A Caning Story – more stories are available here.

Nightmare
by Andrew Grantham

EARLY MORNING sunlight forced its way into the teenage girl’s bedroom. Diane lay on her back, her head surrounded by a tangled mass of natural blonde curls. Although she was asleep, she was not enjoying a restful slumber. Anyone watching the contortions of her body beneath the duvet and hearing the occasional cry from her full, fleshy lips would know she was having a nightmare.

In her dream, she had paraded her nubile young body nude in front of a man. The menacing male was only a shadowy figure to her, his features unrecognisable. The fact that he was menacing was borne out by the very long, thin punishment cane he had hold of.

Slowly, the man circled her and Diane was aware of his eyes devouring every inch of her fine flesh. Her well-rounded breasts were firm enough to be full and ripe, yet just big and heavy enough to sway maddeningly with her slightest movement.

Her crossed hands guarded her blonde-curled ‘vee’ at the junction of her long, graceful legs.

It was her rear, however, that the menacing figment of her dream world was interested in. A delicious rear it was, too. Diane possessed a perfect apple-round bottom, firm-fleshed and deep-clefted.

Obviously satisfied with her virginal nakedness, the man reappeared in front of her. His voice, somehow detached, told her that she was to receive six strokes of his long, swishy cane.

Diane folded her tender athletic body over a wooden-backed chair, absolutely terrified of what was going to happen to her. She wanted to run away in spite of her total nudity, but her feet seemed to be weighted down with lead.

She heard a rushing hiss. Diane knew what it was and it seemed as if she were lewdly pushing out her bottom to meet the cane. Then the thin wood sliced into her derriere and she jumped up like a released spring.

A hand pressed her body down again and she was looking at the cold wooden seat of the chair once more. A flame was burning across her bottom.

Again there was a hiss preceding the cracking impact. Her tormentor had aimed at the lower curve of her nates, just where they joined her thighs. Diane cried out.

If the collection of teddybears adorning the shelves of the pretty teenager’s bedroom had possessed eyes which could see, they would have observed their owner wriggling in her bed, her head thrashing to and fro in the depths of the pillow. They would have heard a low cry from her throat.

Had the stuffed toys the teenager loved so much been able to peer into her dream world, they would have been horrified by the two thin red weals across both sides of the divide between her gorgeous bum cheeks.

The cane whipped in again. The girl’s cries grew louder and louder, her contortions even more frantic. Diane took a hand away from the chair and ran it over her bottom, the tips of her fingers tracing their way along the wealed trails blazed by the wickedly-wielded cane. But her hand was forced away.

The light in her bedroom grew stronger. It was a neat, tidy bedroom and despite the pop star posters, utterly feminine. The blonde-haired girl twisted her body this way and that. Cries still came from her throat, each cry more agonised than the one which had preceded it.

Diane’s family, all heavy sleepers, slept on through her dreamy distress.

The rushing hiss seemed louder this time. The cut of the cane was the worst so far. Diane’s torso twisted, her daintily-nippled breasts swinging from side to side. Two male hands came from behind her to take hold and still them. Diane couldn’t raise her own hands from the chair seat to do anything about it. The touch was nice though, rather like the touch of the boy she had met on holiday last year.

Suddenly, the molesting hands disappeared and, perspiring, she waited for the next attack on her bottom. It came without any warning this time and her body shuddered. Again, she cried out.

But wasn’t she supposed to have had six strokes only? Frantically she looked behind her. The mirror hadn’t been there before. Wide-eyed and trembling, she counted the angry red stripes emblazoned across the rear she was so proud of – seven, eight, nine! Diane wanted to protest but no sound would come from her throat.

The mirror was taken away but not before the girl had realised that the man must have seen everything she had. Oh no! How awful! The as yet inviolate sex delights between her legs had always been so jealously guarded. Despite the many temptations, she had never displayed that lightly dusted, pouting recess to any male.

Tense, she waited for the return of the cane. But it wasn’t a cane which hit her – it was a hand landing squarely across her buttocks. And it had hurt…

Her older brother Colin had entered her room, carrying a cup of tea. He set it down on the unit alongside the girl’s head. The continental quilt had fallen completely to the floor. Diane lay, curled up, her fine form filling out the flimsy pink nylon of her sleep suit. He brought his hand down on the splendid, tightly-encased bottom.

‘Owww!’ she cried out.

‘Wake up Di,’ Colin shouted. ‘Time for college.’

The eyes of the 17-year-old girl jerked open and she looked all round the familiar room. That hand on her bottom had been her brother’s! ‘Gosh,’ she sighed sleepily. ‘I’ve had the most awful dream.’

She began to move as Colin sat on the bed. ‘Tell me about it,’ he asked her.

Suddenly, Diane went rigid. Her eyes were wide and despairing. Groaning, she buried her face in the pillow.

The college student had remembered that she had to report to the Principal that very morning to receive six of the best for serious misbehaviour.

She would have to relive her nightmare all over again, but this time she would really feel the pain coursing through her body.