riding
THE NEW RIDING WHIP – A JANUS WHIPPING STORY

A Whipping Story from Janus 68. More stories are available here.

The New Riding Whip
by Michael Burntwood

HER upper body was pressed against the steering-wheel, and her dazzlingly pretty face gaped aghast through the windscreen. She had hit something! After several stunned seconds she straightened up in the driver’s seat, suddenly pale beneath the suntan which still lingered from those fragrant weeks in the Greek islands. Strands of golden hair obscured her wide, vividly blue eyes, for her head had jerked forward at the collision. Shakily, feeling faint, she pushed the hair back from her flawless forehead and opened the door of the brand-new Jaguar. Stepping out on long, lissome legs she stretched her lithe young body and smoothed the rucked-up skirt over her slender hips. Then, with tingling nerves and a sick feeling of dread, Alicia Thornfield walked to the front of the gleaming vehicle to inspect the damage.

The wheelbarrow she had driven into lay crushed and splintered on the broad gravel driveway, but this was not what the girl was staring at. The offside wing of the Jaguar was shockingly defaced by dents and scratches, and the headlamp and the blinker were smashed! The awful sight made her inhale deeply, pushing her tip-tilted breasts against the sheer silk fabric of her blouse.

Desperately she turned and looked around for someone to blame for this disaster, for the fool who had put the wheelbarrow there, right where it shouldn’t be, in the middle of the drive into which she had just turned the car. In the distance she observed Rogerson, the gardener, hurrying towards her shaking his grey-haired head; and even then the mettlesome young woman’s full red lips curled with distaste to see how his startled gaze roamed over her bare legs beneath the tight skirt.

‘You damn well ought to know better than to leave your stupid barrow here!’ Alicia shouted, stamping her foot in fury and fright. Even to the unimaginative gardener she looked petite and doll-like, almost unreal in her perfection of feminine shapeliness. It could have been that French actress, Bardot – re-formed and scarcely 21 again – raging at him beside his employer’s distressingly damaged vehicle. The agile figure was daintily trim, little-waisted, with breasts like apples quivering under translucent silk, the trim thighs succulent – her legs smooth, sun-browned stems more lovely than the loveliest bloom in the orchid-house from where he had hurried on hearing the distant crump. To the gardener, she looked rather like a flower herself.

But the aloofly alluring nymphet face, achingly pretty, was red and twisted now as she screeched at him, scattering the soft, honey-gold hair about that perfect head.

‘You silly old bastard, I’ve a sodding good mind to… to…’

‘Ooh, dear,’ said Rogerson, dragging to a stop. ‘Ooh, my, Miss Alicia. Your stepdad won’t be too happy when he sees what you’ve done to his new car!’

‘What I’ve done, I’ve done?’ the girl wailed. ‘How was I supposed to know that bloody wheelbarrow was here? It was your fault. I was looking at the rose-bushes when I drove in.’

‘With respect, Miss,’ ventured Rogerson, ‘Sir Robert told me to leave it here when he called me to the orchid-house. And anyway, there’s plenty of room on either side. If you’d been lookin’ where you should’ve been…’

‘Shut up!’ she shrilled. ‘Fix it, do something useful! Before he sees it, too!’

The gardener shook his head, well used – as were the other servants – to the stormy temper of this spoiled, succulent slip of a girl; a temper remarkably similar to that of Sir Robert, her stepfather, with whom he had just been discussing orchids. Uncomfortably similar, the man thought, and almost smiled.

‘Ain’t nothing I can fix, Miss,’ said Rogerson. ‘That’ll need a crash repair job down the garage.’

‘Oh, you’re absolutely hopeless!’ Abruptly the girl swung round on her heels, and the man caught his breath at the sudden sight of her tightly-compacted little rump wiggling roundly beneath the clinging skirt as she hurried up the broad stone stairs to the entrance-door of the stately, ivy-smothered house.

As Alicia hastened to the temporary sanctuary of her room, cold spurts of dread pulsed through her, which quickly heated to panic that made her heart bump. She had borrowed her stepfather’s car on one of those reckless impulses of hers, believing him to be away. Certainly he would never have allowed her. After all, she had a car of her own – but it was a lot more fun to drive a brand-new Jaguar than a three-year-old VW Golf. And, damn it, he’d obviously come back while she was out on the road and, assuming his car to be in the garage, was pottering about with his wretched orchids! Now Rogerson would blurt it all out. It was only a question of time. She decided to escape on her horse, Athos, for a few hours until her stepfather’s anticipated wrath had cooled. Just in case, dreadfully, he took it into his head (and hand!) to do to her again what he’d done last week or so when she’d broken one of his ugly antique vases in an outburst of pique! The very thought of that made the girl squirm.

In her bedroom Alicia hastily stripped off her day-clothes and scrabbled in the cupboard for her riding-gear. As she leaned forward to work her ankles into the narrow jodhpurs she paused, catching sight of her bent-over bottom in the cheval-glass mirror. The plumply-curved mounds, scarcely covered by the flimsy lace panties, were still marked with two pale pink stripes on the silky skin where the buttocks swelled out from the tops of her pretty thighs. Marks from that excruciating caning he had dared to give her last week! Faintly swollen, slightly raised, they tingled as her fingers touched them. This ghostly tingling returned the girl to her urgent need for haste, and she quickly straightened, hauling up the skin-tight breeches…

‘How could that wretched girl run straight into a barrow when there’s room for at least ten cars?’ Sir Robert was exclaiming, dangerously red in the face as he surveyed the crushed wing of his coveted Jaguar. At six-feet-three and shaking with rage, he made a daunting sight. Some thirty years ago he had boxed for the University and rowed stroke in their best ‘eight’. Now in his fifties, a handsome-featured man who had not only retained the hair on his head but most of its sable colouring, he stood straight and powerful, protesting his ill-fortune in an operatic baritone. Ordering the gardener to arrange for the car to be mended at the garage in the village, he stalked off towards the house, determined to have a serious chat with his seemingly incorrigible stepdaughter.

He strode into the spacious hallway and paused, breathing harshly in an effort to control his fury as his hot glare settled on the umbrella-stand, which bristled with brollies and sticks. From it he selected a smart new lady’s riding-whip, which he angrily swished through the air. Then he walked through to his private study at the back of the house, thwacking the thin crop against the palm of his hand with a thoughtful but determined expression. Picking up the internal telephone he rang the housekeeper, Mrs White, and asked her to tell his stepdaughter to come down immediately.

Mrs White smiled grimly as she walked up the stairs and along the corridor to the room at the corner of the building. At her approach the door flew open and Miss Alicia dashed out, dressed for riding in those skin-tight breeches which hugged across her eye-catching buttocks and so tantalised the male staff. The young mistress was also wearing a white blouse, and calf-length boots on which she wobbled away towards the back stairs, clearly anxious not to be seen.

‘Miss Alicia!’ the housekeeper called. The girl froze in her tracks, and when she turned her face was flushed and her lovely blue eyes looked feverish. ‘Sir Robert would like you down in his study, please.’

‘I-I have to take Athos out for his daily exercise,’ the girl replied as nonchalantly as she could. ‘Tell him you haven’t seen me, okay?’

‘Your stepfather knows you’re in, and was most insistent that you come down at once,’ intoned the housekeeper with a somewhat malicious smile: like most of the domestic staff, she had more than once been on the receiving end of this beautiful, willowy girl’s temper. ‘By the way,’ the woman added, ‘I noticed that Sir Robert took your new riding-whip from the hall stand. It’s in his study with him. I expect you’ll need it later, when you go riding.’ With that Mrs White swung round and clomped away, scarcely concealing her excitement and pleasure at what might well soon be happening to that spoiled, slender young beauty within a very short space of time.

As Alicia retraced her steps miserably towards the main stairs, unconsciously she let her hands smooth over her narrow hips and backwards across her pert, pouting seat. Through the drum-taut fabric of her breeches she felt again the still-swollen stripes across her compact bottom. This wasn’t her lucky week at all. She had got the cane only a few days before, despite her age of almost 21. Now it looked horribly as if she might be in for a taste of her own riding-whip! In a helpless gesture of defiance she tilted her dainty chin and pulled back her shoulders, strangely satisfied at how the buttoned-up blouse tightened across her proudly high-nippled breasts.

Alicia was all too aware of her stepfather’s rages. Since her mother had passed away almost three years ago, she had lived alone with him and three servants in this old mansion from which he controlled his companies. All through her teens, Alicia had been high-spirited, but it wasn’t until after her mother died that her stepfather began to treat her more like an irresponsible girl than a young lady. She did concede, however, that the physical punishments he had begun to mete out were usually her own fault. Alicia appreciated the continuing luxury of living in this large house with servants, and hadn’t made any serious efforts to get a job. After a year at university she had become tired of studies, and defiantly stayed at home. Her stepfather wanted her to accept work in one of his companies, but she had declined; and, after several vain attempts at persuasion, he had become angry and informed her that as long as she was living under his roof without contributing to her own upkeep, she was to obey him and accept his discipline. Meekly, yet sullenly, Alicia had agreed to his terms.

As the girl moved with increasing trepidation towards the combined library and study where Sir Robert worked when at home, the breeches seemed to cling extra tightly to her hips and thighs. Alicia liked them like that, enjoying clothes which presented her figure to advantage. At the door she paused, breathed deeply, yet again, and raised her knuckles to knock. Then she lowered them, and realised she was trembling.

On the other side of the stout mahogany door the incensed step-parent paced impatiently about as he waited for his errant young charge to appear. His gaze wandered around the room with its well-stocked bookcases and fine old oak panelling, finally coming to rest on the supple riding-whip he had placed prominently on the large, leather-topped desk. For a moment he mentally pictured Alicia’s girlishly sleek-skinned flanks, and experienced a somewhat guilty, steadily-rising excitement. The whip had been a gift to the girl when he had bought Athos for her; and he had always thought how exhilarating it would be to use it on Alicia’s truly attractive bottom. Her bare bottom as naked as that of her horse! Sir Robert squared his heavy shoulder and couldn’t suppress a sigh, very much aware of the particular quality of pleasure such thoughts gave him. It was a heady feeling akin to the intoxication afforded by champagne, only more so!

Last time, some ten days ago, he had made her bend over this same writing-desk. Alicia had been wearing a ridiculously brief skirt, which he considered frankly indecent. Furious as Sir Robert had already been on account of the girl’s clumsiness, the riveting sight of those round, packed-to-bursting rumps and silky thigh-backs had flooded the man’s senses with a great glow of well-being; of supreme anticipation! He had turned up her skirt and uncovered a pair of deliciously-shaped buttocks encased in pink nylon knickers with a pattern of small flowers and a lace edging. He had been in something of a daze as he picked up the cane and delivered ten crisp whacks across that gorgeous rear, remembering only that the girl had complained with sharp aaaooauuuches and oowwws, though probably more loudly than she had reason to, for in his rapt condition he had not hit hard.

After the caning Alicia hadn’t wept much, but had snifflingly promised him to behave better in future. In the intervening days, however, Sir Robert had found himself secretly hoping that his beautiful 20-year-old stepdaughter would revert to her true nature. And now, sure enough, with this inexcusable ‘borrowing’ and damaging of his Jaguar, the wilful girl had played straight into his more-than-willing hands.

Now he began to positively savour the imminent encounter. As Alicia had protested at how, during her caning, the desk-edge had bit into her hips at the front, he now decided to have the girl lying across the arm support of the leather-clad sofa. Thus she would have her hips raised higher, which would prevent her from attempting to stand up between the strokes to rub her bottom as she had tried to do before.

At the uncharacteristically timid rap on the door the big man stiffened more tensely in his brown gardening tweeds, and ran a finger round the inside of his collar.

‘Come!’ he barked.

The door crept open and Alicia stepped into the study. In her riding-habit, with well-polished riding-boots, her slender figure was indeed a fetching sight to behold. He always enjoyed seeing her in that costume, with white blouse buttoned demurely to the neck, and tight khaki breeches snugly contouring her buttocks, thighs and hips. On horseback, with helmet and jacket on too, she always caught the eyes of the spectators. On this occasion, though, he was to be the sole spectator; and he intended it to be a spectacle very much worth the watching. Sir Robert’s heavily handsome features hardened, and his eyes were like flints. The only gestures which betrayed the excitement he felt were the way his fingers pushed through his white-flecked hair and his firm, grave mouth twitched at the corners.

‘Shut the door, Alicia,’ he said quietly. Blushing, and in increasing dread, the girl obeyed. She took a few steps forward and then her eyes grew round on seeing her own flexible plaited riding-whip on the desk over which she had sprawled that last dreadful time.

‘I-I’m sorry about the car, honestly I am,’ she said. Her voice trembled. Demurely she held her eyes downcast, then dared a glance at him from beneath long eyelashes.

‘Being “sorry” simply isn’t enough, Alicia,’ her stepfather rapped. ‘You blithely take my new car without permission – that, in itself, would have been offence enough to justify how I now intend to deal with you.’ His voice grew in force and pitch, so that each word made the girl flinch as if from a slap. ‘But you then, through sheer wanton recklessness, drive it into a barrow and have the gall to try and put the blame on the gardener!’

Feeling increasingly apprehensive, panting with growing agitation, Alicia was shifting her weight and fidgeting as she tried to find a way out of this appalling scrape. She had a genuinely guilty look on her face now, and did her best to avoid his angry glare. But her flinching gaze only settled again on the riding-whip.

‘Look at me, young lady,’ he rasped. ‘Raise your head and look me in my eyes when I’m talking to you!’

Alicia’s neat white teeth showed as she bit at her lower lip and glanced up at him from under wet, trembling lashes. Tears had appeared in her large blue eyes. ‘Please, father, I’ve said I’m sorry,’ the girl implored. ‘It will hurt so much!’ Desperately, Alicia tried another tack. ‘Look, I’m almost 21 now! I-I’ll pay for the damage somehow, but please don’t use that on me. I’m a grown woman now, I’m…’

Sir Robert towered above her as she wheedled and wept. The very sight of that graceful young woman with the honey-gold hair, enchanting face and wringing hands might have melted the heart of a less imaginative man. But Alicia’s stepfather’s imagination was too strong to deny his heated mental images the fulfilment of reality. He swelled his great chest, lifted his strong-jawed head higher, and picked up the girl’s own riding-whip.

‘Alicia,’ he intoned gravely, tapping his broad palm with the springy shaft, ‘I have already told you that you have no one to blame but yourself for the predicament you are in – and you will pay in the manner I have chosen.’ She gasped as he moved around the desk towards her. ‘Get over there to the sofa,’ he instructed, almost softly now. ‘I want you across the arm support with your feet to the floor.’

Instinctively, Alicia turned to obey. With hands clasped to the seat of her smartly-tailored breeches she moved most unwillingly to the sofa, daring to hope that he would at least let her keep her breeches on. She had used that new leather switch quite often enough lately when riding Athos. It stung even him, so she was well aware of its whipping quality. The trim young woman stopped close to the arm support and cast a pleading glance back at her stepfather, searching for words that might stop this happening. None came.

‘Take your breeches down,’ came the command.

‘No, please!” Alicia’s voice grew shrill as her hands flew to the waistband of her pants – not to release it but to hold them in position.

‘Take them down, or I shall do it for you!’ His voice was implacable, and she could hear him breathing harshly.

‘Oh. No. No-o. Please, stepfather, let me keep them on!’

‘Do as I tell you, Alicia,’ he ordered, and the young lady knew there was nothing else for her but to obey. Wretchedly she fumbled with the buttons, five on each side of the drum-tight breeches. She undid them slowly, clumsily, fingers trembling, till the side-splits fell open. Yet still she held her breeches up. When Alicia glanced imploringly at him, she saw him taking the leather whip from the table, and quickly averted her eyes. Glowering, yet inwardly elated, Sir Robert stepped up behind his quavering stepdaughter, thwacking his palm with unmistakable intention.

‘Let them down to your knees,’ he ordered, noting with further quiet pleasure the hem of her blouse and a nylon garment in green and white through the slit-opening. Defiantly, desperately, Alicia continued to hold her breeches up.

‘Please, father,’ she begged, ‘i-it will hurt too much. You know I’m still sore…’ The girl increased her sobbing, frantic to be spared this punishment which she had dreaded from the moment the car had hit the wheelbarrow. Her face was red and swollen from the tears, and she felt utterly ashamed. Yet, in an act of obstinacy which marked her character, she continued to tug up the breeches as high as she could. And, because she was at the same time bending slightly forward, the fabric stretched very tightly around her protruding, deliciously apple-shaped behind. It was an enticement impossible to resist. Sir Robert raised the switch and let it swish through the air to land with a dull swat right across where the cloth was the most taut.

Alicia let out a shrill yelp. The smart was perfectly atrocious. She felt it penetrate in stinging waves even through her breeches, and at once she jumped to the side, half-turning her back away from him.

‘Are you ready to obey me now?’ asked Sir Robert harshly, raising the whip again. The lovely girl whimpered, hesitating only a moment more before she pushed the breeches down, unveiling a pair of the flimsiest green-and-white chequered knickers with a narrow lace edging around the thighs. Then she turned with a deep sigh, face glittering with tears as she looked beseechingly at her stepfather, the khaki riding-breeches wrinkled around her knees in a most humiliating manner. ‘And the knickers, please.’

This time the proud girl gaped. ‘No!’ she exclaimed. ‘You can’t mean…?’

‘But I do mean, Alicia,’ the big man retorted, feeling the glowing within him enhance to a quiet radiance. ‘You will pull your knickers down so that your buttocks are entirely bare.’ As if to underline his instruction, he lightly tapped the bare skin of her thighs below the knicker-legs. ‘Now!’

Slowly, as if resigned at last to her fate, Alicia put her thumbs inside the elastic round her waist and sobbingly stooped to pull the scant protection down. With the globes of her buttocks thus starkly bared, and desperately shy in case he might see her exposed front, she quickly bent over the leather chair-arm and stretched herself out on her tummy, legs slightly apart and dangling down, hiding her face in her open hands.

Seeing his stepdaughter bent submissively across the sofa with her bare bottom uppermost, Sir Robert yielded to an irresistible temptation to examine more closely Alicia’s enticingly attractive buttocks. So gorgeously curved they were, with flinching muscles in the springy flesh. It was a perfect bottom, like some succulent peach, pushed high by the arching of its owner’s supple spine to receive its well-deserved chastisement.

‘It’s your flagrant disobedience which has merited this thrashing,’ Sir Robert now summarised in low, even tones. ‘You must learn responsibility for your actions, Alicia.’ He stood to one side of her prostrate body, noting with great satisfaction how her buttock-muscles tensed and jumped under the silken flesh. Flexing the riding-whip, he raised his arm. ‘As you soon will be 21,’ he told her, ‘I have decided to be more strict with you than before. On the last occasion you received ten. Today it will have to be fifteen.’

‘Please,’ she gasped. ‘Please, you can’t. I-I still have marks from the cane; you know my skin is so sensitive… Aaaaowwwch!’ Alicia had hardly finished her protest when a hissing in the air was followed by a crisp smack and her complaining shriek of pain from the ferocious sting the riding-whip caused as it smote smartly across her naked, flinching bottom. The thin, flexible leather at once recoiled and landed again below its first mark, though not quite so hard as the initial blow. Involuntarily the girl stretched her body rigidly and her arms shot forward as her feet lifted from the floor. For several seconds she lay stiffly horizontal, whimpering as she fought to absorb the pain.

‘Put your feet down, Alicia,’ he told her sharply. ‘I want your bottom bent tightly over.’

In a mist of anguish and embarrassment Alicia did as bidden, thrusting her knuckles into her mouth as if biting them would prevent her from yelling out for the next stroke, and the next.

As Sir Robert swung back the riding-crop, warming to his enviable task, the oppressive weight of day-to-day business problems seemed to lift from him, to be replaced by a heady sensation of glorious release. The sound the crop made as it whipped through the air, the feel of its meaty impact on those so-sweet pillows of flesh, were like elixir to his soul.

Whiissh- SPLACK!

‘Uuuhuuu,’ the girl sobbed, wriggling her so very vulnerable bottom in a rage of pain and humiliation. Through the raspings her body made as it bucked and threshed against the leather chair-arm she remembered something her stepfather had said when he had beaten her before, that she ought to be grateful as long as she could atone for her transgressions in this way, because the alternative might one day be prison and public disgrace…

Sswiish-whack! Even as she cried out, she shuddered at the thought of being locked away in a shabby cell. Instead, it seemed, her own elegant, expensive riding-whip was scoring another burning mark diagonally across her left buttock, and the last inches of the switch etched a far more painful stripe across the back of her right thigh.

‘Aaaghh, please – please NO!’

Ssswiiish! That smack came too soon after its predecessor. Alicia had scarcely time to release the shrill yelp which accompanied it, before the doubled smart in her bottom forced her to emit a shrieking, gasping, unintelligible croak.

For a few moments Sir Robert paused to allow his quailing stepdaughter to catch her breath. The man’s eyes glowed with the pleasure of a connoisseur being richly satisfied as he surveyed those round, ripe rumps now striped and crimsoning. He was in heaven! Sucking in air he again poised his hand high above the seductive target and brought the riding-whip whistling down.

Ssssplaatt! A new stripe burned across the resilient girl-flesh just below the crown of her rippling cheeks, and again Alicia emitted a cry of anguish. And then, like before, while she was squeezing her thighs hard and clenching her buttocks, she received another screeching stroke immediately after, lower down in the tender bottom-skin near the tops of her shuddering legs. Alicia gave a gurgling cry and squirmed violently, wrenching her semi-nude body and removing her scorching buttocks from the target area.

Sir Robert paused as the following stroke was about to descend, then bent and grasped Alicia’s left arm and forced her back into position over the padded leather support while the miserable girl pleaded and wept.

‘P-p-please, stepfather – please, no more. I c-can’t take it…’ Alicia blubbered.

There are eight more to come, Alicia,’ he told her harshly. ‘You’re old enough to be brave and take the punishment you’ve earned, without making so much fuss! If you turn your bottom again I will add more strokes!’ For a few moments Sir Robert let his stepdaughter rest. She had never in her life been thrashed so severely, but the lesson would be salutary. In the brief break, as her sniffles subsided and her sweet young body settled, he savoured anew the uniquely intoxicating sights and sounds of the whipping, the girl’s mews and groans, and the feel of the pliant riding-switch so light and lively in his grip.

Stretched across the arm of the sofa, Alicia welcomed the pause. She tried to relax and make her body go limp, pressing her knuckles to her lips as she waited for the thrashing to resume, very much aware of her stepfather standing close behind and breathing hard as he regarded her red-striped, twitching, wincing bottom. Then he again, slowly, raised the switch – aiming at the pinkened tenderness where Alicia’s thighs swelled lusciously into the half-globes of her pertly provocative, temptingly-patterned behind.

Hwissh-thwack! The riding-whip sped down and struck accurately across the creases which marked the undercurves, forcing fresh shrillness from the girl’s lips; and while her buttocks were still trembling from the impact the switch fell once more, a little higher up, flattening the flesh and making her whole bottom wobble.


Alicia gasped and cried, raising her hips as if to meet the next stroke on its journey down, but her stepfather deliberately waited until she was again lying prone with her belly pressed to the chair-arm before he swept the whip down. The stroke made its authoritative crisp report and a new red mark showed how the whip had hit across both her thighs immediately below the clenched buttocks.

Wailing and blubbering as she was, Alicia was by now doing her best to prepare herself for the pain each time the springy whip bit into her smarting flesh, and the sheer physical tension caused the muscles of her crimsoned bottom to move in flinching and twitching movements by themselves. She began to feel a sense of pride in not crying out when the riding-whip struck into her flesh.

The next followed almost at once and hit right across the tops of her bare half-moons; and this time only a stifled moan left her mouth, though she could not prevent her hips from jerking up and down. Alicia further began to find that the pang of the smacks was not unendurable – or so she was able to convince herself. There was of course no question about the fact that he was punishing her most severely, and she had to weep because the tears helped to alleviate the stinging pain and made it possible for her to submit. The repeated twinges which shot through her bottom when the riding-whip landed to decorate her skin with still another red-glowing stripe, caused her to blubber – though much more quietly now, and this blubbering helped her to keep the position in which her stepfather wanted her.

Sir Robert had been counting the strokes in his head, but now he started to grunt them out loud. When Alicia heard ‘Twelve’, she began to feel relieved. And then, at last, she heard him counting ‘Fourteen’ and ‘Fifteen’. For at least a minute afterwards, as she continued to lie across the leather chair-arm feeling her bottom throbbing hot and sore, tears coursed down Alicia’s pretty cheeks, and all that could be heard was the gradual slowing of his grunting breaths and her own soft snifflings.

At length Sir Robert put the riding-whip back on his desk, almost with reverence, and for a while he stood back and examined, with silent admiration and a profound satisfaction, Alicia’s red-patterned, comely young bottom. The fawn jodhpurs had slipped down round her ankles and the green-and-white knickers were wrinkled below her knees. There were stripes all over her shapely posteriors, and also a few long red marks across the backs of her thighs.

‘All right, Alicia,’ he said, his voice a little tired now after the elation he had experienced. ‘You can get up now. I hope that you will always remember this lesson. It wasn’t really to use it like this that I bought this riding-whip for you.’

Alicia struggled to regain her feet and composure, pushing herself exhaustedly up from the sofa-arm. For a moment she held both hands to her face to wipe off her tears, before realising that she was displaying herself to him in front. She quickly stooped and pulled up her knickers, yet scarcely seemed to care that the breeches were still round her feet.

‘Yes, stepfather,’ the girl sniffled. ‘I will try to behave, honestly I will.’ She looked down meekly then added, almost saucily: ‘I-I’m so sore now, I don’t know if I’ll be able to take Athos out for his exercise today.’

Sir Robert smiled, then frowned with some effort at the tearful girl who looked so vulnerable and charming in her white blouse and skimpy panties with the rest of her clothing down around her legs. A far cry from the normal, proud and bossy Alicia.

‘But you had better,’ he admonished her. ‘That horse needs his run, and a sore bottom doesn’t hurt a great deal more because you are sitting on it. Pull up your breeches now, then go and wash your face and get along to the stables. You know you like riding Athos.’

Alicia couldn’t resist a furtive rub at her bottom-cheeks before bending and tugging the jodhpurs back up her legs, fingers fumbling as she re-fastened the five buttons at each side. The breeches felt even tighter now, perhaps because she was more sensitive where they fitted closest! At least, she sighed, her punishment was over.

Half an hour later the girl hurried away to the stables feeling very much better. Her stepfather had appeared to be in an excellent mood and had patted her – still somewhat painfully – on her behind when she had come back to fetch her riding-whip from his study. Indeed, so relaxed did he seem, Sir Robert hadn’t even forbidden her to use her own car or to visit her friend after dinner.

In the cobbled yard that smelled of horses and hay the groom, Hubert, helped her to saddle Athos – who still was too young to stand still when the leather encumbrance was put on his back. After Alicia had checked the length of the stirrups, she led the fretful stallion out into the field and climbed somewhat stiffly into the saddle while Hubert held him.

‘Be careful now, Miss Alicia,’ cautioned Hubert, patting the horse’s flank. ‘Athos isn’t too safe yet. Remember what your stepfather often says, that if you have to use the riding-whip, then do it gently and with very light taps.’

The old groom simply could not understand, and nor would Alicia have been able to explain to him, why she allowed her horse to race away in such an uncontrollable manner. Nor why as Athos surged into a gallop with almost slack reins and his shapely rider bumped up and down in the saddle, shrill little squeals could be heard from Alicia all the way into the distance.

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Perfectionists part 1
THE PERFECTIONISTS PART 1 – A SPANKING STORY

A Spanking Story from Janus 54. More stories can be viewed here.

The Perfectionists. Part I.
by Stephen Sims

THE CHAPEL looked gaunt and grey against the pale-blue evening sky. Erected during sterner Victorian days, it had for many years served as a religious centre; and if its function then had been a meeting-house for those seeking spiritual elevation, it was certainly no less so now. The great difference was in the methods practised therein to uplift and purify the adherents of the moral ethical group known as the Perfectionists, to whom it now belonged.

The chapel stood about a mile outside town, perched high on a rocky spur overlooking vistas of lovely English countryside, flanked by fields and woodland, so that its interior was perennially washed through with the pure scents of nature.

The Perfectionist sisterhood fluctuated between thirty and forty devotees, though there were signs that these numbers were beginning to increase. Each adherent was unwed, led a normal everyday life as regards work, home and social relations – and none was more than 25 years old. On the weekly communal evening when they all gathered hip-to-hip on the pews in the tiny hall, the light striking through the colour-stained panes fell on faces fresh and devout – some pretty, some plain, and several of startling beauty. And every girl was comely and healthy, attractive to the male and eminently marriageable.

Over this purity-aspiring sorority one man ministered: an exceptional man known solely by the devotional appellation of Magister. It was one of life’s ironies that he might have been fashioned from a woman’s ideal of how a charismatic spiritual mentor might appear: earthy yet mystical, evangelically fervent in the ways of Perfectionist enlightenment, he was tall and broad with rugged features, and an unflinching gaze that had a way of coaxing a female’s darkest secrets out into the light.

On this particular non-communal evening in mid-week only five young ladies were at the chapel – four of them to attend contrition, an intensely personal affair where each in turn gave an agonising self-appraisal of her falls from grace during the past few days, and submitted herself to whatever form of atonement the Magister deemed appropriate. For the fifth girl, named Melissande, it was her first visit. 19 years old and painfully shy, she was constantly plagued by feelings of inadequacy and imperfection – and, having heard vague stories of the ‘self-improvement’ sisterhood in the old chapel, had plucked up the courage to come along on the off-chance.

Melissande was training as a classical dancer. The routines were mentally and physically punishing, and her whippet-lithe body was extremely supple from stretching and leaping, driven by the hectoring voice of Madame. She stood five feet five, willowy and swan-graceful, with a slender waist and small but perfectly rounded breasts. Her legs were springy and swift, the hips of that nubile breadth between girlish cuteness and womanly voluptuousness. She approached the chapel with trepidation up the steep rocky slope from the road, and entered the little slate-roofed porch. On the weathered oak door was a silver plate so highly polished that her reflected face stared anxiously back at her – the elfin features, oval and pale, dominated by beautiful green-flecked eyes framed by long thick lashes. She might have been a child’s vision of a very pretty fairy with her high forehead and swept-back chestnut hair, the tip-tilted nose and pertly pointed chin – though the wide mouth and innocently sensuous lips belonged more to lusty male fantasy than fairy-tale.

Rat-tat-tat. Melissande gnawed those pretty lips as she swung the heavy antique knocker. Having no idea what to expect, she was completely unprepared for the splendour of the man who, after a few tense moments, pulled open the door and stood filling its frame, a smile of peace-filled welcome on the arrestingly handsome face. The white robe he wore seemed to give off a shimmering aura against the gloom behind him; and his hair, thickly flowing and as startlingly white as his gown, appeared to radiate an effulgence emanating from within the powerful leonine head, as though a light were glowing there. In her awe, Melissande judged this towering Being to be no more than 35 years old, though the expression in his deep-set eyes beneath the imposing brow belonged to someone of infinitely maturer age. He exuded a pristine freshness, animal vitality and sheer unadulterated goodness which permeated the young girl’s bones like some heavenly balm – and made her certain, in those first moments of seeing him, that here was one who would irrevocably change her life’s course forever, to the good. It was a golden moment.

But the nerve-wracked Melissande was able to answer his smile with little more than an awkward facial contortion. She licked her lips and blurted out: ‘I… want to be a Perfectionist! M-my name is Melissande.’ His fathomless gaze brought more words up, like bile. ‘I’m hopeless, you see,’ she found herself saying. ‘I-I need some sort of extra discipline in my life. I’m unhappy with myself! C-can you help?’ She at once felt confused and foolish, until it seemed that the man absorbed her quailing figure with a penetrating gaze which read to the depths of her being. It was a magical, all-seeing, consuming look such as the wizard Merlin might have cast on her, stripping her soul. Weirdly, it brought her peace.

‘You’re welcome, Melissande,’ he said at length in warm vibrant tones. ‘I am the Magister. Please come in.’ The girl stepped across the threshold and followed him in through a small congregational hall with polished pews and a raised altar stone. She was puzzled to hear subdued sobs and mutterings and, looking around, glimpsed two girlish figures crouched before the eastward window murmuring fervently and clearly moved by some powerful emotion. Melissande would have been alarmed to know that beneath the grey gowns they wore both girls were naked, and that their tender hides still smouldered with the embers of a righteous scourging.

‘This way, please.’ He held open a door, and the dancer was ushered into a cosy inner sanctum where two other young females were perched on chairs sipping tea from a bone china service and nibbling petits-four. A plush carpet cloaked the floor, there was a pleasing smell of pine polish and expensive perfume. The furniture was austere but comfortable. ‘Won’t you sit down?’ invited the Magister in deep tones.

‘Thank you.’ Melissande lowered herself on to a Queen Anne chair and accepted a cup of tea. She felt unpleasantly nervous again, hating the shyness that made an ordeal of every social situation. The man turned graciously to the other two ladies and introduced them as Anita and Gail. Two pairs of eyes inspected the new arrival who sat awkwardly twisting her hands; quickly took in the elfin prettiness, the straight-backed poise, the flinching ocean-deep eyes.

‘And what do you do in life, Melissande?’ asked Anita conversationally in soft, highly-cultured tones. The enquirer was vividly attractive with a carefully disordered mass of butter-coloured hair and sky-blue eyes pellucid with intelligence.

‘I-I’m training as a classical dancer,’ mumbled Melissande meekly, annoyed with herself for blushing but sensing the contempt of the one called Gail who, after her initial scrutiny, had turned away as though it were beneath her dignity to show favour to a mere beginner. The Magister’s shrewd glance, observing this and much more, remained impassive. Gail was aggressively appealing in a sultry way, her buxom figure hardly disguised by the trendy shapelessness of her dress, the out-thrust bodice swollen by full heavy breasts. Her wavy hair was long and coal-black, her feline features plump and restless, with an autocratic glare in dark ovoid eyes which betrayed a fascinating dash of oriental somewhere in her ancestry.

The Magister’s voice purred into the mounting silence. ‘Anita is a solicitor, soon to be called to the Bar,’ he informed Melissande. ‘And Gail is a gifted fashion designer who runs her own business. The two in the chapel completing their weekly penance are Michele and Tracey. One is an unemployed social worker, the other a bank teller.’

Melissande was becoming increasingly affected by a curious thrilling tension in the atmosphere. Her mouth felt dry, and she sipped more tea. ‘Penance?’ she echoed, unable to restrain her surprise at the word.

‘Of course you know very little about us,’ said the Magister. ‘The Perfectionists ask nothing of you that you are not prepared to give,’ he went on. ‘You are at all times free to go. The motivation for seeking to achieve a perfect nature and forming thereby the nucleus of an ideal society must come from you. It is your will. Nothing is imposed unless you yourself invite it.’ The strong gaze settled on Anita, who reacted in apparent agitation; then his eyes returned to the new girl. ‘In a moment,’ he informed her quietly, ‘I will take Anita for her contrition and atonement. If you wish, Melissande, I will then take you.’

At this, Gail bridled, her mouth hardening into a line. When the young dancer looked startled he added, ‘I do realise that this is merely an exploratory visit on your part, but making contrition is the best possible way to experience at first hand how we function.’

‘Well…’ she faltered, ‘I-I’m not sure if I –’

The Magister frowned. ‘There is no provision for negative thoughts in the Perfectionist code,’ he observed with steely gentleness, then turned to address them all. ‘You are the mothers of the next generation,’ he declared, ‘the guides and inspirers of your children’s earliest attitudes. As such, you form the spearhead of our earnest crusade to raise humanity from the pit of moral poverty, cowardly violence, selfish greed and spiritual degeneration into which it has allowed itself to sink. Unless you are all willing to accept the painful consequences of your laxities and base human solecisms now, you cannot help to uplift and purify the vital, coming generation to whom you collectively hold the key!’ The burning gaze fell once more on the statuesque solicitor, and his voice sank to a murmur. ‘Are you ready, Anita?’

The blonde girl stood up, and Melissande was able to fully appreciate her beauty. It seemed preposterous that this vibrant young woman could be a solicitor – a profession she had always associated with pedantic pin-striped men with joyless faces. As Anita walked to the door her hips swayed, consciously or unconsciously seductive, and her sharp yet slumbrous blue eyes smouldered with strange excitement. Her face, a little too round for classical beauty, was enticingly watchable, the full lips constantly mobile as if seeking phantom kisses. Anita exuded sex-appeal, and as she vanished from the room behind the Magister, Melissande couldn’t help wondering how the male in the man could fail to be aroused by her.

After the door had closed a silence grew between the aloof fashion designer and the shy young dancer. ‘Er, excuse me,’ ventured Melissande after some while. ‘Wh-what did he mean by “painful consequences”?’

Gail was a busy, talented lady. Her drive for success was rooted in a need for self-perfection. In her view the road to this did not lie in consorting with less elevated mortals such as this hesitant slip of a thing. Fixing the dancer with a brief look in which pity and scorn were intermixed, she snapped: ‘I expect you’ll find out soon enough. Now if you’ll forgive me I must prepare.’ At this, Gail turned snootily away and closed her eyes in dramatically devout contemplation, ignoring the girl completely.

Being so obviously snubbed, Melissande felt terrible. Several times she thought she would get up and go, yet some instinct held her there. She was imprisoned by her own self-conscious thoughts. The antique long-case clock tocked on, the tea grew cold.

Some 25 minutes later the door opened and Anita stumbled in, ashen-faced, her clothing disordered as if it had been removed and replaced in great haste. Without a word or a look she collected her bag and hurriedly left the building, clearly in great distress.

‘Melissande?’ The Magister was there, his voice a polite query with no hint of compulsion or threat. What on earth was the matter with Anita? Painful consequences? Gail was glaring, greatly indignant not to have been given priority.

Uncomfortably aware of the other’s resentment, Melissande stood up apprehensively and left the room. She followed the dazzling-robed figure along a passage and down a flight of stone steps. At the bottom of these he opened another door and led the mystified girl into a basement room illuminated by many candles and scented with joss-sticks. Melissande stopped, and stared. Dominating this room was a magnificent confessional box, ornately carved and of great antiquity, its two sections enclosed by faded velvet curtains; and so strongly did this imposing structure take the girl’s attention that she barely noticed another piece of seasoned carpentry standing in a nearby corner. This resembled a hurdle on trestled legs, with a leather padded cross-beam some three feet high. Just as Melissande’s bemused eyes found it the Magister said in his calm voice, ‘Do you still wish to take contrition?’

The girl hesitated, then nodded with a tight little smile on her pretty elfin features, her chestnut hair burnished by the strange wavering light. From the gravity of his expression she knew that whatever the ritual entailed was extremely serious, and that this man was utterly sincere. She could not deny that she found his presence disturbingly attractive, and perhaps for this reason was able to allow curiosity to overcome her extreme diffidence. Yet her vital being seemed to be held in his inner magnetic embrace, his eyes penetrating her soul.

He indicated an alcove, which she entered. On a hook inside hung a grey gown of the kind the weeping girls in the chapel had been wearing. Remembering this, Melissande fingered the fabric doubtfully.

‘All who make contrition must humbly wear the gown,’ came his voice. ‘The clothes associated with your everyday life must not be worn, so kindly remove them.’

‘Ev-everything?’ she faltered.

‘As you were when you came into the world, so must you be beneath the gown.’ Melissande swallowed hard. It was, she thought, a little odd, but scarcely different from changing for dancing. The girl stripped swiftly and pulled on the gown. It hung loosely, bringing up goose-bumps on the nude flesh beneath. In a way, it was a little exciting. Self-consciously she stepped back into the room.

‘Go into the Contrition Box and kneel beside the speaking grille,’ the Magister now instructed. And so she did, easing somewhat warily into the curtained gloom and sinking to her knees. She could smell Anita’s perfume. That glamorous creature had so recently knelt here, as naked under the gown as she. What had been said or done to upset her so profoundly?

The Magister’s voice was suddenly strong and clear in Melissande’s ear. ‘You are here,’ it said, ‘to come to terms with the frailties of your flesh and try to transcend them. As womankind you must know how prone you are to waywardness and temptation, to evil thoughts and malicious cruelty, deceit and foulness of mind.’ At first the girl found it hard not to giggle, but unpalatable though his words were they held a chilling truth which killed her smile. ‘Open your soul to me, Melissande,’ coaxed the throbbing tones. ‘Begin by saying what has truly dissatisfied you about yourself during the past few days.’

For a while Melissande had no idea what to say. And then, from some previously unknown mental reservoir, the words began to trickle, then rush as though a dam had been breached by a silver sword of light: an admission of laziness at ballet training, her hurtful rudeness to a friend, malevolent thoughts towards those who sought to improve her, little lies she had told to avoid trouble. None of the offences was serious, yet collectively they were a source of not-inconsiderable guilt to the highly sensitive girl, a guilt which Melissande needed deeply to have assuaged. Merely declaring them like this, however, seemed scarcely enough; and when she had finished she continued to kneel without hope – for now, the girl felt sure, this quasi-priest would intone a few meaningless words of absolution and she would go home and forget the whole idea.

She heard him leave his side of the Contrition Box. ‘Come out here, please,’ he said. Melissande did so, and watched the Magister cross the room and select what looked like a scrap of cloth from a cupboard. ‘Do you wish to receive atonement?’ he now asked gravely, returning to her.

The girl gulped. Atonement? She supposed it would be a mild telling-off. All right, best to get the charade over with. She gave a weak smile, and nodded.

‘Very well. Put these on, please.’ The girl took the piece of lightweight fabric he handed her, and not till she had returned to the sanctuary of the alcove did she discover it to be a tissue-thin pair of thigh-length Victorian drawers, flimsily silken and virtually transparent with age and wear. She lifted the gown and pulled the drawers up her legs with some difficulty, for they were extremely tight. She was mystified as to their purpose, for it wasn’t cold in there. Once she had smoothed them into place the old-fashioned garment felt slinkily cool against her intimate zones, and from the manner in which it sleekly hugged her hips and thighs and clung with embarrassingly thrilling snugness to the inward curves of her buttocks, she imagined that these drawers had been especially tailored to fit her bottom like a second skin.

Rather flushed now, and slightly alarmed, Melissande hastily pulled the gown back in place and represented herself. The Magister at once took her hand and led her to the corner where the hurdle contraption stood. The young dancer stared in puzzlement at it. She could feel the power and heat of his hand spreading tingles through her. Then he released her. ‘As this is your first atonement,’ he explained, ‘I will allow you to wear the drawers. Having identified a few of your more negative traits and destructive behaviour patterns, I have decided that six strokes will serve on this occasion.’

‘I b-beg your pardon?’ stammered the girl. ‘S-strokes?’

The Magister frowned, and surveyed the slight, trembling figure thoughtfully. Barefoot in the gown, the large soulful eyes a-glitter with flames, her deliciously pretty face a mask of girlish alarm, the new girl looked waif-like and vulnerable. ‘Have you ever been chastised before?’ he asked softly.

‘Chastised?’ she whispered in horror. ‘Surely you don’t mean…?’ Blood rushed to her cheeks, then drained to paleness. ‘Well no,’ she gasped. ‘No-one ever.’ Indignation flared, lifting her graceful head. ‘Certainly not!’

‘Do you wish in your heart to become a Perfectionist, Melissande?’ he asked, not unkindly.

‘Not if it means that,’ the girl declared firmly. ‘I had no idea…’

‘Then you may leave,’ he told her calmly. She knew she should run. Run now. Quickly. And yet she hesitated. The Magister’s eyes held hers, hypnotic as whirlpools in whose depths smiled incredibly beautiful things beyond immediate comprehension. Melissande was breathing hard as thought struggled with thought. No-one had ever laid hand on her. It was inconceivable that a complete stranger should do so now. And yet…

‘I don’t want to leave,’ she whispered.

‘Then raise your gown to the waist,’ came the instruction, gentle yet unopposable, ‘and bend forward across the beam with your head well down.’

Melissande could scarcely believe it was happening. Thrills squirmed in her bowels, it was like a dream. The decision had been hers entirely. This was unthinkable! Cheeks flaming she lifted the gown up her slender, exquisite legs, all the way up, disclosing more and more of the naked dancer’s limbs, up and up to where the agile thighs swelled to the girlish hips, the tightly-clenched posteriors in their flimsy dressing so exposed, so exposed! Delirious with embarrassment she stood up on the little step and stretched obediently forward across the padded beam with a weird sigh, gripping the lower struts on its further side. The position was insufferably humiliating – her face, close to the floor, staring briefly at her shins before the gown rustled down the steep slope of her back to blot them from sight, the tight-packed mounds of her pert young bottom forming the topmost apex. Never had she been more conscious of her arse, not even when catching boy dancers watching her sinuous body at the training bar.

‘Don’t hurt me,’ she pleaded in a tiny voice.

For a moment the Magister surveyed the ripe hillocks so snugly encased in the whipping drawers; then went to a marble-topped table on which lay a fine-bristled ceremonial brush known as an aspergillum. This he dipped into a silver chalice of purest spring water and returned to the girl, who was now making little entreatying moans from her abjectly doubled-over position. ‘Before the atonement I will anoint you,’ he announced devoutly, spreading a hand on the tissue-thin silk and reverently cupping each buttock in turn.

‘This crude area of your body,’ he intoned, ‘through which purification’s flames will blaze, is the very obverse of higher thought and spiritual enhancement. It bears the brunt of the physical shocks necessary to attain Perfection – and as such, in the Perfectionist creed, represents the gates to the soul.’ So saying, the Magister flicked water with the aspergillum on to the flesh-hugging drawers, and Melissande shuddered wildly at the cool kissing licks of the bristles which dampened the cloth so that it sucked each individual bottom-cheek and showed clearly the pinkly pretty virgin buttocks through the wet silk.

Then, with an air of firm duty, the Magister picked up an oval-bladed paddle, clamped his other hand on the small of the girl’s back, and swung the wooden surface sharply against the straining target with a loud whap. The blow wasn’t hard, but Melissande screamed! Never could she have imagined such pain! It sprang into and possessed each tender nether-cheek like jets of flame. The paddle drew back and smacked in again, appearing to bounce off the springy cushions of caressable flesh. The girl called out hoarsely, inarticulately. Crack! The paddle impacted for a third time on the wet, drum-taut cloth which scarcely protected her bottom, and Melissande loosed a shriek. SMACK! The blade landed harder this time, firm and square across its daintily quivering target, and the dancer screeched through lips slack from shock, her pretty head jerking from side to side as she kicked her feet in spasmic convulsion.

But the remorseless paddle swung back yet again, hissed through the incense-scented air and splatted emphatically against the meatier zone at the girl’s thigh-tops with an almighty spank, igniting fresh fields of fiery sensation. Her anguished howl seemed to make the candle-flames shiver. ‘N-No more! No!’ she wailed. The Magister cocked his arm judiciously for the final stroke, a righteous zeal burnishing his eyes, for he sensed that this doe-like creature could be brought in time to the highest levels of enlightenment. She was pleading with shrill little bleats as the Magister ran a testing hand over the smarting target; then dampened the diaphanous membrane once more, almost lovingly, with the aspergillum, and swiped a final blast across the girlish bottom that had never in its life before been so used.

He had to help the young dancer from the whipping-beam and pull her gown back into place. She was shaking violently, her cheeks and eyes as soaked and heated as the flesh inside the drawers. He felt greatly encouraged by her utterly chastened expression.

‘Come with me.’ Melissande limped in the Magister’s wake, hanging her head. He led her out of the Contrition Room to a little side-chapel with velvet hangings, where he set her on her knees. ‘I want you to remain here and ponder on the reasons for your chastisement,’ he told her, ‘and on how your entire mode of thought and self-conduct can be radically altered to enhance your life and the lives of those around you. You are here to be transformed to purity, ecstasy and light. Believe me, Melissande, this goal is attainable.’

At the doorway he paused, and added mysteriously, ‘If I should call, come at once.’ Then he left the chastised girl to her penance, and returned to summon the impatiently waiting Gail.

Minutes later the buxom fashion designer stepped into the Contrition Box and knelt devoutly, having shed her day-clothes and donned the penitential gown. When the deep voice invited her to speak, her words came gratefully, pregnant with self-dismay.

‘Oh, Magister,’ Gail moaned dramatically, ‘I try so hard to rise above the faults which hold me back. But this week I slipped from the high standards you have helped me to expect of myself. Please punish me as I deserve, drive these weaknesses from me!’ Gail proceeded to unburden herself of a catalogue of failings such as letting down a colleague, using another’s design idea and claiming it as her own, negative thoughts, lack of charity, vulgar extravagance.

When she had completed her contrition a heavy silence grew. A stern, sombre silence in which guilt crawled into every crevice of her soul. She heard him leave the box and cross to the punishment cupboard. Then he spoke.

‘Come out!’ His voice had a quality like thunder, and the shapely woman shivered. She wanted to feel his powerful presence dominating her, his hard hands holding her down, flailing her flesh. She stepped from the box and quailed before him. Her sensual olive-toned features and black eyes with their oriental slant appeared like an ivory carving in the candle-light, the lips parted to show pearly glints. She was panting slightly in suppressed excitement, her large breasts billowing against the cloak, nipples stiffly defined. Her insides seemed to melt when she saw the leather tawse he had selected – and gave a little yelp as he grasped a shoulder and shoved her stumbling into the middle of the room.

‘What keeps you grounded, Gail,’ he declared coldly, ‘is pride – misplaced pride.’

This she had not expected. ‘Pride?’ queried the designer, puzzled. ‘I’m sure I can’t think what you mean!’

‘It surrounds you with disharmony,’ said the Magister tartly. ‘As long as your offensive attitude towards those you consider “beneath” you is maintained, you cannot ever hope to achieve Perfection.’

Gail was nettled. ‘In my business,’ she expostulated, ‘you need to be tough to succeed! The weak and the meek get flattened. If I’m proud, I’ve earned that feeling by guts and damned hard work! It’s against my nature to be crawling and humble to wimps and idiots, so don’t ask it of me!’

His measured words came back at her, crisp and chill. ‘Until you are able to embrace humility and humiliation,’ he intoned, his steady gaze challenging her autocratic glare, ‘you will remain the brittle, cramped-minded hoyden that you are.’

‘What?’ Gail was gaping in shock.

‘Yes!’ he rapped. ‘You are an over-proud, haughty young madam – and the first part of your atonement will stress the need to expel this distorting imperfection from your nature, for with humility and loss of face begins the true quiet strength and inner light which will lead you the way to Perfection.’ The man raised his voice in command. ‘Bend over and touch your toes!’

Gail’s eyes had hardened to match his own. No-one, not even he, had ever dared speak to her like this. She was extremely angry. ‘No,’ she snorted. ‘No, I won’t. Not this time!’

The Magister stepped forward till he towered above her. ‘Then, for your own good,’ he said earnestly, ‘I must make you.’

Astounded, she protested: ‘It’s against Perfectionist principles to impose against will!’

‘But not,’ returned the man, ‘against our principles to save when there is a chance of salvation. Bend over!’ The young woman cried out as he seized her in a powerful grip and forced her to double forward at the waist till her head was level with her knees. Amid a storm of shrieks and struggles his strength prevailed: in a moment he had gathered up the gown and flung it up over Gail’s bare back to expose two large, smoothly naked buttocks, soft and invitingly rounded, the pale light quivering on the lush cushions of pliant flesh.

With an expression of unrelenting sternness the Magister drew back a well-muscled arm and slashed the leather down on the twin-globed target with the deeply-cleft divide. Gail exhaled a groan at the full-blooded impact, and tried to heave her body upright.

‘Down!’ he roared. The man’s power and will were unopposable. The tawse sang again through the air and struck home, imprinting a second burning double oblong on the ivory skin. Then up and down, biting and retreating, smacking and thwacking against the rosy moons with fierce gusto; and when the stalwart woman began to buckle at the knees he wrapped an arm around her middle to hold her tormented body steady.

Crack, crack, thrash. The volatile leather spat and sang ceaselessly as Gail gasped out shrill cries, all anger blasted from her system by the first few searing strokes, the split-tailed demon of pain beating a tempestuous rhythm on the broad womanly bottom – till Gail began to screech and squeal in what sounded suspiciously like pleasure.

The Magister stopped the beating. The full-seated buttocks were blushing angrily, and he kept her bending while he tested each with his broad palms, expertly fingering the raised weals caused by the tawse. All was well, he decided – this lusty young female could certainly take more.

‘Now,’ he declared, ‘your real punishment this evening will be for something you neglected to mention in the Contrition Box.’

Gail’s voice sounded strangled as she laboured to catch her breath. ‘I’m sure I admitted everything of importance, Magister,’ she protested.

‘No you did not,’ he retorted. ‘As I think you well know.’ He had brought forward a low padded stool some two feet high and three feet square. ‘Take off your gown completely,’ he commanded, ‘and resume a standing posture.’ Gail did so, breathing rapidly as she straightened up to stand naked in the restless light, her magnificently spheroid breasts swinging free, nipples jutting like bullets, the supremely globulous bottom-cheeks raging with ecstatic fires. Pointing at the low stool the Magister now growled impassively: ‘Lie on your back on there, and raise both legs in the air.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Do as I say!’ he thundered. During the tawsing Gail’s defiance had collapsed, and so she lay back in trepidation, feeling her spine and shoulders sink against the chill leather as she lifted her legs in an ungainly manner. When she was in position the Magister strode to the door, opened it and called out loudly: ‘Melissande!’

And, with a horror no chastisement could inspire, Gail knew what was about to happen. She tried to struggle up off the stool, but his warning glare froze her there. ‘No, Magister,’ she pleaded, ‘I couldn’t bear it. Not the new girl! She – she’s a neophyte…’

The Magister nodded sagely. ‘Had you been contrite about your disgracefully overbearing attitude towards this hesitant girl a little earlier, you would have been spared this,’ he bit out. ‘But perhaps at the hands of a neophyte you will at last begin to learn the virtues of humility. And Melissande may benefit by learning what it is like to be totally positive.’

Melissande’s penance was interrupted by the man’s call. She had heard the noises of Gail’s chastisement, the frighteningly rapid cracks and strange cries. Her nerves jumped with dreadful thrills as she rose and returned, still gowned and barefoot, to the room of candle-flame and shadows. As the dancing girl entered she was amazed and nonplussed to see the haughty fashion lady sprawled stark naked on her back on a stool, the darkly intriguing features contorted, the black hair brushing the floor just beneath her head. The Magister took a long cane from a selection hanging in the tall cupboard, and Melissande could only stare in astonishment as he handed the implement to her.

‘Now, Melissande,’ he said evenly, ‘this woman, your sister Perfectionist, requires to be soundly chastised. By you, a neophyte.’

‘M-me?’ The girl was astounded.

The Magister nodded gravely. ‘As always here, the punishment will be with love, never rancour. Stand forward, please.’

The young dancer gripped the cane in a dainty fist and trod trimly up to the stool, staring down in fascination at the fashion designer, observing in a daze the mortified tears squeezing from the tight-shut lids. ‘No… no-o-o.’ Gail was whimpering so heart-rendingly that Melissande made to query the extraordinary request. But when the Magister took up a stance immediately behind Gail, grasped her ankles one in each hand and heaved her legs up over her head to hold them there in the most appallingly abasing position for any woman, Melissande had no further doubts of what he required her to do.

The dancer licked her lips and turned her wide pretty eyes on the upthrust moons so temptingly – yes, temptingly, she breathlessly realised – presented. Every vestige of the snooty designer’s dignity had been taken from her. The great breasts shivered like two cream blancmanges where she lay on her back, the sturdy legs pointing tensely ceilingwards, her feminine sensibilities burning in shock at such humiliating exposure. Melissande’s own pert bottom-cheeks still smarted from the paddling they had received, and she was surprised at how far from unpleasant the sensation was. The delicious tingling warmth that had stolen over her body filled her with a curiously suspended rapture. Experimentally the girl flicked the thin cane, which swished and quivered in a way that brought chok¬ing thrills to her throat.

‘Proceed with the caning,’ came the commanding voice, and Melissande hesitated no more. Raising the cane above the full, lush buttocks she brought it somewhat tentatively down to strike with a swish and splat across the inverted buttocks, ‘Harder, much harder – but remember, with love,’ instructed the Magister, locking the squirming ankles in the vice of his arms. And Melissande did. Bracing her frail-seeming shoulders the pretty dancing-girl swung back a graceful arm and swept the cane against the springy globes with a vigorous thwack. A bright line at once flamed across the curved cushions of flesh, and Gail gave a yowl like a cat that has had its tail stepped on. The girl hesitated, alarmed at the mark and the terrible cry. ‘Again!’ commanded the Magister. ‘It is for the good. And harder – as hard as you will!’

In a haze of duty and pleasure in which his voice became a clarion call of all that was right and true and good, Melissande obeyed. Lifting the cane, feeling it quiver and wobble, she swung it sharply against the upraised rude arse with its livid mark; and she shrilled in sheer startlement as the stick struck home with a jarring, slicing, meaty judder which seemed to fill her veins with light. A hoarse shout exploded from Gail as a second crimson streak flared across her bare bottom.

The young dancer looked enchantingly spritely and sweetly beautiful in the intimate cosy light, her eyes pools of startled innocence as she wondered if she should slop – for the young woman she was, incredibly, thrashing with a cane was in evident distress. Yet Melissande’s deeper instincts informed her that, with the Magister’s saintly presence seeming to bless her every breath and movement, she was merely the instrument of a greater good, and that beyond this ephemeral pain and abasement lay a scarce-to-be-dreamed-of joy.

Gail was in a nightmare of embarrassment, appalled at being chastised by anyone but her revered Magister. Yet the girl seemed to have become infused with his spirit, magnificently clean and uplifting. Wielded by her dainty hand the cane took on life of its own, the candle-light catching its supple shaft as it sped up and down, cracking, snapping, biting, scorching, searing the helplessly upthrust buttocks. Again and again the cane swished through the air and struck in with solid thwacks; and through the inverted arch of her upstretched legs Gail saw, in a sparkling nimbus of hot salt tears, that her nimble and lovely chastiser seemed to be dancing, shifting as if choreographed from angle to angle to deliver a full-weighted blow on every square centimetre of the blazing, curvaceous targets. And then it seemed, as the searing concussions continued in a thrashing, hypnotic rhythm, that the girl was a conductor conducting a symphony of slashing, cleansing pain. God, the little bitch was strong!

Gail was roaring-crying now, and Melissande’s eyes were glittering intently in the smoky radiance as the cane she wielded beat out a crimson network on the fleshy globes. Swish-crack, swish-thud, swish-splat: the cane’s staccato voice snapped remorsely on, slowing as the energy drained from Melissande’s arm.

‘Enough!’ called the Magister, and the young dancer stood weakly back, breathing deeply. In a daze of self-amazement she watched the man release Gail’s ankles. At once the fashion designer squirmed over and lay across the stool on her stomach, hiding her face in shame. The Magister was satisfied. He knew how difficult this particular atonement had been for the proud, talented lady – but he also knew that she was able to take a great deal of punishment, and that this evening’s work would undoubtedly serve to lift her a little higher up the long ladder to Perfection. He went to the punishment cupboard and brought out a tube of some substance which he handed to the new girl with an infinitely gentle smile, then left the two alone.

The tube contained a salve, and Melissande realised at once what it was for. Gail still knelt in unspeakable humiliation across the stool, her roasting buttocks thrust out as though seeking forgiveness. The dancing-girl squeezed out some salve and applied it with cool palms and fingers to the twin tumuli of lividly-marked buttock-flesh, tenderly caressing, easing the agony from the heart of each soft buttock till Gail’s sobs ceased, and moans of relief began.

At last the fashion designer steeled herself to turn and look at her chastiser. Their eyes shyly met. ‘Thank you,’ she said to Melissande, and managed a remorseful smile. Then she took the hand which had wielded the cane with such zest, and kissed it with extraordinary tenderness. ‘Thank you, Melissande dear,’ whispered Gail. ‘Thank you for caning my bottom so thoroughly. I’m sorry for being so sniffy with you.’ Again she smiled. ‘It used to be a fault of mine.’

‘It’s strange,’ came Melissande’s sweetly piping tones, ‘but while I was thrashing you I was filled with love for you. And I don’t feel hesitant any more, or shy. He’s a wonderful person, almost unearthly.’ The girl blushed prettily. ‘He made me wear some very tight Victorian panties and bend across that beam. He spanked my bottom with a paddle. I’d never been smacked before. It still hurts. Look…’ Melissande turned her back, bent forward and lifted the gown to exhibit her own reddened buttocks.

‘You poor thing,’ said Gail. She got up and sat gingerly on the stool. ‘Come across my knees,’ she murmured, ‘and let me soothe that darling bottom of yours like you’ve soothed mine.’ Melissande did so with a sigh of pleasure, and allowed Gail to work the salve gently into the springy globes in sisterly comfort. It seemed hardly more than a formality, for the sweet little rump was scarcely marked; but from the way the pretty dancer began to writhe her stomach against the other’s lap with weird little grunts she was evidently deriving much soul-benefit from the contact – so much so that the happy Gail felt obliged to give the girl a couple of salutary slaps to quiet her.

It was dark when Melissande left the Perfectionist chapel. A full moon washed the roads and fields with silver radiance. Never before had she felt so complete and alive. Guilt and inadequacy had melted away, and it felt as though her spirit had been swept by a cleansing wind. Something rather special had happened to Gail too, because when they had parted with warm embraces, the fashion designer had been radiant.

But what about Anita? mused the girl as she cycled back into town. After that golden young woman’s traumatic session with the Magister she had left in a rush, desperately distressed. What atonement had been given or promised? Or had she left for ever? Somehow, Melissande thought not, and that the statuesque solicitor lady had only just begun the punishment which her un-Perfectionist behaviour had provoked.

Melissande’s bottom throbbed and tingled on the hard saddle. Yes, she would go back – for the doors to a new life had opened and let her in. The way, she knew, would be hard: there would be pain and penance, self-denial, tears. But above and beyond it all there shone like a beacon a haven of joy and light, the ultimate state of spiritual rapture any human can aspire to: Perfection.

Sweetly, Melissande began to sing.

(- with thanks to Emmanuelle)

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the provider part 1
THE PROVIDER PART 1 – A SPANKING STORY

A Spanking and Caning Story from Janus 94. More stories are available here.

The Provider. Part I


STEPHEN MORLEY laughed. Thinner after the illness and acrimony which had attended his divorce, he was putting his life together again. The stockbroker-belt house had gone with his increasingly neurotic and intractable wife. Good riddance to both! Stephen was free now, newly installed in a large flat on the smarter outskirts of town.


Laughter had become a rarity over the past few months, and Stacey Gibson provided a wonderfully refreshing tonic. Having arrived in London from her native Yorkshire only a couple of weeks before, she had had trouble finding accommodation until Stephen invited her to use his spare room for as long as it took, and the happy-go-lucky Leeds girl’s smiling face and cheery conversation were ample recompense.

It was Harriet who was the problem.

Stephen knew it had started with that bloody watch, the cheap old thing he had given to Stacey for no other reason than the girl needed to know the time for some appointment or other. But Harriet had behaved almost as badly as his ex-wife would have done, blowing the incident up out of all proportion and insisting that she was his woman and that any gifts should come to her and not ‘some common tart who can’t even speak properly’.

All that had been quite bad enough, but when Harriet not only took it upon herself, during Stephen’s absence, to take the watch from Stacey as though it were rightfully hers, and then peremptorily order her out of the flat, Stephen knew that something fairly drastic would need to be done.

And he knew precisely how drastic that something might well need to be.


They heard the front door slam as Harriet came in, and both fell silent as the pretty brunette entered the room. So quiet had it become, they might have fancied they could hear the ticking of the disputed watch on Harriet’s wrist.

She scowled at Stacey. ‘Not gone yet?’ she said in snooty Oxbridge tones. Stephen sat up straighten, and glared. He had found this girl a good job in his chartered surveyor’s partnership, and they had been living here together for almost three months. Harriet’s declarations that she loved him had a hint of desperation about them – as if, so it seemed to Stephen, her impassioned avowals were the only currency in which she felt she could repay him for his kindness. Yet this dark-haired girl with her serious demeanour and aching jealousy really was in love with him, he was sure.


‘How dare you take the watch I gave to Stacey!’ said Stephen in angry response. ‘How dare you tell her to leave.’ Bloody heck, the northern girl thought. She shivered with strangely pleasant thrills, feeling incredibly smug at the sight of the much better brought-up girl in trouble on her account. Her host was on his feet in front of the sullen brunette. ‘This is my flat, young lady, and I decide who goes and who stays!’

Harriet merely looked defiant. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘You will return Stacey’s watch to her, and apologise.’

Stacey stared in fascination as the other girl struggled for an appropriate response, but the words which finally blurted forth were those of a teenager rather than an adult woman. ‘Won’t!’ she said. ‘That tart gets nothing from me. This is our place, Stephen – can’t you see she’s after you?’


‘You wicked girl!’ he exclaimed. Entirely unfazed by the insults, Stacey was enjoying the drama. She smiled openly at Harriet, like the cat that got the cream. ‘You will do as I say,’ said Stephen icily, ‘or else submit to a punishment you will never forget!’

Harriet gasped. Never, she thought, and certainly not in front of this air-headed bimbo from the back of beyond with the boobs and bum. She knew well enough what Stephen meant when he talked about punishment, and she was damned if…


‘The alternative is to collect your things and get out of this flat for good. I will not have that kind of behaviour under my roof. Do I make myself understood, Harriet?’ There was neither reply nor movement. ‘Very well,’ he went on. ‘Take off your top.’

‘What?’

‘As you have presumably elected to stay, and refuse to apologise, I’m assuming you’ve decided to accept the good hiding I intend to give you. Take off your top!’ Stephen sat down and surveyed Harriet coldly. The silence was terrible. Then the girl’s will seemed to collapse. Slowly, miserably, she drew the knitted top up over her head and cast it aside.


‘And now the skirt.’

Harriet wriggled out of the tight skirt and stood wretchedly before them, unaware of how fetching she looked in her scant bra and panties, suspenders and stockings. As she crossed her arms defensively in front of her body, the wristwatch was prominent.

‘If you persist in behaving like a spoilt, sullen brat,’ Stephen went on, ‘you must expect to be treated like one. Take off your knickers and bra and come over here.’


‘You c-can’t, Stephen!’ Harriet’s face, pale before, flushed red. But his grim expression sent its own message back. Her fingers fumbled to release the bra and peel it off, and Stacey’s eyes shone as she watched the other girl’s breasts spill free.

‘The panties too. Now!’


Blushing with shame, the proud young woman stooped and eased the panties down. Then, naked save for her stockings, shoes and suspenders, she stood in acute humiliation before them.

‘And now the watch!’


Harriet pulled the watch from her wrist and held it sulkily out. With a pert little ‘Thank you,’ the Yorkshire girl took it. She stifled a giggle, and that sound made Harriet feel awful.


Stephen removed his jacket, then patted his knees meaningly. ‘Come on, over you go!’


‘No, Stephen – please no… Not in front of her,’ she faltered. But, again, his glare brooked no opposition. As Harriet lowered herself across his thighs, she had never known such appalling indignity. She felt that tart’s eyes on her. Glancing resentfully at her, she was met by a smile of triumph. His hand stroked her bottom, and she flinched.


Stephen loosened his tie and exchanged a smiling glance with the raptly-watching Stacey. Then he raised his hand and brought it down. Hard.


A tremendous clap blasted into Harriet’s senses as Stephen’s palm struck fire into her naked rear, but before the pain abated another shattering smack pancaked her buttocks and refilled them with even brighter heat. Harriet squealed and squirmed as stinging smarts ignited the soft cheeks. God, she was being spanked. Spanked. And that little bitch was watching it happen, and enjoying every second.


Spank-spank-smack. Stephen was in his element, and Stacey knew it. She could see how he exulted in the swaying weight thrusting against his thighs while his hand rose and fell, Harriet’s grunts and gasps accompanying the staccato smacks of hard flesh striking soft. Still eagerly gazing, Stacey squirmed round in her chair as if to get closer to the punished girl and relish even more intimately the meaty slaps as the other’s buttocks bounced and trembled. It was sexy for her then to feel her own bottom tingle with ghostly responses as she pressed it back against the cushion with little sensuous pushes. She started to giggle.


‘No, Stephen! No! N-n-n-no…’ Harriet’s words were scarcely intelligible, forced through clenched teeth, her sensitive features contorted. She felt his hand clamping her waist while she jerked and twisted under the torrent of stinging smacks. And as Harriet squirmed, exposing herself unavoidably to both Stephen and the cheap little squirt who had caused all this trouble, she wanted to scream and cry at the injustice of it all.


For four or five minutes the air was loud with pleas and squeals and noisy slaps as Stephen spanked on. The sight of Harriet’s naked arse squirming and bucking across his lap was making Stacey uncomfortably excited. She found herself wriggling even closer, enthralled at how the other girl’s buttocks shuddered and rippled, reddened like ripened peaches, pushed up and down and from side to side as though in the throes of orgasm. Stacey’s eyes saucered in response to an anguished yelp when an especially heavy spank landed, and although enjoying Harriet’s discomfiture as much as Stephen appeared to be, in an odd kind of way she wanted to comfort the poor, humiliated, punished thing.


Stephen gave a last hefty smack. Harriet’s burning buttocks wobbled, settled to stillness, clenched in anticipation once again… then relaxed when no more came. She was gasping and swallowing hard as she rose to her knees, her bottom seething with prickling sparks as she rubbed and squeezed, gripping each flesh-padded mound and soothing them with cooling fingers.

‘Stand up, Harriet! Face the curtain and hang your head, you wicked girl!’


Oh hell, oh hell. This was worse than anything she could have imagined. Surely it was over now? Surprisingly, Harriet had not cried, though her eyes felt hot and stinging. She stood as instructed, her legs trembling in nervous reaction. Still stroking and soothing at her throbbing bottom, she felt there could surely be no greater misery than this.


But she was wrong. ‘Fetch the cane would you, Stacey?’ Stephen was pointing to a cupboard across the room, and the breezy Yorkshire girl was happy enough to do his bidding. She returned with a beaming smile, carrying a slender crook-handled rod which quivered to the touch.

‘We’ll have you on the chair over here.’ Harriet sucked in breath. We – oh, how could he! ‘Come along, kneel up. I haven’t finished with you yet!’

The attractive brunette shuffled miserably to the chair which was still warm from where Stacey had been sitting. She knelt on the seat and bent across its back. ‘Push that bottom up and out!’ Stephen ordered.


As Harriet strove to obey, arching her spine so that her buttocks were lewdly out-thrust, Stacey scrambled on to the other chair and watched avidly. Fixing her gaze on the reddened buttocks, she waited entranced while Stephen tapped the trembling flesh with the cane and, planting his left hand in the small of Harriet’s back, raised the cane and brought it sharply down.


Thwack. The stick struck across the crown of the twin-peaked target, leaving a line of fire. Harriet clawed at the chairback, panting hard as she struggled to absorb the pain. The cane soared and hovered, swooped and struck.


Harriet heard Stacey giggle. The indignity of this even overtook the pain that lanced her buttocks. Just you wait, she thought bitterly, I’ll get my own back, somehow…


‘Aaaagh-ohhh!’ The cane scored another crimson track immediately below the first, favouring the right buttock yet igniting the left one too with its fiery kiss. Kneeling on the adjacent chairseat, Stacey jigged and fidgeted with excited fascination.


Whop! Harriet shrieked as the third searing stroke landed, driving more burning hurt into her tightly-bent bottom. Her body spasmed, her head jerked upwards and she glimpsed the grinning Stacey. Damn the bitch!


‘Hold still! Face the front!’ Pleading whimpers came from Harriet. The cane-shaft rose and quivered, swung swiftly in. This time it struck the rounded surfaces with a sound like a snapping twig, then recoiled as if eager to repeat the activity. Which it did, hard and true, striking up into the softer undercheeks of the girl’s tormented bottom and driving out a wail.


‘One more. Stay down!’ The watching Stacey squirmed on her heels with voyeuristic delight, feeling her own buttocks tingling more strongly in perverted inverse sympathy with the other’s. Stephen measured his distance, took aim, and swung the cane for the final time. The shaft created a brief groove in the burning softnesses and leaped away, leaving the flesh to spring back into shape, each bottom-cheek marked with a sixth scorching line.


It was over.

Stacey sniggered wickedly.


‘Stand up, Harriet.’


Slowly, painfully, the girl did so. She sniffled, but controlled her tears, eyes still averted. Her bottom throbbed and stung as if it had been attacked by a swarm of furious hornets. At last Harriet lifted her head and looked directly at the pertly smiling Yorkshire girl. ‘All right,’ she said in a muted voice. ‘I’m sorry, Stacey – okay?’

At that, Stephen was content. Justice had been done, and peace restored. As he gazed in satisfaction at the evidently contrite young woman he had so soundly spanked and caned, Stephen felt that harmony and a sense of order had finally returned to his life.

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Laura...Janina...Tania
LAURA…JANINA….TANIA – A CANING STORY

A Caning Story from Janus 20. To view more stories click here.

Laura… Janina… Tania
Three cases of the illicit thrill
by Richard Manton

READ these two confessions from blushing brides and one from a young married couple. Then decide if the statements are:

(a) Fantasies of deluded readers
(b) Stories made up in the Janus office
(c) Cases cited by a medical authority

– ‘I found I could bear any number of strokes with the cane on my buttocks. Although my heart beats with fear whenever I have to strip and lie over the table, it has also made my married life complete and happy.’

– ‘I’ve been aware of this streak in me ever since school, where I actually began to enjoy my punishments. My husband would be terribly shocked if he knew about this.’

– ‘We keep a thin cane in the wardrobe and she bends over the chair… It leaves us eager to get to bed.’

If you opted for (a) or (b), go at once to the bottom of the class. The cases are quoted verbatim in Sexual Stimulation in Marriage (1971) by S. J. Tuffill, Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons.

Now take a deeper breath. A bride may enjoy love-punishments, but surely no girl ever enjoyed a bare-bottomed judicial thrashing? Wrong again. The Female Husband of 1746 is an outraged account of the conduct of a young lesbian, Molly Hamilton, soundly birched by the public hangman on 10 October. Shrill with indignation, the account describes how the birching so roused Molly’s ‘monstrous and unnatural desires’ that she urgently bribed the gaoler to bring her girl friend in for the night. Court records list Molly as getting herself birched three more times in eight weeks.

Girls who grow passionate under such punishment are unusual. A man is a fool to believe that ‘all girls like it’. Most would simply yell and run. But if he thinks such girls never exist, he should ponder one or two painstakingly researched reconstructions of the past…

* * *

Imagine a summer afternoon, long ago in the days of the Austro-Hungarian empire. In Budapest, the crowds lined the smart boulevard of the Andrassy-ut, under the striped awnings of the shops. The entire city was agog to see the Archduchess Sophie driving from the station to the palace on her arrival from Vienna.

Well, almost the entire city.

Suppose you had been in Budapest on that day. You might have stood with the crowds in the beflagged streets and cheered the Archdukes. But perhaps you would have preferred to attend another ceremony – a matter of strict discipline – which is recorded as having taken place at the same time.

A small group of Hungarian aristocrats drove in their carriages across the graceful suspension-bridge, the broad Danube gliding away between converging hills. The old castle and the new palace stood high and sinister above the busy river. Among the group was a lady who afterwards described the events of that afternoon, in Aus den Memoiren einer Sangerin – the memoirs of a singer. She was referred to cryptically as ‘Pepita’. It was rumoured that her real name was Wilhelmina Schroeder-Devrient, Wagner’s own prima donna. Whoever she was, the conventions of the day obliged her to publish the details of this incident anonymously.

Armed with the permission of the civil governor of Budapest, the party arrived at the house of detention. They were admitted at the gate and shown to a room on the ground floor whose window looked upon the inner courtyard. Just outside that window stood a long low bench with a padded top. On the ground nearby lay a long tapering switch.

The culprit, sentenced to three months detention for petty theft, was a 17-year-old girl of medium height and slim figure. One can well imagine the light golden-brown hair in a long pageboy style, brushing the back of her collar as she walked. The attention of the men quickened at the sight of her softly rounded young face, its high-boned beauty and playful blue eyes, a charmingly tilted little nose and a neatly painted mouth which smiled easily.

In passing sentence the court ordered that Laura’s punishment should be reinforced by a whipping every few weeks during her detention. This was quite a common condition of a sentence of imprisonment. The slim leather switch was to be used on the taut, apple-firm cheeks of Laura’s bare bottom!

As the visitors watched, a small procession entered the sunlit courtyard. Apart from the girl herself there was the warden of the house of detention, the officer who would inflict the chastisement, and the civil governor of Budapest in person. Even the arrival of the Archduchess could not take precedence for him over tanning a pretty girl-delinquent. When the witnesses looked at the girl, their eyes widened. She had been dressed in a costume ‘worn skin-tight over her lower body so that the shapes of her bottom-cheeks were clearly outlined’. In modern terms it was like a pair of jeans fitting clean and smooth on her slim young hips and thighs. The rear view of such a girl, swinging along with jaunty vigour would surely draw every modern man’s gaze to the tightly-strained denim, the classic ‘apple shape’ beauty of Laura’s firmly and seductively rounded buttocks.

Laura was instructed to kneel at one end of the long bench. Then she was required to raise her hips and lie forward along the bench, almost as if on all fours. She lay with her head pillowed on the bench, her face turned aside towards the window where the onlookers stood. The high-boned prettiness, the innocent appeal of the blue eyes, the parting of the golden brown hair on her forehead made their hearts jump with anticipation.

Laura’s bottom, its trim young cheeks tightly rounded and broadened by her posture, was presented as clearly as if in tight teenage jeans. The eyes of the visitors roved over the kneeling culprit, from the pretty face with the long pagestyle hair to Laura’s bottom, to her face again and then to Laura’s bottom once more…

It was an important part of her sentence that Laura should be chastised at regular intervals. This was by no means her first taste of the switch. It may have seemed strange that, though she kept her eyes lowered in the presence of the visitors, the girl, according to the account of her punishment ‘showed not the least sign of fear’ at the ordeal of 30 strokes. If, indeed, Laura ‘lowered her eyes a little in self-consciousness’, it was no doubt because she was required to slip her pants down so that the punishment might be inflicted on her bare buttocks. It was, technically, a private punishment, unlike the public canings or birchings which also took place in Austria-Hungary a hundred years ago.

It seems that the officer who would inflict the chastisement could hardly take his eyes off the pretty young face. At length he measured the long quivering switch across the slim bare cheeks of Laura’s 17-year-old backside. It was not surprising that under the menace of the cold switch the girl’s buttocks and thighs began to tense with anticipation. Yet as her lips parted gently and she let out a hall-suppressed sigh, she was not acting the part of a girl whose heart pounded with fear at the severity of her punishment.

The officer’s eyes gleamed as he raised the switch and brought it down across the slim bare cheeks of Laura’s bottom with a crack that made the courtyard stones ring. Remarkably, Laura did not scream, though her sighs became longer and harder. The astonished visitors looked and saw Laura’s bottom cheeks quiver under a second impact of the judicial switch, her young backside continuing to squirm as the next stroke was measured.

The girl’s face, says the account, appeared to be racked by anguish which was of a form indistinguishable from pleasure. Those who watched the punishment had naturally moved round for a full rear view of Laura’s charming young buttocks. The chastiser smacked a wicked tapestry of switch-prints across the seat-cheeks of this 17-year-old nymph, each impact intended as a swelling line of anguish. Laura’s bottom-cheeks and thighs squirmed and tensed with a strange ambiguous rhythm. Had she learnt to blot the punishment from her mind by the excitement of self-love? Even the thrashing was a spur to ecstasy.

The chastiser had dealt with Laura before and knew her tricks. He lingered over each stroke, ignoring Laura’s breathless appeals to be finished with quickly. He paused often, stopping to inspect the smarting willow-pattern across such a very pretty young bottom as Laura’s. The girl hugged the bench under her, tensing and gasping. He noted the squeezing and slackening, the rhythmic swelling-out of Laura’s buttocks and their tightening until her rear cleavage was a thin pressed line.

Laura’s bottom! How the eyes of the onlookers coveted it! The switch smacked down with vindictive accuracy across the stripes already printed there. Laura herself neither screamed nor protested. ‘Her face was racked by more pleasure than anguish, the pleasure reaching supreme intensity at the fifteenth stroke. Her eyes rolled back, her mouth opened gasping, and she seemed to reach the summit of her heart’s desire.’

‘She should have made it last longer,’ said one of the Magyar aristocrats with knowing amusement. ‘Fifteen strokes still to come – and no more distractions for Laura now!’

The chastiser had triumphed in the end, as he was bound to, with his malicious sense of timing in allowing Laura to finish herself too soon. He touched the switch to her bare legs lightly, forcing the 17-year-old nymph from the depths of dreamy bliss to the cold fear of reality at what still lay ahead. There was consternation in the blue eyes of the girl who looked back at him imploringly over her shoulder as she lay along the bench. The slim cheeks of Laura’s arse tightened at the cool switch-touch.

‘Keep that pretty young bottom quite still, Laura!’

He ensured she did not ‘enjoy’ what followed. The courtyard sang with pistol-crack echoes of the supple switch across Laura’s young backside. A wild look of panic crossed the pretty high-boned face and soon there was the weeping and pleading which ought to have occurred from the beginning. Under the naked smart of discipline the slim tight cheeks of Laura’s bottom ‘quivered and writhed frantically at every stroke of the punishment’.

Understandably, the chastiser disciplined Laura longer and harder for trying to cheat her sentence. The visitors who examined Laura’s delectable young seat afterwards noted that ‘the imprints of the switch were clear enough to enable one to count the strokes’. When they added them up, these enthusiasts looked at one another with astonishment and amusement – but no tales were told. Those who oppose such punishments might add that the chastiser’s severity was excited by the prettiness of Laura’s bottom and legs, as well as that of her face. Why did the pretty girls always get it worse?

The punishment over, Laura was led to a ground-floor room, where the female guests were allowed to visit her. This was not usually permitted, but the room was one with opaque windows, preventing anyone seeing from outside. If a woman official should enter, it would be natural to find Laura with her knickers down in the tiled room with its baths and basins.

The prurient curiosity of Budapest’s ladies makes nonsense of the ‘high moral example’ set by judicial birchings. Laura was urged to kneel forward over a chair. Ringed fingers loitered and fondled under the pretext of examining the efficacy of punishment! ‘You managed to enjoy yourself while you were thrashed, didn’t you, Laura?’ murmured one matron, ‘More than once?’ Laura, her voice self-consciously hushed, whispered that she could only do it once. Those who resist the moves to reintroduce judicial corporal punishment nowadays might rest their case on such evidence as this!

* * *

Supporters of judicial birching will regard Laura’s aberration as exceptional. Here come the bad news for them. The diarist of Aus den Memoiren einer Sangerin and such tomes as Geschichte des Korperliche Zuchtligung record an even stranger incident in the Hungarian city of Raab. Our own prima donna’s informant was evidently Madame Anna von Luft and the case was apparently that of a 19-year-old girl student, Janina. The story of Janina was passed down from one generation of Raab matrons to the next, their mouths pursed with disapproval but their eyes smiling!

Janina had a slay prettiness, a round fair-skinned face with the slant blue-green eyes of east European beauty. It seems that she had been involved in some kind of revolutionary political activity. This had led to a sentence of 12 months in the Raab house of detention with a public chastisement once a month. The regulations required that Janina’s fair hair should be cropped very short, which gave the girl a perversely seductive look.

Janina was a girl with a softly rounded figure. Even the boyishly cropped fair hair would not have deceived a man about her femininity for two seconds. One might speculate on the motives of the authorities who took a girl of 19 like Janina, with her softly feminine figure, and then cut her fair hair to make her look more like a boy for her punishment! It was presumably thought that there would be less danger of the onlookers or the chastiser treating her leniently if Janina had a short boyish haircut rather than flowing blonde tresses!

At 19, Janina was of age to undergo public discipline rather than the private whipping given to 17-year-old Laura. Such public punishments were well-illustrated in Hungary’s most distinguished film The Round-Up, where a naked blonde beauty undergoes the ordeal of chastisement. Anna von Luft confirmed that there were ‘innumerable girls in regional and municipal prisons under sentence of a series of whippings’.

The scene in Raab would have differed little from those elsewhere. On the afternoon of Janina’s first thrashing the cobbled market square was crowded. A space was railed off just outside the main gate of the house of detention where a low wooden platform stood. In the tall houses overlooking the square the windows were packed with watching faces, aged crones and young girls, old men and young alike.

Ten minutes or so before the hour struck, the wooden doors of the high fortress archway opened. Two officers from the house of detention carried a long low bench with a padded top and placed it on the platform in the shadow of the stone walls and towers.

It seemed as if the executioner was anxious that Janina should not be late, for she was brought out several minutes early. The executioner, by the way, was so-called merely because he ‘executed’ the sentence of the court, not the culprit. His interest was exclusively in Janina’s tail rather than her head!

A hush descended on the packed market square as Janina appeared between the chastiser and his assistant as they mounted the few steps to the platform. The round pale face with its high cheekbones, its slant green eyes and cropped fair hair drew every gaze upon it. Janina was dressed in a short snug-fitting woollen top and a pair of tights in thin brown wool.

Once again, such a scene belied the official pretext of providing a moral example. The softness of Janina’s young breasts must have been delectably shaped by the woollen top. Below the waist, the thin clinging wool outlined the soft feminine contour of her thighs and hips. As she turned her back, there must have been sharp intakes of breath in the crowd at the sight of the soft weight of Janina’s 19-year-old bottom-cheeks!

Dressed in this costume, Janina was required to sit on her heels, facing one end of the bench and with her back to the crowd. The uniformed officers who kept order ranged themselves round the foot of the platform as a form of crowd control. Janina was ordered to lift her hips from her heels and kneel tightly forward along the padded bench. The crowd held its breath. The girl went forward, her boyishly-cropped fair hair touching the padded bench, the round high-boned face with its slant green eyes turned wonderingly aside. Behind her, hundreds of eyes stared at the brown woollen seat of her tights, the straining material broadened and rounded by the fattened swell of Janina’s backside!

Because the chastisement was public, Janina would not be bare when her tights were taken down. A form of thin cotton panties rather like stretch-briefs in consistency were worn for the punishment. To compensate for this, a more supple and whippy switch was used to increase the ordeal, and the number of strokes was added to. The custom was that when the hour struck, the girl’s outer tights must come down. She then remained, presenting herself in the punishment posture, for half an hour. Then the thrashing was given.

The mechanism of the clock tower began to whir, the assistant took the waist of the tights as Janina knelt forward over the bench. In an expert movement, he stripped them down to her knees.

There was a shocked silence in the great crowd. A silence as profound and absolute as one might expect after a nuclear exchange. Anna von Luft was the first to hint at the reason for this.

UNDER HER TIGHTS JANINA’S BOTTOM WAS BARE!

The revelation was so mind-blowing that it took the crowd a moment to realise the implications. Those soft pale cheeks of Janina’s backside faced the silent onlookers with a mute and innocent appeal. Yet the 19-year-old girl student had known that her tights would be taken down and that she would be required to show herself in the market square.

JANINA HAD DELIBERATELY LEFT HER KNICKERS OFF FOR PUNISHMENT!

As the second bombshell exploded in the minds of the crowd, there was a stirring in the square. The smiles began to broaden. Under the pretence that the chastiser’s assistant was making her assume such a posture, Janina’s waist was well tucked down at the back and she was showing her seat very fully to the crowd. Still incredulous, the crowd realised something else. Janina knew beforehand that the wickedly supple switch was officially regarded as too severe to be used except when a girl was wearing her knickers. Yet the executioner’s hands were not the only horny thing about him. No leniency would be shown because Janina’s arse was bare! The third bombshell burst in the minds of the citizens of Raab.

JANINA PREFERRED TO HAVE THE WHIP ACROSS THE BARE CHEEKS OF HER SOFT PALE BOTTOM!

The executioner stood to one side smiling quietly at the girl and recognising a certain hard wantonness in Janina’s slant green eyes. His assistant intuitively sensed what the 19-year-old girl student needed and played her game. His mouth pursed in a smile, he assumed a stern voice and ordered her to kneel more tightly over the bench, to show her soft pale buttocks more fully, to open her knees a little. Seizing the pretext of having to obey helplessly, Janina did so. As Anna von Luft described it, the men and women in the crowd began to call to Janina from a few feet away at the barrier. What sounds the cobbles of the square might now echo if they could!

‘Look at her! Just look at the young slut!… Show your legs and bottom a little more this way, Janina!… Oh, the wanton young whore!… You randy young piece, Janina! Executioner! Ten gold pieces to make her sing loud and clear!… Only five more minutes to wait, Janina! Then the whip across your plump bare bottom-cheeks!… Looking forward to a sore bottom, Janina?’

During this ribald chorus of insults, it seemed as if Janina was making slight thigh and buttock rhythms not unlike those of Laura. The thrill of being helplessly bare bottomed before the crowd, hearing its insults, waiting for the whip, caused Janina’s self-excitement!

Those who believed that Janina’s conduct was caused by the whip itself were proved wrong when the time for Janina’s thrashing came. Turning her short crop of fair hair, she fixed her slant green eyes upon the chastiser full of imploring and trepidation. He measured the long quivering switch across the soft pale cheeks of Janina’s bottom. There was a silence in the square, all eyes upon the 19-year-old girl so blatantly displayed for their edification. The switch rose and flashed down with a sharp crack across the plump writhing cheeks of Janina’s backside.

According to Anna von Luft, Janina did not ‘enjoy’ her punishment. The executioner was inexorable and severe. Not a voice was raised in the crowd to ask for a reduction of the punishment. With such a softly appealing girl to be dealt with, it was unthinkable that the chastiser would be content with less than the full penalty. For some reason, a girl like Janina whose hair has been cropped to make her look more like a boy, seems to get it worse. So it proved, the executioner also inspired by having Janina’s bottom bare!

Janina’s pale bare buttocks jumped and quivered under the smarting strokes of the switch as the executioner wove her a seat of fire. Her face, turned desperately to the crowd, was a tragic mask of brimming eyes and wide distended mouth. The switch produced its ‘plum-coloured tracery’ and then touched up the ‘buttock tapestry’ again and again. Janina ‘screamed and gasped’ under the punishment of her bottom, said Anna von Luft, who was undoubtedly one of those women who had hired a window for the occasion. At last, what Anna von Luft called Janina’s whip-marked bottom-cheeks had received their full punishment. She was led down from the platform and back into the building. There was a stir of activity in the market square as the crowd broke up and life in Raab resumed its normal course.

The drama was not quite over. Madame von Luft was one of those privileged aristocrats before whom all doors opened. On this occasion she was admitted to the house of detention and allowed to take her turn at the judas-hole through which Janina, now alone, could be seen.

Janina’s pants were still down but she was not weeping as brokenly as might be expected. Naturally, Janina’s buttocks had been amply and vividly patterned by the punishment. Yet she did not attend to that. She stood with her back to the long mirror, her short crop of fair hair turned, the slant green eyes above the high cheekbones staring with admiration at her mirrored rear view.

She did not enjoy being whipped. The desperate writhing of Janina’s bare bottom-cheeks, Janina’s screams and pleading alike are evidence of her ordeal. Yet now she knelt over a convenient piece of furniture in the punishment-posture, able to see her chastised buttocks in the mirror. With soft sighs and tensings, Janina relived her punishment, the excitement of hearing again her own frenzy and the reprimands of the chastiser, as well as the voices of the crowd who mocked Janina as a slut and promised her a pitiless punishment. Her case was entirely different from Laura’s. Janina, playing with herself, enjoyed her discipline only as a fantasy of recollection – an enjoyment repeated nightly.

* * *

Slowly the pattern becomes clear and one disentangles myth from truth in the stories of girls who ‘enjoy’ chastisement. Laura perhaps did not enjoy it at all. Unable to escape 30 strokes with a switch, the desperate 17-year-old girl did the only thing she could to distract her mind from the anguish and to offset the effects of punishment. Janina did not ‘enjoy’ one moment of her tanning. Yet in order to provoke a drama which would feed her erotic fantasies for the future – for she would certainly have no other sex life in confinement – she deliberately left her knickers off, despite an appalling price to be paid in extra pain.

Janina would certainly not have been resolute enough to incur such extra anguish during the chastisement. The first stroke would have changed her mind! She knew this. The girl student left her pants off while still high on a masochistic thrill of self-excitement. Too late to repent when Janina was bare-bottomed on the bench! An extremely poignant predicament…

Some alleged cases, close to our own times, are more complex still in the vexed field of female masochism. The Denning Report of 1963 and the trial of Stephen Ward, revealed the existence of parties held by England’s top people ‘at which girls were whipped’. Rest assured, they were not innocent girls dragged screaming from the streets lo be flogged in front of cabinet ministers. They were volunteers. A letter to the press from one of the girls in March 1966 revealed that these ‘parties’ were held in specially equipped premises – not your average front room – and that the girls came there for their own reasons. We are now on territory much closer to the cases of Dr Tuffill, where the girls submit to chastisement as part of sexual drama.

One case, half revealed in the press, illustrates this. The girl in question was 19 years old and we will call her Tania. She worked in one of those boutiques which dotted the great cities of the 1960s.

Tania was a girl of average height with a soft prettiness of face and figure. There was a coquettish innocence about the brown curls clustering over her forehead and cut short at her collar. She had a pert, slightly olive-skinned face with a tendency to dimples at every half-concealed smile. The high cheekbones made her blue eyes seem rather deep-set and shadowed. Yet Tania had a straight little nose and a demurely tucked-in chin.

Tania’s working clothes, a snug white sweater and the pale blue of tight jeans, showed her soft young figure to perfection. One might see her leaning over the counter on her elbows, chin cupped in her hands, cigarette between fingers as she read a magazine. Dozens of gentlemen with no intention of buying would browse in that shop. Tania’s cropped brown curls and slightly dimpling prettiness had an attraction. Yet as she leant forward, lounging over the counter, the short white sweater moulded her proud young breasts like firm hanging fruit. A surprising number of men browsed on the shelves behind her. By pretending an interest in some item there, it was easy for them to enjoy a rear view of her for 15 or 20 minutes as she bent over the counter. The straining denim jeans-seat presented Tania’s broadened bottom, making her look completely irresistible.

Tania’s bottom was one of her most seductive features. She would bend with her waist tucked downward. This caused Tania’s 19-year-old arse to broaden and swell more suggestively, its cheeks lewdly parted under her jeans-seat. The men who viewed her also saw a clear outline of the seat of Tania’s panties. Tania’s knickers were a pair of stretch-briefs clearly visible in shape through the splittingly taut denim of her jeans.

Tania was a very appealing 19-year-old, polite and eager to please. Yet through her infatuation with Kurt, she was drawn into a strange world of sexual drama and fantasy. One evening he collected her from work and drove her directly to the place where the drama was to be enacted. No time to pop home for a bath, despite Tania being very self-conscious about appearing spick and span before the others when her rear charms were unveiled.

The audience, if one can call it that, consisted of a score of men and two women. The scene was a school detention room presided over by a middle-aged mistress and an assistant master. There were six delinquent girls, all of them but Tania in school uniform. The scenario was that each would be punished for some offence committed during the detention class. Then the headmaster would arrive – played by Tania’s lover – and true retribution would be handed out, principally to Tania herself.

The effectiveness of the drama lay in the way it imprisoned the actors and actresses by its power. This detention class lasted for about two hours with no excuses and no permission to leave the room. The mistress began with the junior girl, a nymph with solemn blue eyes and fair tresses. ‘Slip your skirl and panties off, Rachel. Bend over the desk. Twelve with the strap for being late. Ah, you’re getting a bottom like a real young lady, aren’t you, Rachel?’

The strapping seemed to be for real with tears and squirmings. Tania’s turn came soon with a punishment for her outrageous conduct in arriving for detention dressed in jeans. It was no easy matter for the mistress to bend a girl of 19 over her knee. Yet Tania’s cropped brown curls were soon bowed and her seat presented. There was much handling of the tight full cheeks of Tania’s broadened jeans-seat. Then the ‘assistant master’ undid them and drew them off.

Tania’s panties, the white stretch-briefs, were taut across the broadened swell of her young bum.

‘Not wearing regulation knickers, Tania? Let me have a really close look at the seat. Such a tight fit between the legs, Tania! And how the leg-hole elastic dents those soft pale bottom-cheeks, Tania! These are more like honeymoon panties, aren’t they, Tania? I’ll cane you for that presently, when your mistress has finished.’

The spectators were enormously excited at the sight of 19-year-old Tania sprawling over the mistress’s knee like an over-grown schoolgirl. So would you be. The cropped brown curls, the light olive-skin and high cheekbones all added to the piquancy of Tania at 19 being made to lie over the woman’s lap like an awkward child.

‘Twelve with the strap across the seat of your knickers, Tania!’

‘Six! It was six!’ The gasp of shock indicated the first departure from a prepared script.

‘Twelve with the strap across your bottom, Tania, you young slut!’

‘No!’ Tania’s blue eyes widened. ‘I’ve got to be caned later!’

Broad smiles of amusement broke on the faces of the spectators. The grim-faced mistress brought the strap down hard across Tania’s full-cheeked bottom. She aimed fairly low where Tania’s knickers did not completely cover her buttocks. Tania sang out loudly.

Two! Three! Four! The blows of the strapping cracked down.

‘Don’t try to squirm, Tania. Tighter over my knee! Keep the seat of your knickers towards the audience, Tania, or we’ll start again!’

When the strapping was over, the woman slid Tania’s panties down and off, making the girl show her cherry red seat fully and broadly.

‘Your bottom towards the audience, Tania! You’re here to show it!’

Presently it was the turn of the assistant master as Tania stood with her cropped curls bowed, bare from waist to heels.

‘Tania! Bend over the teacher’s table, Tania! At once! So reluctant, Tania? Six strokes of the cane for wearing non-uniform knickers. Yes, you have been strapped, haven’t you? Such a full blushing pair of bottom-cheeks, Tania! Yes, indeed, you’re going to get 18 with the cane from the headmaster later on for being a little thief. Perhaps six now will get you in the mood, Tania! Bend tighter. Let’s have a broad-bottomed view of you, just like over the shop counter! Afraid you won’t be able to bear all your punishments, Tania? You should have thought of that when you put the wrong sort of knickers on!’

A tearful few minutes in Tania’s part of the drama was to be followed by more preliminary reprimands and punishments, as each skirt and pair of panties lay discarded. ‘Sandra Williams, bend over the desk! Twelve with the cane! Take your hand away from your bottom, Sandra! Touch your toes, Monica. I can’t believe you’ve never had the strap before! Kneel forward over the chair, Carol Jones! You’ll soon find out what the whistle cord is for!’

A good deal of this is only verbal drama, but not all of it. The detention class ended and various girls were allocated to the patient onlookers for chastisement as ‘teachers’. Their offences were derived from the classic mythology of schoolgirl eroticism. ‘Sandra Williams, bare-bottom spanking for whispering in class! Carol Jones, bare-bottom birching for having secret sex-fun! Susan Webb, bare-bottom caning for unpunctuality! Jacqueline Grant, bare-bottom birching for impudence! Sue Webb, bare-bottom birching for rudeness!’ The litany was endless but Tania was ‘it’, as the letter to the press revealed.

Tania’s imagined crime was to have stolen the mistress’s jewel case and hidden it away somewhere. She was due to bend over the table for 18 strokes with the ‘headmaster’s’ cane before being asked where the case was hidden. If she then confessed, all would be forgiven and forgotten. She was required to bend over the table tightly with her back to the audience, her cropped brown curls bowed until the spectators saw Tania as only a backside and a pair of legs!

Dozens of men had gazed yearningly at Tania’s broadened, 19-year-old bottom-cheeks in tight jeans as she bent with thighs parted a little to some shop chore. The sight of her now would have stopped them in their tracks! Though the flush of the strap had faded, it was visible that the six with a cane had been given for real across the statuesque young rounds of Tania’s buttocks!

The ‘headmaster’ saw this as he flexed his own long slim bamboo.

‘You’ve been in trouble during class, haven’t you, Tania? I’m glad you’ve been caned for it. Don’t expect me to be lenient with you because of that. You’ll gel it all the worse! Thai’s a promise!’

The preparations for the caning were carried out ‘as slowly as possible’. There was ‘a lot of talk’ about Tania’s bottom! What a broad young seat, he said, what a shame it had not been caned hard and regularly – but that would change from now on. There were instructions to Tania to bend tighter, to stick her bottom right out towards the onlookers. Then the cane was measured across it, long and repeatedly.

The cane flashed down across the bare broadened cheeks of Tania’s 19-year-old bottom. Her gasp grew to a cry as she realised how ferocious the smart of the bamboo was when the impact began to swell. Smack! Whip-smack! Crack-smack! Whip! Whippp! Wh-h-i-i-p!

‘Don’t twist your backside away from the cane, Tania! You’ll get extra for that!… Your bottom, Tania! Round it out more fully!… Let you wear your stretch-briefs for the rest of the caning, Tania? Certainly not!… Don’t even think of straightening up, Tania! Not unless you want to be put bottom-upwards over the desk for the punishment to start all over again!… Don’t clench your seat-cheeks like that Tania or you’ll have it on your legs instead. And the strokes won’t count either!… Contain yourself, Tania! You can’t possibly have 18 across your buttocks without some of them hitting the same place twice!… Tania! Really! What a thing to do in front of us all!… Bend tighter, Tania! No need to be bashful. With two ladies in the audience you’re well and truly chaperoned!’

The dramatic entertainment may have been carefully planned beforehand but Tania’s wild cries, her gulps and sobs during it and afterwards were real enough. The use of the cane on her beautiful bottom was cruel and severe and the bamboo prints were raised and blazoned across the broadened young cheeks of Tania’s arse!

When the punishment ended, the scenario required Tania to confess the hiding-place of the stolen jewel-case. She did so and the mistress was sent to fetch it. Then there was a departure from the script. The woman came back, trying hard to hide a smile.

‘It’s not there,’ she said firmly. ‘The little madam is lying!’

Tania’s consternation was unmistakenly genuine and moving by this point. It seemed that she had willingly – if perhaps a little reluctantly – entered the amateur theatricals of chastisement. Had she expected this development – or was she now trapped in a nightmare?

‘Very well, Tania,’ said the headmaster. ‘You know the price you must pay. Over the table again! Eighteen with the cane was the penalty, I believe? I shall leave you to the attention of the assistant master while I go to fetch a suitable instrument to chastise such wilful misconduct. I hope you decide to tell us the true hiding-place before I get back, Tania! Though perhaps on second thoughts, Tania, I rather hope you refuse to…’

Since the action of the drama had been made up, it was quite impossible for Tania even to guess at an alternative place. The events of that evening and the part which Tania’s bottom played in them are perhaps best left to the imagination!

* * *

Those who debate the issue of judicial corporal punishment and those who discuss the myths of female masochism should ponder such cases as these. Laura, Janina and Tania might be put together as strange aberrant creatures. Yet each one is different, as each girl is different. What types do they represent?

1. Laura certainly appeared to enjoy her punishment. Yet one might just as easily conclude that her squeezing and squirming was a desperate effort to counter the ferocious smart of the switch across her bare bottom by having a nice time elsewhere. Would supporters of judicial tanning permit such things? Could they prevent them? Or would they impose extra punishment?

2. Janina, aged 19, presents an even more knotty problem to those who support such punishments. Few disciplinarians would complain if Janina presented her bottom bare for caning rather than in a pair of stretch-briefs! And how on earth would they prevent punishments given to support law-and-order from being used as the raw material of the girl’s erotic enjoyments? Anna von Luft made a final revelation about the girl. Janina, she said, ‘deliberately committed and confessed to several misdemeanours for which the inevitable penalty was a spell in the house of detention, a series of public birchings and the shame which resulted from them.’ Hence Janina’s delightful exhibitionism!

3. Tania, like the other two, did not enjoy the discomfort of the cane. Yet she derived an excitement from being enveloped in a dangerous drama of chastisement. If judicial birching were ever restored, a man who had to deal with Tania would face an extremely difficult though intensely interesting subject!

There is much pressure in public and in parliamentary circles to restore the birch – a great majority of the country supports it. In the climate of sexual equality, girls could not be exempt. Some of us are sceptical of the moral or disciplinary value of restoring such discipline. Yet we would respect the views of many Janus readers who, like most of their countrymen, think otherwise.

Make no mistake, the problems posed to the silent majority by Laura, Janina and Tania are more complex and adult than the defiance to punishment by an adolescent reformatory tomboy like Elaine Cox. A youngster who defies the cane merely in order to keep her prestige among other girls is not in the same league. Our disciplinarian readers assure us they would find her no problem. With the young rebel kneeling over the block and a good flexible cane to hand, they would guarantee truly exemplary discipline across the full pale cheeks of Elaine Cox’s fifth-form bottom!

Yet a girl like Janina defies her chastiser in a very different way. Increasing the number of strokes will probably make no odds. The same secret, perverse thrill, will capture her afterwards. That may also be true of Tania. Let us put the advocates of judicial tanning on the spot by asking you to tell us how you would solve the following problem.

Judicial chastisement has been restored and you are one of those appointed to administer it. At regular intervals you visit an institution which houses Laura, Janina, Tania, and – if you like – Elaine. You know the problems presented by each. It is your duty to ensure that punishment means just that and is not a girl’s way of self-enjoyment or maintaining prestige by defiance. How will you prevent these four young ladies resisting, exploiting or defying the chastisement you give? Here is your chance to win us over!

This surely is a problem worthy of mature, adult consideration, more complex than any presented by bare-bottomed Elaine to her master. At the beginning of this feature you may have got the wrong source for the quotations and been sent to the bottom of the class. Such disgrace can be overcome by a neat piece of homework…

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the American Spread-eagle
THE AMERICAN SPREAD-EAGLE – A SPANKING STORY

A Spanking Story from Janus 58. To view more stories click here.

The American Spread-Eagle
by John Undermeyer

DAWSON KENDALL, senior executive of Supremacy Studios (Hollywood) spoke tersely into his car telephone. ‘We shall be home in 20 minutes,’ he told his butler. ‘Please see that Amelia and Romy are prepared, and waiting for me in the Blue Room.’

Prepared was a euphemism. It meant undressed – stripped to the skin, showered, lightly dusted with powder, and with a touch of expensive perfume to the nape of the neck, the inside of each elbow, behind the knees and at the back of each ear. It was important to Dawson that girls smell nice. Clean, fresh, wholesome, even toothsome, he thought, and swallowed some saliva that had gathered in his mouth.

If Dawson’s 28-year-old beautiful driver had overheard the telephone call she showed no sign of it. Dawson dressed her all in black, with calf-length boots, breeches and a wide, tight-fitting waist-belt. He did not permit her a cap, however, lest it partly hide her beautiful face. She kept her gaze strictly on the road ahead, handling the limousine with a smoothness that came from eight years of loyal (and almost silent) service.

This Saturday morning, he had been watching the rushes of the studio’s latest film. It was a pot-boiler; put together by a minor director on a low budget. Low, that is, compared to the cost of most films Supremacy turned out. Three million dollars was enough, he thought, but then the film should recoup several times that much, bearing in mind the scenes he had just approved.

They showed the two juvenile leads in a bedroom, indulging in love-play which led to a passionate consummation of their desire. Since the two minor stars involved were genuinely attracted to each other, they played their parts with conviction. Dawson felt himself aroused at the climax of the scene. The two stars were with him, together with the director, lighting-cameraman and other senior studio officials and he knew none of them were totally unaffected. Yes, he mused, with a love-scene like that in the movie it would pull at the box-office. Critics might carp, but the public knew what it wanted.

Dawson turned to congratulate the nymph who played the female lead. ‘A great job… most professional,’ he beamed at her. She smiled her thank-you, but behind those perfect teeth and sapphire eyes he caught the flicker of dislike. In a few years that flicker could grow to outright insolence, he knew. Even now he was certain she despised him in private conversation with her film-star lover. Only his seniority in the studio made her defer.

Oh for 20 minutes with you in the Blue Room, thought Dawson. He had a few implements there, a short-handled six-thonged whip, for example, that would bring this proud filly into line. Good actress she may be, and valuable to the studio with her lithe, nubile body, pert little breasts (always carefully outlined by a silk-cupped bra) and her immaculate clothes. But she had no respect. Dawson insisted on respect; especially from pretty young women who, without the backing of his studios and publicity machine, would be nowhere.

The car was slowing now, outside a small but impressive high-fashion shop, the public face of a much larger company that supplied costumes to his film-makers. On display were clothes from the famous names in Paris, New York, Milan and London, but Dawson did not linger among the cat-suits, party dresses and lingerie. He made his way to the private office to collect a special order, placed several weeks ago with the woman who owned and ran the company, a long-time personal friend in her forties who rose to greet him as he tapped and walked through the door.

After the pleasantries she turned to her office desk and unlocked one of the drawers, taking from it a tube about three feet long, capped at both ends. ‘I think you’ll find this will answer your needs,’ she said, her voice silkening. ‘I had it specially made by one of our best people, skilled at his craft and a man of the utmost discretion.’ Prising the cap from one end, she slid a long, thin, crop-like instrument into her hand and with a teasing grin whipped it downwards through the air. ‘So light and easy to handle,’ she said, ‘with such a well-designed grip. I only wish I could be there when you put it to use. But tell me what you think.’

She handed the rod to Dawson, and as he inspected it, went into her professional sales-pitch. ‘Basically it is whalebone, thin, strong and pliant. But it is wrapped tightly by the thinnest strip of superb quality leather, starting at a fine point and spiralling down to the handle. The handle, with indentations to guarantee a firm grip, is also leather, but much harder, and with a rondule at the holding-end so it fits snugly into the heel of the hand. Originally the maker put a tab at the point but on reflection I asked him to remove it and taper the end; the slap sound did not seem appropriate for one who, I know, prefers sibilancy in the drive downwards. Ah, incidentally,’ she let one eye drop in a knowing wink, ‘I’m told the designer tried it out on his au pair before despatching the order. She had misappropriated some money he had left lying around. And I am assured he believes it to be one of his best, most efficacious creations. Would you care for a few practice swings? I have a recalcitrant salesgirl in the front shop who… but perhaps not; there’s the question of noise.’

The suggestion of practice swings brought Dawson’s mind back to the starlet who had displeased him at the viewing session earlier. He recalled the image of two writhing forms on golden satin sheets, actor and actress locked together in heaving pleasure. How he would like to make that disrespectful young madam writhe for a different reason! He brought his attention back to the chastising rod, off-white in colour, with a grey handle and perfectly smooth rondule. The air sang as he swathed down with the aerial-thin whalebone. Once, twice, and a third time for good measure. The eyes of the shop-owner widened and her lips pursed at the sight of Dawson’s strong right arm plunging with full force against an imagined target. But she knew her role.

‘I can see you like it, my friend,’ she whispered. ‘Allow me to return it to its case, which you may carry from the shop as openly and innocently as if you were taking a roll of special fabric to enhance one of your film sets.’

Back in the limousine Dawson checked his watch. Only five minutes to his home in the ‘Hills’; acres of verdant garden, fishponds stocked with golden Koi Carp, a swimming pool which was admired even among the set he mixed with for its size, concealed lights and room-temperature water, all surrounded by a high brick wall turning his home into a fortress, so necessary for security these days. He knew his wife would be at the poolside, cooling off before lunch in one of her favourite white bikinis. He loved Alice to wear white bikinis which set off her tan so perfectly. Alice was his second wife, 26 years old, intelligent and graceful. His first wife had died in a car crash (mercifully he had not been driving) and he had loved Alice almost from the day he met her. But before lunch with Alice he had Amelia and Romy to attend to. In the Blue Room, with its padded table and dimmable lights, and with this brand new instrument which lay on the car seat beside him. It had felt so novel to his touch, to hold and swish through the air, and he could not wait to try it out.

His chauffeuse closed the limousine door and a pretty maid opened the front door without any need for him to press the bell. He strode through the house and out to the verandah and pool. Alice sat cross-legged at the pool-side, her arms resting on her thighs, eyes closed, her body drying in the sunshine. He bent to kiss the nape of her neck, letting his tongue flick out under the lobe of her ear. She opened her eyes, stretched her long, lithe legs and lifted her arms to pull him down.

‘Not yet,’ he said, ‘let me get changed first. And remember, after the indiscipline of last night, I have an appointment to keep with two lying young misses in the Blue Room.’

Yes, Alice remembered. The butler had reported to her that Amelia and Romy had been proved to have lied to him. She had not asked for details, his word was enough, and she had assured her chief servant that the master of the house would administer punishment at the earliest possible opportunity. Alice put aside her thoughts of lunch; she knew that when Dawson had finished his task in the Blue Room he would want to make love to her. She debated with herself whether she would ask him for permission to be present to see the little liars suitably chastened, but decided she had better go quietly to her shower-room and rinse away the smell of the swimming pool before Dawson came to her. And check that the bed had been made with clean sheets and the air conditioning turned to Cool.

Dawson took the open staircase two steps at a time to change clothes. He never went to the Blue Room improperly dressed. Two minutes later he wore slacks, an open shirt and costly sailing pumps with non-slip soles.

While he removed his rings and then dusted his palms with powder, he mused on how he had come to meet the girls who were shortly to be disciplined. Amelia was born in Mexico, 18 years earlier, from a native woman and a white man. The melding of their two colours gave the lass a distinctiveness amongst her people, her delicately-hued skin and finer features setting her apart. A few months ago she had slipped across the Mexican border into Texas. Most of these immigrants were quickly caught and returned to their home country. But Amelia had been lucky; her guide had taken her by a safer route and once in the USA she had been passed into hands who promised to find her work. In fact this meant that messages had travelled through the grapevine about a very beautiful teenaged girl, with maidenhood intact (a doctor who worked for the escape committee had checked that) who might interest a tycoon with the means to look after her. After the appropriate negotiations Amelia had been delivered, under cover of darkness, to the Kendall mansion. Next morning the butler had presented her to Alice, with whose approval she was taken on to the Kendall staff.

The second miscreant, Romy, was a year younger. Her mother was Swedish and had come to Hollywood to act. But the pressure of film-making and the intense competition, combined with a liberal income, had led to drugs. Dawson had taken charge, and through his own doctor, and at his own cost, was paying for the mother to be cured of her addiction. In return for secrecy and the substantial medical bills, he had asked for the care of Romy, to provide her with a home and to ensure, he said, that she did not follow the same route. Both girls were now part of his household and his butler took care to remind them of what could happen if either showed signs of rebellion.

Comfortably dressed now in an all-white ensemble, Dawson Kendall took up the innocuous-looking three-foot tube he had collected at the fashion salon and made his way to the Blue Room. The padded door sucked gently at the air as he opened it. He turned the dimmer-switch up so that the room was filled with light, then faced the waiting girls, searching them with his eyes to ensure they had been prepared as he expected. What he saw pleased him.

The Mexican wore raven-black hair which fell to her shoulders and shone in the intense light of the room. Her breasts were well-formed and distinctly separated at the cleavage, but not over-full. She normally wore a bra, he knew, but the skin was sufficiently taut not to need one. And the skin-colour: that was what made her exceptional; a mix of olive and gold, unblemished and smooth. Her limber figure tapered from broadish shoulders towards the gentle incurve of the waist, then out again at the hips, over welcoming thighs, finely-toned calves and delicate feet. Another feature that attracted Dawson was the hands. Narrow palms, tapering fingers, well-suited to the sewing needle, perfectly manicured nails. This could have been an Inca Princess from another age, and he wondered how so lovely a creature had escaped the hungry young Mexican bloods who surely had pursued her from her early teens. Her decorous shyness was the only clue.

He turned to Romy, inches shorter, a year younger, with hair as fair as the other’s was black, cropped into a boyish cut, fringed over the eyes and dove-tailed at the back of the neck. Her breasts were like fine, shallow champagne-glasses, round and with more growth still in them; no bra was needed here either, but Alice had insisted. Firm healthy support for a 17-year-old would make sure that beauty was not allowed to fade prematurely. Only here, in Dawson’s sound-proof chamber, was her brassiere dispensed with. But where the Mexican could have been a Princess, this young minx was a pixie, quick of movement, with darting eyes and small hands, and a mouth that rarely stopped talking unless it was in the presence of Dawson and Alice, or, of course, in the Blue Room.

He knew by the perfume that drifted from their bodies they had been bathed and prepared. Moreover both were without clothes, save for one garment which Dawson always demanded. They each wore a brand new pair of white cotton briefs, elasticised at the waist and legs. Every time they presented themselves the knickers had to be completely new, taken freshly from the pack after their shower, and stepped into carefully, pulled tightly to fit, pristine clean and so snug that the groove that lay centrally between the thighs was visible to view. No wisp of hair showed itself at that point however; that was for later, when the uncovering took place and punishment was about to begin.

Careful thought had been given to designing the Blue Room. Dawson liked to flog his virgins as they lay face down in the spread-eagle position. To arrange this Dawson had caused a special bench to be built, in the shape of a stretched ‘X’, so that arms could be laid either side at one end, and open legs stretched out at the other. The top was padded in blue leather (as were the walls) and it had one exceptional feature. In the centre of the cross a deep indent had been made, so the spread-eagled girl would touch the leather everywhere save at the precious point where the legs joined. That delicate area touched nothing, and for a very good reason. When punishment began, and a writhing body pressed itself against the leather, there would be nothing down there to press against. Bare flesh would wrestle against blue leather along the whole length of the body save where (some might say) it was needed most. Dawson had colleagues who believed that girls should be allowed to press that special place against some firm surface, as compensation, however slight, for the pain. But why, Dawson replied; surely punishment was the infliction of pain, very severe pain that had to hurt, to burn, inflame, torment. Retribution for bad behaviour was the purpose, and there could be no relief from the bite of the rod.

Moreover, Dawson insisted that when flogging was over there must be no masturbation; this sly practice was utterly forbidden. The instruction was instilled into the girls, and would never be forgotten by the butler into whose care they were passed directly afterwards. Dawson did not trouble to see how the butler enforced the rule; he assumed his orders were obeyed automatically, as they were at the Hollywood studio. However Alice, who sometimes visited Amelia and Romy as they lay sore on their beds after whipping, assured him there was no way even the most urgent need could be satisfied by straying fingers. Why go to all the trouble of having the cross-bench specially designed if its effect were to be negated afterwards?

There was one further refinement that made the Blue Room perfect for Dawson’s needs. Next to where a girl rested her chin on the leather, a mirror was inset, catching the light from the fully turned-up bulbs, so that the young and anxious face could be seen clearly by the chastiser. Dawson knew his canes and straps bit deep, but he could not be satisfied unless he saw the face contort, the eyes screw in pain, the mouth open to gasp out and shriek. And he knew his rod was doing its work well when tears dropped on to the mirror and formed salty streaks or even tiny pools of proof of her suffering.

Dawson now unsealed one end of the tube he had brought with him into the Blue Room. Both girls eyed the package curiously, anxiously wondering what it could contain, and eyes widened and mouths fell as they saw the very long and extremely slender ivory-bound instrument with its shaped grey handle slither on to the bench. Setting aside the tube, Dawson raised the superlative rod and presented it for inspection. Surely, the girls thought, he will not use this on us. But even before the thought could fully register, he held it out in both hands towards them.

‘Naughty little liars who deceive their betters deserve to see what is in store for them. You will both kiss my new tormentor to acknowledge your fault before we begin.’

The raven-jet hair swung round Amelia’s face as she fearfully bent forward to touch the terrible instrument with her tawny lips. Her head stayed hung in shame as she stepped back and Romy bowed down to press pale pursed lips against the leather.

‘Formalities are now over,’ declared Dawson and he signalled Amelia to the waiting cross-shaped bench. As she went, her elegant thumbs slipped themselves into the elastic waistband of the gleaming white knickers and began to push the cotton downwards, over the olive hips, stroking the thighs, rippling gently over the knees, sliding the remaining distance over golden calves, and finally lying forlorn on the floor as Amelia’s powdered feet stepped out of them. There was almost a kind of dignity in the descending movements; a dignity and assurance that would very soon disappear, Dawson thought determinedly.

The sight of her delicious naked form lowering on to the trestle brought his pulse-rate up a notch. He had caught a whiff of that same insolent self-composure from the actress in his film this morning: the expensive whippy whalebone rod would dissolve that. His anger at the rebuff suddenly burst forth; he could wait no longer and even before the Mexican girl was fully in the spread-eagle position he lashed down.

Amelia’s arms and legs, which milliseconds before were about to settle on the leather top, exploded outwards, fingers leaping forwards, toes doubled back, the perfectly-developed body stretched to capacity. The scream came next and Dawson’s nostrils flared, breathing in the expensive perfume that seemed to puff from the girl’s body. Loud though it was, it could not ring round the room for the walls were lined to absorb and soften shrieks. Her head was flung backwards as she howled, in an unavoidable reflex action.

Dawson’s arm raised again and he drove a second blow into the immaculately-curved olive-skinned bottom. The crack! of the rod impacting into her rebellious flesh was most satisfying to him, but only whetted his appetite for more. His eyes on the mirror saw lips pull back in frenzy to reveal perfect teeth as a second sound shrilled from the contorted mouth. Tears, which had taken her eyes by storm at the first stroke, now ran down her cheeks. I want that mirror soaking, he thought, wet with salty tears.

With a whistling zing, the leather-bound whalebone took a third bite and now the mirror was shimmering. Not glistening enough for his liking, but there would be more salt water where that came from. Three lashes were the normal punishment for lying (albeit the fault happened very rarely) but Dawson reckoned he could safely administer a fourth. Dignity was all spent now, in the brilliant movements of her body, but he was still remorseless and as his stroke fell the howl that came from the cross made him draw in his breath. The pitifully bruised bottom was churning as the hips crushed into the leather and the arms and legs stretched against the tormenting blow. He noticed how that oh-so-sensitive centre point was clear of contact with anything, and was now pulverising space. The bench was well-planned indeed: no satisfaction was possible in that area. Punishment had been called for and now it had been administered. The mirror shimmered with moisture; gulps and sobs huffed from those erstwhile-pretty lips.

Gradually, the girl’s body fell limp, jerking just a little as it fully absorbed the pain. Dawson spoke in his sternest tones. ‘That will do, Amelia. Stand when you can. Pick up your knickers and go immediately to your room where you may conveniently be attended to.’

Paying no more attention to the ‘Princess’, Dawson turned to the smaller girl. This normally playful nymphet was already weeping, so awstricken was she by the effect his new-bought rod had wreaked on her olive-skinned companion. The water-magnified pale green eyes, pleading so pitifully, made not the faintest impression upon Dawson’s resolve.

‘Come forward, young woman,’ he commanded her. ‘Remove your protection as Amelia has done before you, and position yourself on the cross-bars, for you must pay for your untruthfulness and I impatient to begin.’ But Romy was too afraid to take her new white cotton briefs down gracefully. She tried, but much too slowly for Dawson, who wrenched at the protesting elastic. Desperate to please she moved to help but Dawson slapped her hands away. He dropped his rod, and with both hands free he swiftly and mercilessly unpeeled his victim, tossing the white material aside to watch it slide across the polished floor. Pushing the girl forward, he reached greedily for his instrument of discipline.

Romy stumbled to the crossed-bench, and in her forgetfulness (or perhaps because she remembered) she tried, for a brief instant, to place her pubis in contact with the padded blue leather. Dawson caught the movement. ‘For that you will have two more cuts. When I say position yourself carefully, you must be careful with every part – especially with that golden treasure-trove.’ And it was true, for Romy’s golden mop of hair was reflected perfectly above the join of her thighs. She was pure, natural blonde, and Dawson was momentarily tempted to touch that secret place with the tip of his malign switch. But decorum forbade it. He must be content to lash. And to be thorough, also: the excess chattering, the skittish laughter was fine enough when she was allowed to play on his tennis court, using racquets he paid for, sports gear charged to his account. But there was a price to pay for ingratitude and disrespect.

He placed his rubber-soled sailing pumps firmly on the floor, feet well apart. His arm stretched back until his elbow bent entirely over his shoulder. Fingers clenched round the shaped-leather handle, he swathed the air and made agonising contact with the pale, creamy, tightly-stretched skin of Romy’s mounded buttocks. The girl’s head flew back, her spine arched, her head jerked violently and the shriek of a tormented mink rent the air. She began to scrabble in an attempt to move off the cross, crying, ‘No! Oh please no! I can’t bear it!’

The move caught Dawson unawares. His new plaything with its ronduled handle must be even more effective than he had dreamed! Now we shall see a really wet looking-glass, he thought as with a firm hand he pushed her downwards, far too strongly to prevent any escape. Beyond pity, he felt his pulse grow even stronger and noticed with swiftly rising pleasure giant tear-drops splashing on the mirror beneath the tousled head.

That pool of tears would grow to a stream before he put his pliable persecutor to rest. He drew breath for the next stroke and the tang of perfume filled his nostrils; his senses always heightened so acutely in the Blue Room. With full force the whalebone thrashed again and the pale, sexy buttocks leapt painfully in the air, jerking atop spread-eagled thighs. This proof that the pain was taking effect was endorsed immediately by tearful pleading: ‘Spare me, please. No more. No more!’ No rippling laughter in that voice now, no sidelong flashes of the emerald eyes. Just slack lips and the threads of running water dampening flushed cheeks.

When you have paid enough, thought Dawson; and when I am ready for Alice.

He changed hands, holding the ivory-coloured crop in his left hand. His aim would not falter, he knew, and nor did it as the long, narrow wand shrilled downwards and cracked implacably across the twice-marked bottom. Mewls of helplessness rose from the blonde girl’s throat; golden eyelashes, already awash, blinked to brush away the flowing tears. Her well-proportioned, rounded beauty had never appealed so strongly to him. Yet only in one way would he ever acknowledge her charms – with the power of his punitive ardour.

The fourth stroke of chastisement fell even as the girl was writhing from the earlier blows. Her head shook wildly from side to side, her keening broken only by deep wrenching sobs. Her bottom was the source of unquenchable pain and the mirror was wet with brine. So plentifully did the weeping come now that drops were falling from the over-full surface of the glass on to the floor.

Three for the lies and two for the cheating; the fifth should really be the last. Dawson’s mouth fell dry as he studied the welted bottom carefully. Skin that had been washed, powdered and pale as alabaster a few minutes ago was now crossed with angry weals, bringing a crescendo of torment to this Swedish miss of seventeen. What a delightful canvas to work on. How receptive a surface. How firmly the strokes were applied. How right for the colours to be reds and purples, with white here and there. How the picture grew more interesting with each new touch. This work of art would be well remembered. What a shame only one person could enjoy the display. With these thoughts, he drove the fifth stroke down.

Yet Amelia had received one extra cut, just to please him. Now this deceiver deserved equal treatment. He returned his rod to his right hand, and paused to measure the final stripe. He flexed the whalebone to give himself time for breath, savouring the sixth lash even before it was administered.

When girls first lay on that blue bench there was resistance and resentment. Arms and legs were rigid; buttock muscles clenched to hide those central lips. But when five strokes had been laid on, trembling thighs fell open, spread-eagled legs splayed wider, and the whole body went into wild motion in a way that often suggested an activity that, by definition, would only be available to them after they had ceased to be virgins. Romy’s reactions were no exception; on the contrary, she was proving memorably athletic on the cleverly designed crossed-bench.

With firm determination the sixth and final stroke was driven home. Dawson’s rod rent the air and impacted noisily into the double moons. A howl of agony told him it was the coup de grace. The force brought her legs up at the knees. Arms dropped, this slender body lay in full submission.

The teenager’s bottom was trembling and juddering with shock. How tempting it was; how easily he could have laid more stripes on the tender flesh, watched the muscles contract with pain, the hips rise against the downward force of the crop, the buttocks cavort madly from unassuagable agony. But Romy had paid, and the contours of her face and the tears on the mirror confirmed that to his full satisfaction. Those six marks would go from crimson to purple tinged with yellow, the bruises would come, the ridged weals take days to disappear. He turned away to lay his instrument on a side-table, it had done its first stint of duty well. He pressed a secret button which would summon his butler to attend on the girls in their bedroom. There were special oils and ungents, healing balms which would cool and soothe their seared bottoms. Gently applied they would speed recovery and these virgins would resume their household duties. One tiny tender tip would not be attended to, of course, however urgently it demanded attention. Touch me, touch me, that secret place would urge them; the plea must go unattended, that tingling must not be relieved.

Dawson pointed to the pair of white knickers which lay on the floor. ‘Go to your room now, Romy – and take those briefs with you. After treatment you may rest, and only rest!’ As the girl struggled off the bench, he emphasised the point once more. ‘No touching! Or you will be back here for a further stretch’. The weeping maid acknowledged the instruction with a nod.

In another part of the house, beautiful Alice Kendall lay naked on the freshly-ironed sheets of a giant double bed, her body stretched langorously, hair flowing over the pillows, the breeze from the air conditioning sending her sweetly perfumed smell wafting towards the door. As her husband entered she twisted her limbs invitingly. She could also hear, in the far distance, the sobs and gulps of two well-flogged and penitent teenagers, now having their agonised bottoms more gently attended to. These noises, and the imagery they evoked, brought her to a state of wanton preparedness.

‘I hoped you whipped them soundly, darling,’ Alice smooched. ‘Did you give them full marks for bad behaviour?’ How marvellous to be made love to by a masterful male, so strict, so demanding, and who had just exercised his rod. ‘Now, my husband, it is my turn to be spread-eagled. Do not spare me.’

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