A spanking story from Fessee 8 by Nick Fowler

IN THE DOORWAY OF HIS WIFE’S BEDROOM Marcus paused and sniffed the air, like a bloodhound seeking a scent, and as he selectively inhaled, a look of fanatical gratification illuminated his not unhandsome face. There it was, elusive as a waking dream, but present nonetheless. It was the unmistakable smell of imperfectly banished cigarette smoke!

‘Father,’ he said, ‘Sally has been smoking!’

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

‘Did you search everywhere? Her underwear drawer, under the mattress?’

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

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

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

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

As Sally reluctantly obeyed, she reflected dismally on the events, graphically described in Fessee, No 4, that had led to the present situation. How she had foolishly engineered the circumstances which had placed her completely under her husband’s disciplinary control. It had made her a virtual prisoner in her own home, with her father-in-law coming to live in as her ‘warder’, while Marcus, a university lecturer, twelve years her senior, was away, building a reputation as a brilliant academic, and a charismatic speaker. His students would have been astounded at “Don Marcus’s” other face, which was that of a cold, calculating, tyrant. What made it worse in Sally’s eyes was that he never punished her himself, preferring to watch dispassionately while his father, the retired Naval Commander, acted as his “executioner”. Now she was incarcerated in a dungeon of her own making, fettered by her proclivities and desires as inexorably as if the links of her chains were of steel, rather than of the mind. The marriage contract was made only of paper, she could pack her things, and walk away whenever she liked, yet she knew that she was shackled to Marcus and the Commander as abjectly as any slave of an Eastern potentate. Like an ‘old lag’ who fears freedom more than the security of the cell, she was a victim to her upbringing and her desires!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Commander helped his daughter-in-law to her feet, and gave her a small, comforting hug. ‘Right, naughty girl. Off you go and wash your face, and try not to do it again!’

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

* * *

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

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

‘Right’, agreed the Commander, always pleased, in his son’s absence, to indulge her. Ten

minutes later there was a tap at the dining room door.

‘Enter!’ barked the Commander.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Bramblehurst 7234. Fenwick…’

It was soon evident the call was going to be long and involved. The Commander placed a hand over the phone’s mouthpiece and told Sally to return to her duties. ‘I’ll return to our unfinished business later, WREN Fenwick,’ he told her absently.

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

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

* * *

His call over, Commander Fenwick looked for Sally, his ‘unfinished business’ in mind. Where was she? He recalled her asking permission to go outside – into the garden, he had assumed – but she wasn’t there.

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

* * *

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

‘By the way,’ asked Marcus, ‘why the WREN uniform?’

The Commander explained.

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

‘I think,’ said Marcus, ‘that the chastisement will be more salutory if her buttocks are lightly treated with olive oil. The riding crop will, I am told, sting more!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More spanking stories can be found here.

 

 

A caning for Tracy Wilkes in Janus 27.

Cecil Brimpton was perturbed. It wasn’t an unusual state of affairs as far as he was concerned, because anything that interrupted the ‘oiled-bearing’ efficiency of his tiny company was an anathema to him. It was a situation that he faced a dozen times a day, not that he panicked you understand. The problem this time though was the most serious he’d had to cope with for over six months. Six months of Tracy Wilkes as his secretary. Naturally it wasn’t a coincidence that he’d now received five letters complaining that orders had not been received. In all five cases the customers had enclosed cash with their orders and it seemed to Cecil Brimpton that it was beyond the realms of probability that the post office had lost all five letters. The answer was obvious. Miss Wilkes had a lot of explaining to do. 

Cecil Brimpton reached for the intercom line on his telephone.

‘Miss Wilkes, come to my office!’ he barked ‘and bring your ledgers and cash book with you!’

Tracy was petrified, mortified. He knew. Almost in tears she knocked on the office door… 

Published in 1984, ‘The Video Nasty’ appears in Janus 27. You can see more of Tracy’s caning by downloading a copy of the magazine – just click on the highlighted link. We’re also pleased to feature some high quality images of Tracy Wilkes from the Janus archive.

To see more original photos from the Janus archive why not visit our free spanking photos page.

A Caning Story from Janus 24. More stories are available here.

A German Holiday
by R.T. Mason

It was really hot and somehow Julie hadn’t thought of Germany as being hot, not like this. She should perhaps have studied that guidebook a bit more before coming here to stay with Margit but with her exams taking all her time she hadn’t. Anyway on this sweltering July afternoon, her first day here, they were at least in the right sort of place: a sandy beach on a lake where Margit’s father had driven Julie and Margit and Margit’s friend Grete after lunch. Julie slipped off her dress under which, like the two German girls, she was already wearing under her bikini.

Margit looked, her eyes rounding, at the pretty English girl’s figure. In her good but rather stilted English she said, ‘Oh my! Quite a stunner, is that what you English say?’

Julie blushed. Then Grete, who had slipped round behind her, added, ‘And look, Margit! Her bottom is especially charming!’

The two German girls laughed while Julie’s blush deepened. Her bottom was shapely but she would have preferred it to be somewhat smaller – like Margit’s or Grete’s in fact, for they too had now slipped off their dresses.

Margit, putting her dress neatly on her beach bag, said, ‘You will be very popular, Julie. You know that German men are very fond of girls with charming bottoms!’

The German girls laughed again. ‘Especially Herr Friedrich!’ said Grete.

‘Oh yes,’ agreed Margit, ‘certainly Herr Friedrich!’

Something was said in German, which Julie didn’t understand, causing more laughter from the other two. Then they all ran into the water, Julie wondering vaguely who this Herr Friedrich was.

Julie had arrived the day before, for a month’s stay with Margit Kirchner. The visit had been arranged through a colleague of Julie’s father who had got to hear of the Kirchners’ wish for an English girl to improve their daughter’s English. Julie herself spoke hardly any German but that was not seen by the Kirchners as a disadvantage, as it would force Margit to use the English language. So it had been agreed, Julie and Margit had exchanged letters, and directly after the finish of Julie’s A Level exams she had flown to Munich, there to be met by Margit and her parents in the family Mercedes.

It was Julie’s first visit to Germany and her first meeting with either Margit or her parents but from the beginning they had all seemed awfully nice, giving her an enthusiastic welcome into their rather lavish home. And Margit herself, 18 like Julie, blonde, blue-eyed and pretty, and with a self-assurance which the English girl at once envied – yes, Julie was sure they’d get on very well indeed.

The first morning had been spent in a quick tour of the town with Margit and her friend Grete, and it had already seemed very hot by mid-morning. Margit had smiled at Julie’s query about the weather.

‘Oh of course it is warmer than your English weather. But don’t worry: this afternoon we go to a beautiful German lake.’

And here they were. They splashed about in the cool refreshing water, both German girls displaying powerful swimming styles which Julie couldn’t compete with. Then they came out, dried themselves, and lay in the sun which, after the cool water, was no longer quite so unbearable.

The two German girls already had well-developed tans: Margit, the blonde, her skin golden-honey in her brief emerald-green bikini, now wet and taut; and Grete, slightly taller than Margit, with short curling dark hair, whose darker brown limbs were shown to advantage in a trim pink two-piece.

Julie in contrast, what with exams and a longish spell of typical English weather, had not yet seen much of the sun and her skin was still pale – as she was self-consciously aware. But pale or not it was very shapely in the brief sky-blue bikini, the bottom half of which in particular was slickly tight over her swelling haunches.

Indeed the spell of energetic activity in the water had caused the brief elasticated material to ride up off the swell of Julie’s bottom cheeks to catch in the cleft of her backside. She reached behind her to adjust it, remarking as she did on her own pale skin tone.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Margit, ‘you will soon be brown.’

She turned over and sat up, then unfastened her bikini top and took it off. Her firm medium-sized bare breasts were honey-brown like the rest of her, their brown nipples semi-erect.

Julie blinked. Her rather shocked expression brought a smile to Margit’s face. She stuck out her breasts. ‘Do you like my – how do you say – my tits?’

Julie coloured. ‘That is not really a very polite word.’

‘No? Well, breasts, then. Anyway you must take off your top as well to get a tan.’

Grete had already followed Margit’s example to bare her own brown breasts. Julie sat up and looked anxiously around. There was no one else near, the beach deserted except for a couple some way off. She didn’t like the idea but she would seem silly if she refused to follow the others’ lead.

‘Come on!’ encouraged Margit, her eyes on Julie’s bikini top which clearly contained breasts larger than those of either of the other two.

Flushing slightly, Julie reached behind her. The top came off. Julie’s breasts were indeed bigger than either Margit’s or Grete’s, round and full and jutting firmly out, their paleness accentuated by the quite large reddish-pink nipples.

Julie had never had her breasts bare in public before. And what made it worse, due either to embarrassment or having just had them in the cool water, was that her nipples were fully erect. Sticking out like fat pink thumbs.

Margit gave a low husky laugh. ‘Look Grete! I think Julie has been thinking sexy thoughts!’

In some confusion Julie lay down, turning on her stomach again, the full breasts flattening under her. For something to say she said ‘Who’s this Herr Friedrich?’

The two German girls started giggling.

* * *

Herr Friedrich, it turned out, was a private tutor who saw both Margit and Grete in a number of subjects – including English – where it was felt extra work was needed. He visited their homes for this purpose and Julie saw him for herself the very next day.

Margit had made a face at breakfast, then said, ‘Unfortunately, Julie, it is my bad luck to have to see Herr Friedrich this morning, at 10 am. Perhaps you would like to sit in the garden while he visits. Then you can get more suntan.’

As it happened Julie was still feeling a bit raw from the previous afternoon when she had spent rather too long in the sun. She had applied liberal quantities of oil to herself to ease it but her breasts especially were pink and sore and she had left her bra off under her dress. So more sun today did not sound like a good idea, but anyway there were plenty of nice shady spots in the Kirchners’ quite extensive garden. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said.

Herr Friedrich arrived promptly at 10 in his Opel and Julie had a glimpse of him before she slipped out into the garden: a middle-aged man with the sort of serious look behind his rimless spectacles that you might expect of a German schoolteacher.

She sat under a big spruce tree for half an hour reading her book, then decided she needed to go inside to the bathroom. The Kirchners had a downstairs room which they mostly used during the daytime but Julie, forgetting this, automatically went upstairs, as if at home, where in fact the Kirchners had a second bathroom. Then on the landing she rather lost her bearings so that she found herself going along the corridor which had Margit’s room at the end of it.

The door to Margit’s room was slightly ajar and she could hear Herr Friedrich’s voice from the other side, speaking German. She couldn’t resist looking through the door crack. Margit was standing in front of Herr Friedrich who seemed to be sternly lecturing her on something. Julie realised she was evesdropping and was about to move away when Margit looked up and said something to which her tutor said ‘Ja!’ And Margit then went to an upright chair placed in the centre of the room.

She stood close behind the chair, then bent herself forward from the waist, over the chair back, until her blonde head was down in the seat. Her two hands reached down and gripped the front chair legs near the floor. In this position of course Margit’s bottom in her flowered white summer dress was thrust firmly, almost obscenely, up and out. Julie realised her heart had started beating rather rapidly and her mouth felt dry.

Herr Friedrich had watched this performance with a stern but impassive expression. He now took a step forward and with one movement grabbed the hem of Margit’s full skirt and flipped it fully up, as far as it would go so that it now descended like a bell over Margit’s lowered head. Julie could not prevent an audible gasp (fortunately not heard in the room) because it was just such a shock, like a blow in her stomach.

What was revealed seemed even more shocking. Under her dress Margit had on just a pair of brief, completely transparent, pink nylon knickers. Her bottom was effectively bare, startlingly white through the transparent knickers against her honey-brown thighs. It was evident at least that when sunbathing she did not remove her bikini bottom.

Behind the door Julie was sweating. She knew she shouldn’t be watching like this but the fascination – the horrified fascination – was just intense. Feeling a little faint she saw Herr Friedrich now firmly insert his thumbs into the waistband of those skimpy knickers and draw them down, half way down Margit’s thighs. He then said something in German, not so sternly as before, while at the same time his hand took hold of Margit’s bare bottom, squeezing first one pale cheek and then the other.

Then he walked over to one of Margit’s cupboards, reached his hand in and drew out – a cane! A long thin whippy cane, the sort they use in boys’ schools on difficult pupils, or used to. It was something Julie had never seen before – and never dreamt could be used on a girl. But now…

Cane in hand, he walked briskly back and stood to one side of the immobile, obscenely bending Margit. He patted the cane lightly across the bare bottom as he got himself in just the right position. And then he simply swung it back and brought it whistling down squarely across the centre of Margit’s bare white buttocks.

Margit didn’t cry out but gave a choking gasp. It was matched by a simultaneous involuntary gasp from the watching Julie, for as the cane swished down, juddering into Margit’s soft flesh, it was almost as if it had landed on Julie herself. She gave another gasp at the imagined pain where now a distinct red stripe was clearly visible across Margit’s bottom.

Margit herself, still gripping onto the chair legs, squirmed her bottom while Herr Friedrich waited. When she was once more still he raised the cane again and brought it slashing down for a second time. A second crisp THWACK!… horrendously jolting into Margit’s bare bottom.

There was another grunting gasp from Margit, another desperate writhing of the buttocks. Julie felt dizzy. It was like an awful nightmare, yet riveting to watch.

But feeling sick or not she couldn’t leave, just had to watch as Herr Friedrich’s cane continued to whistle down onto Margit’s unprotected bottom. He gave her eight in all. Through it all the German girl didn’t cry out once or relax her grip on the chair legs. Just a grunting gasp each time the cane bit in, followed by a silent writhing of her buttocks.

When he had finished Herr Friedrich put the cane down, then reached his hand out to stroke the red-striped bottom, speaking softly to Margit in German as he did so. Then he took his hand away and Margit stood up, red-faced, her hair in some disorder. She pulled up the skimpy knickers, then pushed her skirt back down into position.

Julie at last crept silently away and out into the garden, to sit down again by the spruce tree. Her heart was pounding and she also had the feeling of being rather moist between her legs; because the startling scene, awful though it had been, had also been sexually arousing. She couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to be bent over that chair, like Margit. It would be sheer torture, and dreadfully humiliating. But also the thought had an undeniable element of sexual excitement.

A little while later Margit appeared in the garden – with Herr Friedrich! Julie scrambled to her feet, feeling a hot flush.

‘I want you to meet Herr Friedrich, my tutor,’ said Margit, her voice sounding quite normal.

In fact they both looked and sounded normal. It was almost impossible to believe that only half an hour earlier Margit had been bent over that chair with her bottom bare and Herr Friedrich had been vigorously caning it.

Herr Friedrich was charming, saying the usual things you say to a foreign visitor and suggesting that Julie might help him with his English – although this in fact was very good. As he talked, though, Julie was aware of his eyes going appraisingly over her – and more than once lingering at her breasts. It was only afterwards she remembered, with embarrassment, that she had left her bra off and he pretty certainly would have been able to see her nipples through the thin summer dress.

But as regards what had happened in Margit’s room half an hour earlier – well, could it really have happened? Or could she possibly have dreamt the whole thing?

It wasn’t a dream, though, or if it was she dreamt the same one the next day. After lunch this time, Margit saying, ‘I must have an hour of work with Herr Friedrich, Julie. Please be patient.’

Julie knew she shouldn’t but she couldn’t help it. Going back into the house after Margit and Herr Friedrich had been together for a quarter of an hour and silently up the stairs and along the corridor towards Margit’s room. There was no reason to suppose the door would be ajar again but in fact it was – possibly to allow some air movement in the heat.

Margit and Herr Friedrich were seated on the settee apparently going through an English text and today they were speaking mostly English. After a while Margit said something in German to which the tutor replied, ‘English please, Margit.’

And then Margit said, ‘I have as you know my visitor staying. Please I cannot stay too long. So if you wish to cane me it must be soon.’

Herr Friedrich answered, ‘But of course I wish to cane you, my dear Margit. Yes, we will do it right away.’

And then what had happened the day before was repeated. Margit going to the chair and bending over it; Herr Friedrich flipping up her dress, then pulling down a pair of (today) transparent blue knickers. And then vigorously laying into the upthrust bottom with the cane.

Julie watched the cane descend five or six times and then crept away. She again had that feeling of utter shock tinged with excitement, which together produced a rather queasy sensation.

She didn’t know what to think, it was just so unbelievable: an 18-year-old girl being caned like that – and apparently agreeing to it. Shortly Margit joined her in the garden, this time alone but again in seemingly good spirits which belied the fact that she had just received an undoubtedly painful bare-bottom caning.

That evening, after they’d visited Grete’s house and were alone again, Julie couldn’t help asking about Herr Friedrich.

‘Yes, I have to see Herr Friedrich quite a lot. He is a very good tutor in many subjects. Grete also sees him and also other girls. He is now my tutor for two years. You ask many questions about Herr Friedrich, Julie.’

Julie had blushed. But really, she told herself, it was none of her business what Margit did – or any other German girl for that matter. But when the next day Margit had another lesson Julie couldn’t resist again going back inside…

* * *

And this time… Whether Margit saw the door move, or glimpsed something through the door crack… In any event she suddenly stared directly across in the direction of the watching English girl. Then stood up and made for the door. Julie shot off – but not before Margit had opened the door and seen her disappearing along the corridor.

Julie didn’t know what to do. She wandered about in the garden, just feeling sick. And shortly when Margit found her, the German girl’s eyes blazing with anger, she felt sicker still.

Margit spat out, ‘So, you English girls are spies I see?’

Julie tried to prevaricate but against the German girl’s anger and her more dominant personality she had no real answer. She finally admitted that yesterday she had, accidentally, seen Margit being caned. (She couldn’t bring herself to admit that she had watched it twice.)

‘Oh, so you spy and see something awful is that so?’

Julie, squirming, again prevaricated. Margit insisted: ‘That is so, isn’t it?’

Julie had to admit that, yes, she did think being caned was awful.

‘Oh you are so… so stupid, you English. You think the caning is awful but I know that in your English schools girls are permitting men teachers to, how do you say, fuck.’

Julie blushed. ‘I… we certainly do not! And that… is not at all a nice word to use.’

‘I know this word because Herr Friedrich tells me and I know this fact because Herr Friedrich tells me also. He has been teacher in an English school where he sees other men teachers are fucking the big girls.’

Julie decided to let that pass. Hesitantly she asked, ‘But why… does he cane you?’

Margit pushed back her blonde hair. ‘In Germany men like to cane girls.’ She glared at Julie. ‘Not as in England where they only want the fucking.’

Julie once more denied this ridiculous charge. But even if German men did like to cane girls why did Margit have to let him do it?

She finally got the answer, after Margit had calmed down a bit and Julie had repeatedly apologised for what she still insisted was not spying but simply an accident. The reason was that Herr Friedrich could apparently get a preview of the exam papers. If you were nice to him and let him do what he wanted – what German men liked, so she said – your exams could be made considerably easier.

Apart from anything else wasn’t this cheating? Julie was unwise enough to mention this fact – which didn’t do anything to further a reconciliation.

So things were inevitably a bit cool between Julie and Margit: but Julie at least felt a sense of relief that it was now out in the open and no longer a secret lurking between them. Margit told her she was to say nothing to Margit’s parents – they apparently would not approve of Herr Friedrich’s activities in that direction. This was presumably why he only came round when the elder Kirchners were out.

After lunch the two girls plus Grete went to the beach again; a prearranged trip with Grete’s father taking them. They swam and sunbathed, Julie now having got over the slight sunburn, and as the beach was once more deserted they again all took their bikini tops off. It was all very like that first day except that now there was a certain amount of talking in lowered tones between the two German girls – in their own language.

Julie naturally wondered if Grete was being told about her ‘spying’; but she decided the best thing was to try and forget it.

Grete’s father called for them later (bikini tops having now been replaced) and in the car Margit said that probably they would go round to another girl’s house that evening for a little party. Grete was going to confirm this and phone later.

The confirmatory phone call duly came and Margit and Julie went off after dinner on bikes. The friend Lisa was a classmate of the other two, a blonde, very German-looking girl. Grete had already arrived and there were to be just the four girls: and as Lisa’s parents would be out they would have the house to themselves.

‘Just four good friends,’ said Margit. ‘But of course we want no one else for such a special… er… ceremony.’

‘What is the ceremony?’ asked Julie. They were in the lounge and as Julie spoke Lisa switched on all the lights, then closed the curtains although it was still light outside.

‘An important ceremony!’ said Margit mysteriously. ‘Do we have wine, Lisa?’

‘Oh but yes!’ Lisa went out and returned with a bottle of Rhine wine and four glasses.

‘What is it?’ repeated Julie, baffled.

The three German girls exchanged conspiratorial smiles as the wine was poured out. Margit held up a glass. ‘Julie, to your… er… what is Aufnahme, Lisa?’

‘Initiation,’ translated Lisa.

‘What?’ exclaimed Julie, taking an offered glass.

Margit’s face, as she looked un-blinkingly at Julie, had a flush of excitement. ‘Yes, the initiation for Julie. We are going to let you see how the cane feels. On that so charming bottom.’

Julie almost dropped her glass. The three German girls were standing round her, smiling, like cats with cream. ‘What..!’ she gasped.

‘You have shown yourself to be so curious about our German habits and so we will show you. Like good hosts. So will you please take down your knickers.’

Lisa suddenly had a cane in her hand – exactly like the one Herr Friedrich used. Red-faced, Julie gasped, ‘You… you must be mad!’

‘Oh please, Julie. There is no need to say that. We will remain friends of course. But you must please cooperate.’

‘No!’ gasped the now alarmed-looking English girl.

But Grete and Lisa grabbed her arms. Julie’s glass fell to the carpet making a mess but not breaking, as she yelled, ‘Let me go!’

She struggled to free herself but was impotent in their grip. ‘Don’t be silly, Julie,’ said Grete, laughing. ‘It won’t hurt too bad: and we all get it from Herr Friedrich.’

They dragged her to the table and pulled her face-down across it, holding her arms stretched out. Margit pulled up the full skirt of Julie’s knee-length red dress and the other two held it bunched around her waist. Underneath there were tight pink nylon knickers. The English girl let out a desperate yell as she felt someone’s – it was Margit’s – hands go in the waistband of the knickers and yank them down.

She kicked her feet but made no contact. Then she felt her knickers down round her knees.

‘Oh my!’ said Lisa.

Julie’s bare bottom, full, ripe, writhing with her frenzied movements, was a magnet for three pairs of eyes. ‘Hold her firmly!’ rasped Margit, now with the cane in her hand.

And suddenly Julie felt the most awful mind-boggling pain as the cane came down, squarely across those full ripe buttocks.

‘Aaiigghh!’ her head reared up and she let out an ear-piercing gasping yell.

The buttocks, now with a red stripe across the centre, had gone into a wild writhing, but the upper part of Julie’s body was held fast by Grete and Lisa. Margit, eyes gleaming with excitement, brought the cane whistling down again.

‘Aaeegghh!’ Another awful yell, another desperate squirming of the injured bottom.

‘Oh Julie,’ observed Margit, ‘You make a noise like a baby. You must learn to be brave, like German girls.’

She brought the cane cracking down again. There was the same frenzied cry. ‘Aaeeooogghh!’

Julie did not learn to be brave. Margit gave her six more and there was a similar desperate yell after each one. Towards the end the yells were mixed with a more continual sobbing.

Afterwards, when Julie had tearfully pulled up her knickers, Margit said, somewhat breathlessly, ‘Now we’re all the same. How do you say – all in the same ship. You have been caned like a German girl. But we are still all good friends of course.’

She held out her hand to Julie but the English girl angrily ignored it and turned away. The whole thing had been just diabolical – and quite unbelievable.

Margit put her arm round her. ‘Oh please Julie. Your first time I think is perhaps a shock, but you will soon think it is really nothing. But Julie, you must learn to take it bravely, like a German girl, and not cry like a little baby.’

* * *

Later that night, about an hour after Julie had gone early to bed, there was a discreet knock at the bedroom door. It was Margit, in her dressing gown. She quietly closed the door and came over to sit on Julie’s bed, smiling down at her.

Perhaps not surprisingly there had been a rather strained atmosphere between them since Julie’s caning. The ‘party’ had broken up soon after the caning – which had obviously been its only point – and Julie and Margit had cycled back, Margit attempting conversation but Julie refusing any more than monosyllabic responses. Cycling in any case was a bit painful after what had been done to her bum. She went to bed early, telling Margit’s parents she had a headache.

The ache in fact was somewhere else. Not so much in her bottom any longer but still very much to her pride. The very thought of what had happened, of the girls holding her down while Margit caned her bare bottom, was psychologically excruciating.

She was lying awake, her mind unable to think of anything else, when Margit came in. The German girl settled herself on the side of the bed. In a husky voice she said, ‘We are still good friends of course, dear Julie.’

It was something she had said more than once since the caning, without getting what she evidently considered an acceptable answer. Previously there had been mere grunts; now Julie said, ‘I’m not used to being caned by my friends.’

Margit gave a low laugh. ‘Oh Julie, it was just a caning between friends. You may cane me if you wish. But now as you are unhappy I come to comfort you.’

She stood up and unbelted her dressing gown. Underneath she was nude – that firm honey-brown body with the white section at the hips. In the half light Margit’s eyes had an excited gleam and also, Julie saw, as the German girl pulled back the covers and slipped in beside her, her nipples were firmly erect.

The next moment Margit was all over her, her wet mouth on Julie’s mouth, her hot tongue pushing in. It was such a shock – yet another that day – that Julie’s breath was taken away. By the time she had recovered the German girl had opened the front of Julie’s nightgown and her hand was pawing at those full breasts.

‘Margit!’ gasped Julie, when she at last was able to pull her mouth away.

‘Oh, we must be best friends now, we two!’ breathed Margit, her fingers greedily at one of Julie’s nipples. As Julie tried, unsuccessfully, to push her away she added:

‘Really it was quite fortunate that you spy on me and see Herr Friedrich with the cane.’

‘What?’

‘Yes. You see it is Herr Friedrich. Since he first sees you he finds you very beautiful. And so… he is therefore most eager to cane you.’

She added, with a low laugh, ‘With Herr Friedrich it is always the same. With any new girl he will not be happy until he canes her!’

Of all the shocks that day this was perhaps the one to cap them all: sufficient indeed to cause Julie to momentarily stop struggling with the amorous and aroused Margit – aroused without doubt by her earlier caning of the English girl. Margit took immediate advantage of the pause. Her hand went down and then up inside Julie’s nightgown.

There was a sudden gurgling gasp from Julie as the hand purposefully caressed her.

It had all been really too much for her and this on top of everything else was the end. She tried to stop Margit but by now everything seemed to be like a dream, and her struggles were at best weak and ineffective. Margit duly accomplished what she wanted. In a very short time Julie, her head in a whirl – out in space – was gasping and rhythmically jerking her body…

Afterwards she lay still – drained, stunned. Margit looked down at her, smiling. ‘Ah, so you English girls at least have passion!’

Julie made no reply. Margit lay down with her, her mouth close to Julie’s ear and her hand playing with one of the English girl’s still aroused nipples. In a husky voice she murmured, ‘I think perhaps you see Herr Friedrich in the morning.’

* * *

‘Aren’t you hungry?’ Margit wanted to know at breakfast time. Margit herself was tucking into salami and ryebread and coffee as if she’d been starved for a day or two.

She whispered confidentially to Julie, ‘It is the passion that gives me the good appetite!’

But Julie, passion or not, did not feel hungry at all. Well, how could she when there was the thought of that meeting at 10 o’clock – with Herr Friedrich.

At first the suggestion from Margit had just seemed ridiculous – and it had seemed even more ridiculous for Margit to think Julie would agree. But Margit’s voice had got that hard edge again as she said, ‘Herr Friedrich says he must have you; and we really must do what Herr Friedrich wants, Julie. He has a certain authority, you know.’

And when Julie insisted that it was out of the question Margit, while still caressing Julie, simply put the screws on.

‘You do not want the bad report home, Julie, I am sure. For instance your parents would be most unhappy if they are told you are behaving very badly and all the time are fucking many boys.’

Julie had gasped, ‘You couldn’t do that!’ – but she wouldn’t have wanted to bet on it.

‘Of course I will not need to,’ said Margit. ‘Because you are going to be sensible. It will be no worse than what we did at Lisa’s house. And think what pleasure there will be for Herr Friedrich!’

And so it looked as if Herr Friedrich was going to get his pleasure. But that didn’t mean Julie felt like eating breakfast.

He arrived, in his punctilious German manner, exactly on time. Margit’s parents were again out.

‘Good morning, Herr Friedrich!’ said Margit. ‘It is another lovely day! And here is your lovely English student to meet you.’

The lovely English student came forward, cringing.

‘Ah yes, Miss Julie Smith!’ His eyes glinted behind the spectacles. ‘We meet again and I am to teach you a little of the German language, I believe. That will give me great pleasure.’

‘You may use my room of course, Herr Friedrich,’ said Margit. ‘And I shall go and sit in the garden.’

‘Very good!’ said the tutor. ‘Shall we then go up without delay?’

Julie was wearing her red dress and underneath just bra and knickers. (Margit had said, ‘It is hot so you do not need a petticoat. Also Herr Friedrich is not liking the petticoats…’) Trying not to tremble she went up the stairs – acutely conscious of Herr Friedrich close behind her swaying buttocks. Then along the passage – where she had crept to watch Margit – but now with the German tutor literally breathing down her neck. Into Margit’s room.

He stood close in front of her. ‘So my dear young English lady, I am to teach you something of our German language. And also perhaps, a little of our German customs? One of these I think which you no longer have in England is discipline. Discipline for the young people – for young ladies such as yourself. Am I correct?’

Blushing slightly, Julie said, ‘I think we still have discipline.’

‘We shall see then,’ said Herr Friedrich. ‘Fraulein Kirchner informs me she has persuaded you that I enjoy some authority here. Is that so?’

Julie bit her lip. Then, ‘She has told me I… I should do what you say.’

‘Oh excellent! Well that is discipline, is it not? To do what the person in authority says. Let us see then if you can comply. A small test. Will you please take your clothes off. All of them. Except, shall we say, your shoes.’

Julie turned crimson. Speechless at first, she then managed to gasp, ‘I… you can’t! You just can’t ask me to do that!’

‘It is nothing: a simple test. Fraulein Kirchner and the other girls would think nothing of it. Also Fraulein Kirchner tells me that if you are not co-operative a most unfavourable report will be sent to your parents. So let us have no more of this foolish and undisciplined behaviour. Please remove your dress. And then the undergarments.’

It was outrageous… and unbelievable. But there was the thought of her parents getting some awful statement about her. It would be blatantly untrue of course and they couldn’t possibly believe it. Nonetheless for them even to get it would be an awful shock. And there was her father. Last year he had had a heart attack. They had said it wasn’t serious, but even so…

She looked pleadingly at Herr Friedrich. ‘Please! Please don’t ask me that!’

The eyes shone behind the rimless spectacles. ‘It is only a test. And I do ask it. It is a simple test of discipline.’

And so there was nothing for it. The full-skirted red dress had buttons down the back to the hips. She reached behind her to the buttons. Fumblingly, one by one, she unfastened them. Looking away from the intently staring German she pulled the top of the dress off her shoulders and arms, then down. And stepped out of it. Underneath she had just the matching pink nylon bra and knickers, the bra light and the knickers semi-transparent except for an opaque insert at the rounded bulge of her pubis.

Herr Friedrich’s gloating voice. ‘Most charming, Miss! And now also the scanties, please.’

She could feel beads of perspiration pricking her skin. It was hot in the room though there was a slight draught from the window and the slightly open door. But the perspiration was due to something else: being here like this and having to submit to this man’s whim whatever it might be. She felt a bit faint. His funny dated expression ‘scanties’ stuck in her mind, going round and round. Scanties… flimsies… frillies… It would be laughable except…

She put her hand to her face. In spite of the heat it felt cold, and damp. And then with a feeling that it wasn’t herself doing it but someone else, both hands went behind her. To the strap of her bra. She unfastened it. The bra came off and, unseeing, she dropped it to the floor. What was next? Oh yes, her knickers. Her hands went down.

The knickers seemed to stick, the tight nylon clinging to her moist skin. But they came down all right. Down to her ankles and she stepped out of them, almost falling over as she did so.

The room seemed to be going round and round a lot. But Herr Friedrich was there, close now. She was vaguely aware that she was nude. His hand on her arm. And then both hands on her bare breasts. She didn’t try to stop him – again there was the feeling that it was happening to someone else. His fingers manipulating her nipples caused them to respond though, as they became fully erect.

His voice, silky, caressing: ‘Good! Very good, Miss Smith! Now you learn to accept; to submit. That is very good…’

His hand slid behind her to her bare backside, taking hold of one full cheek, fingers reaching deep into the moist cleft. ‘And now I think a little of our German discipline. A little taste of the cane on this splendid backside.’

And then she was bending over that chair, the one she had watched Margit bend over. But she, Julie, unlike Margit, was nude except for her shoes. She bent right over, under Herr Friedrich’s forceful hand, her head down in the seat and her hands down to grip the front legs of the chair.

And then there was a sudden sharp, searing, breath-stopping pain. In her bare up-thrust buttocks. And then instants later, as breath came back, she heard a gasping shrieking cry. A cry of that English girl, Julie Smith, bending made over a chair in a bedroom in a little German town. And very far from home.

And then a second sickening, breath-stopping pain. A third… a fourth… Each followed by the desperate cry of that English girl who had no choice but to submit. A fifth… a sixth… but by then you had lost count and they were merging together and the English girl was sobbing more than crying out…

At last the caning had stopped. She was still over the chair-back, still sobbing. Not the cane now but the German tutor’s hand on her bare backside: stroking and caressing the tortured red-striped cheeks. And also slipping, as if by accident, in between her legs. It was a further indignation which she had no choice but to endure, like the humiliation of the vicious caning, the hand coolly, appraisingly, going wherever it wanted. Because she had no option but to submit to this man.

The hand at last was removed and his voice said, ‘Right: stand please! Stand upright!’

She stood, holding the chair-back to control her trembling. The room and Herr Friedrich were all blurred because her eyes were full of tears.

‘Good, Miss. That was a nice little lesson to begin with. But with someone such as yourself who has clearly had no discipline at all – your silly crying out makes that plain – we obviously have much work to do. What I think we will do therefore is have a regular session at my apartment – each day of the week, to begin tomorrow. You can reach it with ease on your bicycle as Fraulein Kirchner will tell you. We shall say, I think, 9.30 am; that is a time when I shall be free to deal with you. Is that understood?’

The only answer was a fresh outburst of tears. She could not believe this was happening to her; that she had no power to resist him whatsoever…

He moved from facing her to stand close behind, and his hands came round under her arms and cupped her breasts. He squeezed them.

‘You have a good figure, Miss Smith, but one which certainly needs more discipline. It is for instance certainly not as firm as the bodies of Fraulein Margit and Fraulein Grete. What it is needing is the discipline of exercise to firm it more. And therefore I propose to place you in the hands of an Athletics Instructor. We have a very good man here, Herr Lehmann, who before was an instructor in the Army and is now an excellent trainer of girls.’

‘Herr Lehmann is most commendably strict: he is not using the cane on his girls but, rather, a horse-riding whip. Wait: excuse me, in more correct English, a riding crop. Yes, the riding crop is most effective in keeping a girl, as you say, up to her mark.’

‘So I shall take you to Herr Lehmann tomorrow after I have had my own session with you. He will start a programme of hard exercises plus running, etc. I think as you are on holiday you have much free time which can most profitably be used in this manner. Yes, Miss Smith, I think together Herr Lehmann and I myself can use your time most effectively. It is three weeks more you have with us, I think. With that time we can, I assure you, do very good work.’

The hands which had been squeezing her breasts all this time, gave a final squeeze and were removed.

‘So that will all commence tomorrow. For today you have had now a little rest and we will now resume your discipline with the cane. Please do get back down in position over the chair as before.’

As in a dream she complied, gripping the legs of the chair again and presenting the full globes of her already red-striped rear. She heard Herr Friedrich say, ‘I shall give, I think, another ten.’

And then once more the sickening, searing pain, the feeling that her buttocks were on fire.

A Janus Caning Story. More stories are available here.

Executive Encounter

by Richard Watson

GLANCING at his watch, Brent Matthews suddenly realised how drained he was. It was well past six o’clock and there was no certainty that the negotiations would finish that evening. It had been three gruelling days so far, and yesterday alone had involved some twelve hours of talks. On flying over from New York, Brent had estimated it would take two days at the most to wrap up the biggest syndication deal of his career. He had been wrong.

What he hadn’t fully considered was his counterpart across the table in the plush boardroom high above the City of London. In Cynthia Ward, Brent had met his match — and then some! She looked to be in her late thirties at the most, but Brent knew she must be over 40 to be Finance Director of a major British multinational. This woman had broken the mould, so he’d been told — and this week he had learned why. The hard way!

Even in her dark smartly-tailored business suit and white silk blouse, Cynthia was stunning. Her shoulder-length auburn hair and creamy complexion, her slender but full-breasted figure and her pert nose and sensual mouth all attracted attention. But it was her sparkling green eyes, which seemed to show such eagerness to engage in corporate combat, that unsettled Brent the most — to such an extent that at first he scarcely noticed the rest of her undoubted physical assets in the thrust and parry of their exchanges.

The bank’s London branch had warned him that she would be stubborn and meticulous. Even in fatigue, Brent could only gaze at his opponent with a respect almost bordering on awe. He knew, however, that he could concede no more in the proposal. It was an eight-figure long-term capital financing plan to bring this conglomerate into new Asian markets, ones they clearly desired. Given the prospect of his employer being the lead bank, with all the fees involved and the pure prestige of simply landing this huge corporate fish, Brent saw his personal goal of moving up from Senior Vice President to Executive VP as almost assured — if, of course, he could close this deal. But all his cards had been played; he simply awaited the response and expected a delay.

‘I think we have a feasible arrangement now, Mr Matthews,’ said Cynthia Ward at last. ‘The refinancing clauses look quite suitable to me, and the front-end fees have been reduced to what our projections allowed for. I’m confident now in taking this to our board if you want to revise all the points we’ve discussed in the draft.’

Brent could feel the relief spread throughout his body at her words. He wanted to savour the moment, yet not show it. Still, he had given up quite a bit; she’d been superb in her persistence. He quickly promised to fine-tune the draft tomorrow and leave a copy on Friday.

Only then, as they walked out of the conference-room, did Brent feel relaxed enough to look at Cynthia as something other than a skilled negotiator. Tall and spare, with a dusting of white in his neat dark hair, Brent knew that he looked distinguished and passably handsome. Since his traumatic divorce two years before, he had had little time or inclination to consider feminine company. Cynthia Ward, however, was in a league of her own. ‘Well, with that done,’ he ventured, ‘can I buy you dinner tonight? To celebrate, of sorts.’

She paused, regarding him shrewdly. ‘It’s tempting, I’ll admit,’ she demurred. ‘But I have a good two hours of work still to clear off my desk, I’m afraid.’

‘At least a drink then, after,’ Brent persisted. ‘You can’t just go straight home after a day like this. My hotel bar would be a good choice.’

She took just a second to seemingly mull it over in her mind. ‘Fine,’ she said, ‘if that suits you, Mr Matthews. But I won’t be there till nine at the earliest.’ Then she was gone.

Brent felt that one advantage of a five-star West End hotel was an elegant bar which offered a discreet and intimate setting. But it was closer to ten o’clock than nine before Cynthia Ward finally walked in. Watching her approach the table, he suddenly became fully conscious of just how exciting this woman also was from the neck down. Even her executive style of dress could not conceal her voluptuous shape. Cynthia was buxom by nature, but with a rather slim waist — due in part, no doubt, to a disciplined fitness programme. Her long shapely legs flowed into full hips, which swayed most enticingly as she trod towards him on high heels.

She sank gracefully into the chair opposite, taking up the same respective position to him that she had adopted during the past three days. But this was relaxation. Feeling satisfied that the arduous negotations were behind them, Brent hoped to ease the conversation into more personal matters. They quickly settled into a first-name basis. He realised that she fascinated him, perhaps because he had never before seen quite this unique combination of beauty, elegance and determination all embodied in the one woman. Having steered deliberately clear of romantic involvements these past two years, Brent was surprised at the keenness of the curiosity he felt about this poised executive.

He was on his second Scotch, while Cynthia was sipping a Campari and soda, when he chose to enquire why such an attractive lady as she had opted for a rigorous career instead of marriage.

Those green eyes searched his as if to calculate the direction this thrust of his might take them. They seemed to read a great deal about him all at once — a facet of her brilliance he had already noted. ‘I tend to seek intensity in life,’ she replied. ‘I’ve had some exciting relationships with men and was engaged once, but I ended it when I realised that marriage wouldn’t succeed in the long term. And my work has continued to challenge me — more than the recent men in my life.’ She looked at him keenly and smiled. ‘Though there have been moments.’

Brent became aware that Cynthia’s directness extended beyond board-rooms and into personal conversations. It was a revelation about her which he could not have known before and, while normally cautious, he felt that an opportunity had arisen to be bold himself.

‘I can’t imagine you being the type of person married only to your job,’ he challenged. ‘Haven’t you found excitement and fulfilment in sex, if not lasting love?’

Her smile was both subtle and coy. ‘Good sex has been the second most intense experience I’ve had in my life,’ she responded enigmatically.

Brent could only guess at her meaning, but felt that he knew Cynthia Ward well enough by now. ‘And the first, I presume,’ he declared confidently, ‘is closing a hard-fought deal for the corporation.’

‘No, that’s third.’

For a moment, Brent was nonplussed. Her eyes were still fixed on his, the smile was still there and her chin was tilted a little in challenge. He surmised that Cynthia was leading him into something — something he would be delighted to learn. ‘All right then,’ he asked, nettled yet intrigued. ‘What experience ranks first on your “intensity” scale?’

‘Being caned,’ she said simply.

Brent thought that he must have misheard. He swallowed some Scotch to cover his surprise and felt sure that her prompt response had definitely not been mere ad lib. ‘Well, not exactly what I had expected to hear,’ he managed at last. ‘I hope you’ll expand on that, please.’

She gave a soft laugh and tilted her head to brush back the rich auburn hair from her brow. ‘You must have learned by now that I don’t deal in the “expected”,’ she teased. ‘Though your look of shock was certainly that. With you being American, I wasn’t sure you’d know what a caning is.’

‘Well,’ Brent rallied, ‘I’ve dealt with Brits long enough to know most of the cultural traditions over here, but…’

Cynthia’s smile was amused. ‘But I expect that you yourself had one of those soft American upbringings,’ she goaded, green eyes sparkling. ‘Why, I doubt if you were even spanked.’

‘You make me somehow feel ashamed to admit you’re right,’ said Brent. ‘I suppose my youth reflected a “progressive” approach.’ He looked guardedly at this magnetically attractive woman who held such power to surprise. It was as if she divined his fascination at the extraordinary images she was inspiring in his normally pragmatic mind. ‘But you have to provide some background of sorts,’ he prompted.

Cynthia relaxed a little and he suddenly realised how tense she had been up to that point. ‘I rather thought you’d want to know more. And that means I’ll have a second drink.’

Brent’s mind spun with anticipation as the waiter served his guest. He had no idea where all this would lead, but was sure she had more in mind than idle chatter.

‘To begin with,’ Cynthia said, ‘I was an only child. My parents were as loving and giving as possible. My father was a respected teacher in a well-regarded public school. But while I was well cared for, both my parents greatly feared a spoilt daughter. My late teens were in the mid-to-late Sixties, and some parental attitudes were slower to change over here than in your country. So, while my home was very loving, it was also a strict one — and in those days that meant there was a cane on hand. Even though up till the age of eighteen it had never been used on me, and I think I regarded it rather as a bluff. An ultimate sanction that would never be used.’

She paused, but only briefly. Brent’s focus was now total. ‘Please go on,’ he said. ‘You know you’ve got my undivided attention.’ He realised that his mouth was open and promptly closed it. ‘You were eighteen?’

Cynthia nodded. ‘By that age, my independent streak was in full force. And at times my nature was virtually rebellious, especially when it came to curfews and dating restrictions. One night over dinner I argued for an end to such limits — given that, at eighteen, I was an adult. When Mummy stressed again that I was subject to their rules as long as I was living under their roof, I lost control and foolishly used the word “bitch”. Quite naturally, Daddy then stepped in and said such disrespect required severe correction in the one way I’d be sure to remember.’

Brent stared, his drink forgotten. ‘You mean he was going to cane you? At that age?’ She nodded again. ‘Why didn’t you tell him to go to hell?’

‘Judgement had already been passed,’ she said simply. ‘It would have been even more foolish to argue.’

‘That doesn’t sound like the Cynthia Ward I know,’ he observed.

‘Oh, I can assure you she exists.’ Cynthia sipped her drink and continued, ‘It wasn’t only the sting that made the caning so dreadful, and therefore effective. It was the formality, the ritual of sorts. I had to report upstairs to my parents’ bedroom after a nail-biting period of waiting. A sturdy wooden stool had been brought in and placed in the centre of the room. The cane was discreetly kept in my mother’s wardrobe. My father ordered me to take it out and bring it to him. The shame was all the greater, given my own image of self importance at the time.’

‘I can well imagine that,’ Brent responded with an unfamiliar feeling of being slightly out of his depth. In the subdued light of the bar her face looked softly radiant, the green eyes glowing with reminiscence. For a moment she looked no older than 18, her auburn hair shining.

‘Perhaps the worst part was the loss of dignity,’ Cynthia was saying. ‘Again, it made the punishment all the more effective. The only concession was that I was already over the stool before Mummy took down my knickers.’

Brent caught his breath. ‘You mean you got it on the b-bare…?’

‘Bare bottom. Yes, quite right. And I was a big girl, remember. Even so, in those times it wasn’t quite the extraordinary event it would be today.’

‘It’s still hard to imagine,’ said Brent, swallowing hard, although his mind was vividly creating just such an image. It made his brain spin.

‘Also,’ her honeyed English voice purred on, ‘when Daddy caned me, he expected a contrite attitude. I always addressed him as “Sir” when being disciplined or reprimanded. That one and only caning was twelve strokes — pure agony I can promise you. But I endured it and all was forgiven. I assure you it was dreadful then; but now, almost 25 years later, the event still comes back to me with a poignancy I cannot ignore.’ She looked directly at him. ‘Still, I expect it makes little sense to you. Does it?’

Brent gulped more whisky and returned Cynthia’s gaze. Frankly, he was unsure how to react to this dynamic businesswoman’s extraordinary admission, though the excitement which was rising in him seemed more intoxicating than the spirit itself. ‘Why me, and why now?’ Brent replied carefully, setting down his glass. ‘I somehow get the impression you don’t tell this story on a er… daily basis.’

‘I’ll answer that, I promise.’ She sat forward, her bosom straining against the silk blouse. ‘But first you need a bit more background. Daddy died some ten years ago of a heart attack. It was only last year that Mummy passed away. At first, I planned to sell the old family house in Hampstead, but then I decided to move into it myself. The house has so many happy memories for me, you see — that caning being a rare exception. Anyway, just a few months ago I was rummaging through the attic, sorting items out, and I came upon… upon that very same cane…’

Cynthia paused, watching him. Gauging his reaction.

‘Go on,’ said Brent. ‘You can’t stop now!’

She took a breath, then continued a little more quickly. ‘I was surprised at first, but my mother was never very good at throwing old things away. Just holding that cane in my hand brought all the sensations flooding back. It certainly hadn’t been used since that last night with me over the stool. Oh, and the stool is still there in the house as well.’ Again Cynthia paused, then went on, ‘So… how shall I put it? The rediscovery of the cane has led to, shall we say, certain urges. A need of sorts, to re-explore, even relive, the past. Do you understand?’

‘I think so,’ said Brent as evenly as he could. ‘And a certain banker from New York seems to fit into these recent urges?’

She smiled, her green eyes shining. ‘A clever deduction! It simply fits! You’re discreet, I’m sure of that. And I’ve come to know you just well enough. You have an air of authority, Brent. You can command a situation, you’re principled. All traits much like my father’s — and that’s a compliment, believe me.’

‘I take it as such.’ He inclines his head coolly, though his heart was thumping.

‘So, Brent,’ she pursued, moving astutely in as he had seen her do when firming a deal. ‘Are you adventurous — and perhaps a bit theatrical? Or at least able to assume a well-crafted role?’

‘I can act,’ Brent admitted. ‘But this part would seem to call for a script.’

‘Indeed it does.’ Her smile had gone, she was all business again — but her face was transfigured by an excitement he hadn’t seen before. ‘Your flight back is on Friday, I know, with tomorrow working out of your hotel room. Assuming I can entice you into visiting Hampstead tomorrow night, you’ll be receiving a letter in your room during the course of the day. I’m sure you’ll be able to proceed easily enough from there once you’ve read it carefully through.’

With that she stood up, bestowed a lingering look on him, then walked from the bar. He watched her as she went, and very much liked what he saw.

* * *

Brent lay awake most of the night trying to convince himself that the conversation over drinks had really occurred. He realised that his initial physical attraction to Cynthia Ward had already become something more. Her desire to re-enact a youthful caning had at first seemed strange to him, to say the least. But as he considered it further, the unforgettable intensity of such an experience was perhaps understandable. No matter what, he himself now shared her ‘sense of adventure’ — and seeing her over that stool with bottom bared would be more than enough reward for any histrionics he might be called upon to indulge in.

The promised letter was delivered to Brent’s hotel room early the next day. The very thickness of the envelope made it clear that Cynthia either required very little sleep or else had written it out in advance of telling her story. Even for her, though, the latter seemed unlikely.

Common sense told Brent to finish his writing of a draft memorandum before reading the letter, but temptation won over logic. Opening the envelope, he found a twelve-page missive typed with single spacing. No detail was omitted of what was expected of him. He read it through twice, the second time concentrating fully on each sentence. Each nuance of position, attitude and action was fully explained. To his surprise, Brent felt confident that he could portray the role she sought from him. Indeed, the very thought of it filled him with extraordinary excitement. He was to be, in fantasy, more of a ‘father figure’ than a re-creation of her father. But her instructions on certain aspects were most explicit:

To be of value, the correction itself simply has to be thorough. Any reluctance on your part to be vigorous with the strokes will only disappoint Thus, do not stint in your full use of the cane. Only if you hear me say ‘carrots’, as a codeword of sorts, should you let up. But that is highly unlikely.

Brent found it difficult to concentrate on his work throughout the afternoon. The invitation to visit the Hampstead house was for 9pm. Just prior to calling for a taxi, he read the letter carefully through for a third time. Yes, he reaffirmed to himself, he could play the part called for, and indeed had begun to relish it.

Cynthia greeted him warmly at the door and offered him a very dry sherry, which he accepted, in the spacious lounge with its view of the Heath. At first, no mention was made of the evening’s theme as they eased into a relaxed conversation. This seeming insouciance, and the allure of her appearance, only added to Brent’s anticipation. Her cream-coloured high-neck silk blouse with Wedgwood cameo brooch was both elegant and traditional, her bosom swelling ripely inside it; while her tight fawn skirt erotically emphasised the fullness of the curves below her slim waist. Regardless of the role to which she was shortly to return after such a long hiatus, Cynthia Ward’s attire proclaimed that this was indeed a mature and exquisite woman.

Finally, after finishing her second glass of sherry, she looked up and said, with a tight little smile that did not quite reach her eyes, ‘Shall we proceed?’

Brent knew from the instructions in her letter that once he entered the master bedroom the scene was to begin. He felt keyed-up, keen and on his mettle and, while not having exactly memorised a set of lines, was confident of his own part in the exhilarating scenario that beckoned.

Cynthia had, of course — as the setting required — gone into the bedroom first. When Brent trod firmly up the stairs and opened the door into the large chamber, he might have stepped back in time almost 25 years. In the centre of the room, with ample space around it, stood a tall wooden stool with a faded padded seat. A short distance away, leaning against a large traditional wardrobe, was the cane itself — some three feet in length, with a crook handle. The flexible, mahogany-brown implement was thin and slightly bent — due, no doubt, to its usage in times gone by. And seated demurely on the pink silk coverlet of the double-bed was a beautiful female whose facial expression very much reflected that of a contrite young woman biting her lip in an agony of apprehension.

‘Well, young lady,’ he began sternly, following the guidelines of his brief. ‘Have you thought matters over?’

‘Yes, Sir.’ Her voice was low, quavering slightly. Her troubled green eyes blinked unhappily up at his tall, dominating figure, then fixed their gaze on her hands where they twisted anxiously together in her lap.

‘And…?’

‘I’m very sorry for what I said. I shouldn’t have been so disrespectful to Mother. I know better than that, and it was very wrong of me.’

While intent on sticking to his role, Brent was stunned by what he was seeing and hearing. Here was Cynthia Ward, financial whizz of one of Britain’s leading multinationals, who for three days had superbly negotiated the most complex financing facility he had ever seen, now fully convincing him that she was an 18-year-old girl who had just earned herself a sound caning. Brent’s thoughts quickly reverted back to the text of her letter.

Lecture me firmly. Make me feel I deserve every bit of punishment you intend to administer. Leave no doubt as to your resolve to be severe with me.

Brent looked down at the quailing form on the bed, her beautiful features half-obscured by a tumble of auburn hair. Suddenly a sense of power flowed into him, bracing his spine and squaring his stance.

‘You may think you are too old for the cane, Cynthia,’ he snapped. ‘But you’re not. Such outbursts have convinced me that a stinging bottom is the best remedy for your tantrums. You still need parental control, my girl, and I’ll not shrink from my duty.’ Yes indeed, thought Brent, feeling a build-up of righteous anger tempered with a deep concern akin to love: perhaps the theatre was truly my first calling.

‘I’m r-really sorry. I am, Sir.’ Her lashes were wet and her eyes wide with entreaty and shining with unshed tears. ‘P-please don’t cane me, Sir.’

‘I’m sorry, Cynthia, you know the penalty. Skirts up and over the stool, please.’

‘No! Please not!’

‘Over the stool, girl!’ Brent thundered. ‘At once! Don’t you dare contradict me!’

Shivering and sniffling, Cynthia stood up from the bed and approached the stool. Then, with her back turned towards Brent, she raised the close-fitting skirt to waist level, draped her body slowly across the padded top, and braced herself bravely. As Brent’s gaze absorbed the magnificent sight now on display, her writing again came strongly to his mind.

I’ll be wearing navy blue knickers, or panties to you, which represent the time-period. Naturally, it will be your task to take them down.

The plain and sensible undergarment referred to, stretched thinly and tightly over the full, creamy mounds of her buttocks, added just the retrospective touch that helped Brent feel as though it were indeed a quarter of a century ago. He no longer had any problem in seeing Cynthia as the deserving young recipient of his disciplinary efforts, and found total identification with his part in the proceedings.

‘Raise your hips, Cynthia,’ he commanded. ‘I wish to remove your knickers.’

‘N-no…’

‘At once!’

She hastily obeyed, easing her hips off the stool whilst he grasped the waistband. He did not rush, noting with pleasure how the dark blue fabric stretched almost to splitting across the plump cushions of her bottom. Hardly daring to breathe, he peeled the panties down, exposing to his rapt gaze the deeply-cleft bareness of those sumptuous buttocks. He slowly pulled the garment down the long graceful legs and dropped it on the bed.

Then Brent stepped back to fully enjoy what now lay bared and yielding before him. Cynthia Ward had a bottom which combined femininity, maturity and fitness. Its curves were ample, yet firm — as befitted a woman whose subtly advancing years only enhanced her physical charms. Yet any thoughts Brent might have had about other ways of enjoying those ripe hind-quarters straining urgently up towards him across the stool were quickly put aside once he glanced at the cane, which still leaned against the wardrobe like the star of the show awaiting its entrance on to the stage.

Brent crossed to it and picked up the weathered implement carefully, as though it were an antique. While it was the first true punishment-cane his American eyes had ever seen, its capacity to correct was obvious. He flexed it springily between his hands as he walked back to take up his position beside the stool — knowing that Cynthia, draped over it with her auburn hair dangling to the carpet and her buttocks bare and ready, was extremely aware of his every measured step.
He paused to wonder about what was going through her mind at that moment and became aware of the tiny keening noises she was making deep in her throat — the sole manifestation of her extreme excitement and apprehension. Brent tapped the cane gently across the smooth, flawless globes which awaited his efforts. Her thighs parted slightly, giving him just a hint of her inner charms, while the pale, silky bottom-cheeks were themselves relaxed, almost placid, as if to show their meek acceptance of the chastisement to come. Again, a passage from her letter flashed through his mind:

Tell me in advance that I’m to receive a dozen and make me count after each one. Maintaining my composure is essential, and don’t hesitate to question me during the caning.

‘You’re to have twelve strokes, Cynthia,’ said Brent firmly, taking a strong grip on the cane, ‘and I expect you to take them in good form. You are to count the number after each. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ she sibilantly whispered.

Could he really do it, Brent wondered. Could he bring himself to inflict such pain on a woman he found so appealing? The hesitation was brief — the answer was ‘yes’. He raised the rod and let it quiver above his shoulder, then brought it swiftly down across the summits of his inviting target with a resonant crack that made him jump. Under the impact, her bottom-flesh seemed to collapse for an instant then spring back into shape. A white line appeared, quickly turning pink. Cynthia’s gasp was loud — an indrawn shriek as she fiercely sucked in air. Then there was a pause and she counted, ‘One, Sir.’

Brent watched the muscles of her voluptuous rear twitch and jerk in response to the solid cane-stroke; but, with supreme self-control, her buttocks resumed their relaxed state as if to say that they were ready again. Encouraged by the success of the first stroke he aimed the second a little higher, and the rattan landed almost at the top of the deep separating crevice between the majestic pillows of flesh. The response was the same, with an inward cry and a wild contraction of buttock-muscles followed by, ‘Two, Sir,’ as her bottom settled again over the stool-top.

Brent warmed to his role. Repositioning his feet in a firmer stance, he pulled back the ancient cane and aimed for the area just above the sulcus — the delightful crease on a woman’s body where the undercheek of her bottom merges into the top of her thigh. His aim was accurate. Cynthia’s gasp was louder this time as the rod hissed through the air and impacted with an authoritative sssswhack on that tenderest of places. Her grip on the stool’s lowest rung was like a vice and Brent saw how her face contorted for just an instant as she internalised the sting before she expelled the words, ‘Three, Sir,’ in a quavering groan which seemed to indicate that she could scarcely take any more.

Perhaps that was the key, thought Brent. She wanted to be tested to the limit, to prove to herself that she could endure a vigorous physical chastisement. Anything less than a true caning, therefore, would have no meaning for her. It was to be the real thing, or nothing.

Brent resumed his task with even greater firmness of purpose, applying the cane with unflinching force and steadily increasing skill. The fourth well-swung stroke met the upper slopes of her buttocks between the first two glowing lines with an echoing crack that made her shriek out loud. His pace was deliberate. The fifth and sixth strokes were aimed lower, just above the rosy track which marked the third. Cynthia’s shrill cries and panting gasps reflected an accumulation of pain as she writhed across the stool with her auburn hair flicking and tossing, legs jerking and kicking and the luscious hummocks of her bottom clenching and bouncing to the cane’s lively tattoo, which stained it with hot tramline flushes and sunset streaks. Cynthia was indeed being tested.

Brent paused after six — the halfway mark — and regarded the slumped figure of the dynamic businesswoman. He was puffing slightly as if from a hard-won point at squash. More words from her letter came to him:

A standard caning was always six. But disrespect meant extra strokes. I need to be reminded of that.

Brent strode to the front of her and cupped Cynthia’s chin in his hand, tilting her head to look into her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her full lips slack. Her eyes glistened with moisture and seemed scarcely to see him. Had this gone too far? No, he decided, that must be her decision. ‘I think, young lady,’ he said with curt authority, ‘you’re learning your lesson. Am I right?’ She nodded meekly. ‘But we’re clearly not finished yet,’ he added firmly. ‘Six more to go.’

Returning to his position at the left of her bending body, Brent observed with awe the extent to which Cynthia’s robustly beautiful buttocks were now showing the effects of the chastisement. Inflamed as it was, her bottom had resumed its relaxed condition over the stool, as if again to signify her determination to absorb the full dosage she had earned by her disgraceful behaviour. Two more crisp strokes, delivered with judicious severity, cracked against the sizzling hemispheres and sprang away, eliciting urgent grunts from Cynthia’s throat.

It was after the ninth stroke that she burst into tears — a soft, almost controlled crying, but still quite audible and suggestive of release rather than torment.

Don’t be disturbed if I sob at some point. Tears are a catharsis, of course, and the inner sensations I seek will only be enhanced by crying.

As he paused to watch her shaking body, Brent wondered if he himself could have taken what he was inflicting. His respect for this woman, already high, had increased with the stinging hurt of each succeeding whack. He was aware that she could end this at any moment, but knew that she would not. Furthermore, the marks of the chastisement had begun to overlap and her hips jerked up in reflex as he administered the tenth and eleventh resonant strokes of the old family cane on its grown-up daughter’s incandescent derriere. The sight of that gorgeous bottom delighted and excited him as it bumped and wriggled frantically over the stool-top.

Make me wait for the last stroke. My nerves will be well stretched by then. And, of course, make it a good one.

Brent selected the ripely-curved crown of Cynthia’s buttocks for the finale. The previous eleven strokes had shown that he was a natural, and accurate, wielder of the rod. His aim was precise, the cane swooping eagerly in to bisect the firm, well-sprung flesh with an excruciating thwack.

‘Aaaghh!’ was the sound she made — a gasp, grunt and sigh all in one. She exhaled noisily, then sucked in air. Her pause was unusually long, and then she said at last, ‘Number twelve, Sir,’ and slumped inertly across the stool.

For a moment Brent studied her twitching, utterly vanquished figure with some concern as she lay there — and then her final written instruction flashed through his mind:

Once finished with the caning, leave the bedroom quickly and without comment. Please give me some ten minutes to compose myself, and then return.

Brent quietly left the chamber and clicked the door shut. Down in the lounge again he poured himself a drink and reflected on his feelings. He was exhilarated. Elated. He drank the whisky in one gulp, and wondered at his trembling. The experience had been, quite simply, stupendous and his brain reeled at the wonder of it.

The event had affected him even more than he had anticipated. Cynthia’s body was truly stunning, and a part of him had hated causing her such evident pain. Yet, Brent realised, she was right: there had been such a compulsion, an intensity, almost a beauty to the entire proceedings, from the preliminary formal lecture through the solemn disrobement and total yielding-up of all dignity, to the fierce sting of the cane on her naked buttocks. Her fortitude had amazed him. And he knew that he had succeeded in fulfilling the role she had set for him. But what was next, Brent wondered. How was it all going to end? Indeed, was it already finished? Alas, he knew that that was for her to decide.

The ten minutes over, Brent retraced his steps up the stairs and reopened the bedroom door to find the mature, elegant Cynthia Ward now completely nude and recumbent on her large bed. The tall, shapely body appeared flawlessly ideal in shape and proportion as she rested on her stomach, the milky skin of her back and legs now interrupted by the scarlet hues of her plushly plump bottom-cheeks which displayed the dozen angry-looking lines so recently drawn by the ancient family cane.

As Brent stepped across to the bed Cynthia looked up and offered a soft smile. Her warmth towards him was evident. ‘I even found some of Mummy’s old lotion,’ she murmured coyly. ‘I told you she never threw anything away. I remember how comforting she was with it, as all was forgiven by the time she came to use it. I’m sure you’ll be just as gentle in applying it.’

Brent took the old bottle with the faded label and poured cream into his hand. Then he rubbed the soothing coolness slowly into those sore, so beautiful bottom-cheeks. Even though the softest touch of his fingers on the cane-marks brought a wince from her, Cynthia’s sighs and moans and little wriggles made it clear that his efforts at comforting were every bit as good as his new-found skill in punishing.

Brent wanted to know so much more about her. She had given him a peek into her complex and private world, but he knew that it was not yet the right moment to question her more deeply. Even so, his practical curiosity remained — and Brent was, foremost, a practical man.

‘How long will these marks last?’ he asked. ‘It looks to me like it could be ages.’

Cynthia grimaced prettily, picked up a hand-mirror from her bedside table and craned her head round to view her reflected bottom. ‘You didn’t disappoint me,’ she remarked with satisfaction. ‘Judging from some of these stripes on the right, I’d say as long as three or four weeks.’ She turned towards him, and her smile now had an impish quality. ‘That ought to time out just about right for your return to London for the signing of the agreement.’ Her green eyes glittered, smouldered. Her lips pursed sulkily, hungrily. A tongue, strawberry pink, played over white, even teeth. ‘Oughtn’t it?’ she murmured.

Brent was taken fully by surprise. But before he could consider an appropriate response, her arms were around him and he found himself being drawn down on to the bed beside her in an embrace of such wonderful warmth that he pulled back his head and gazed at her in astonishment, still not quite sure.

She smiled again. ‘Oh, come now, Mr New York banker,’ breathed Cynthia Ward. ‘Do I have to put everything in writing?’

Brent laughed to himself as she reached over to turn out the light.