” Claire said softly to her stricken friend, “Go first and get it over with,” then squeezed her friend’s hand affectionately as Sarah, almost dazed, allowed Grant to lead her across to the armchair.

He looked at the tall naked brunette stumbling along beside him and then at the armchair, deciding she was too tall to get her hips over the back and her head right down, so he removed the seat cushions. He turned and faced her again, Sarah’s eyes now wide with fright.

“Get over the back of the chair,” he ordered, “right over in a jack-knife until your head touches the seat.”

Sarah obeyed instantly, her head and upper body hung right over the chair as she gripped the edge of the seat, her shapely bottom at the highest point of the arc, her long legs trailing down the back as she stood on tip toe, legs wide apart.

Two people experienced a heady excitement at that moment, neither being the unfortunate Sarah, as Grant raised the whippy rattan for the first stroke. Claire had moved around for a better view and realised, to her shame, that Sarah’s vulnerability and lewdly revealing posture was exciting her considerably. She had never witnessed a caning and when the rattan smacked across Sarah’s bare bottom, the howl of pain and the ensuing bright red stripe across the pale cheeks made Claire tremble. She watched, entranced, as the cane sliced across the quivering naked arse six more times, Sarah’s shrieks and the writhing of her shapely hips as her bottom reddened rapidly prompting Claire to shudder with delight, her sexual arousal sudden and embarrassing.

For the last stroke, Grant brought his arm right back and delivered a hard, sharp stroke to the join of bottom and thigh, the scream of pain and the delightful writhing surpassing all that had gone before as Sarah nearly fell over the chair.

Grant helped her to rise and Sarah stumbled back to where her friend stood waiting her turn, the punished girl weeping bitterly and unable to keep still, her hands constantly rubbing her scarlet wealed backside as she hopped up and down.

Claire took her place, her heart pounding with fear and arousal, but she was too short to hang over the back of the chair so Grant replaced the two seat cushions, borrowed two more from the other chair, then summoned her round to the front. Claire half knelt on the raised seat and half on the chair arm, then hung forward over the back of the chair, her knees wide apart and her bottom sticking right out, her moist gaping sex only too visible to her delighted tormentor.

“Ah, so your friend’s punishment turned you on, eh?” Grant chuckled as Claire’s face burned crimson and she waited with drawn breath. She heard the hiss of the cane and then a red hot poker suddenly burned a track across her bottom. She was determined not to cry out but hung onto the chair with white knuckles, her face screwed up in agony. The second stroke bit lower and she felt the intolerable pain almost lift her out of the seat but she hung on as her bottom became an inferno. She heard Sarah sobbing and Grant hissing through his teeth before the next stroke landed in the crease of her thigh, then Claire gave up all hope of keeping quiet, a strangled squeal emanating from her throat as her plump bottom quivered delightfully, three vivid stripes now decorating her rear cheeks. The next three strokes were spaced evenly across her shuddering flesh, her bottom now a roasting mass of scarlet.

Claire was in obvious pain yet the evidence of clear sexual arousal under the cane’s ministrations was unambiguous and Grant grinned as he completed her punishment with two fierce stroked across the plum centre of her quivering arse before throwing down the cane and ordering her to get up.

Claire somehow staggered off the armchair, no attempt to hide the salty tears now as she put her arm around the anguished Sarah and both girls rocked from side to side in a pain filled ballet.

“You can leave those costumes here,” Grant told them sharply,” and go to the cloakroom as you are. I’ll give you exactly five minutes to get dressed and get out of here so don’t even think about bathing your bottoms! If you’re a second longer I’ll come in after you and you’ll get another dose!”

Two tear stained and pain racked naked girls needed no second bidding but ran hand in hand down the corridor to the safety of the cloakroom as Grant’s laughter followed them down the hallway, both girls oblivious to the two small video cameras which still whirred away in his office.

oOo

Later that night, six men sat sipping whiskies and soda in an elegant Kensington apartment while keenly watching a TV screen. “Wonderful quality,” David Chalmers said with enthusiasm, “go on, run it again from where they take their costumes off.”

With a smile, Kenneth Grant got up from the sofa and dutifully rewound the video as requested. He looked at his companions and shook his head in amusement.

“How long do you think we can work this scam, Dave?” he grinned, “these are the third lot of girls we’ve had on this con!”

Chalmers smiled. “I reckon we can push it for a bit longer provided we keep the videos secret. Just a bit of private fun for us, particularly as you can all hide behind respectable businesses and we rotate locations. The girls don’t connect us and they’re not going to talk and explain how they failed are they! They’re too ashamed to explain why they agreed to bare arse canings either to the cops or ‘Galway Securities’. I just get a phone call every time saying the work didn’t suit them. You can cover almost anything up with a contract of secrecy… except neatly striped arses of course!” as the group clinked their glasses merrily and roared with laughter.