The Rumour – Blushes Spanking Stories

A sensual discipline story with two pretty young sixth formers falling foul of their handsome Art Master and then both having to watch as he deals with the others naughty bottom. But, while her friend is given a stinging bare bottom spanking, Jeanette has been judged to be the ring leader and she will receive a most severe and distressing punishment……… and it is one she will never forget!

MOST girls at our school like him. Some have a crush on him and there are those who never seem to cease talking about him.

Mr Brisson, our Art Master, is tall and slender and very handsome to look at. Some girls in the classes he takes prefer to rest their eyes on him during lessons instead of occupying themselves with boring schoolwork. His wavy hair is dark brown and he has a tiny moustache, which a lot of us teenaged girls dream of feeling against our skin if he once would kiss us. But then there is the rumour.

Nelly and I learned the truth about that rumour in a hard way. We did not know that it was more than a rumour. In our school a girl never complains about the way he sometimes taps her on the seat of her skirt. The girls like that little touch of his hand. Some girls blush, but they don't move away, hoping he will do it again.

The rumour is quite exciting and tells that he once took two 18-year-old girls across his knee and spanked them, for having made obscene draw­ings and caused quite a commotion by showing their masterpieces to class­mates. But not even the girls in his class know if he really did do that. The truth is a deeply-hidden secret between the three persons involved.

Nelly and I came to learn that Mr Brisson actually is capable of dealing with naughty girls in the way such girls deserve. Now we would truly have preferred it to be a secret from us too, if what happened was the truth behind that rumour.

I don't think anyone could imagine my feelings while I was sitting there on that hard chair nervous and miserable, watching the sight in front of me. On the chair back behind me my skirt was hanging and if I looked down, which I mostly did, I could see my tie bulging over my breasts which felt taut and sensitive inside my white blouse. Below the hem of my blouse I saw my navy blue knickers and the bare strip of skin between them and my nylon stockings, above which tight white suspenders stretched from the stocking tops up under the legs of my faded and now somewhat outgrown knickers. My legs were trembling, so I had to hold them with my hands on my knees and I was too ashamed to look up. I felt more naked without my skirt on than I would have done in the showers and I was frightened. I wished I could close my ears in the same way as I shut my eyes, so that I wouldn't have to hear.

In front of me was my best friend Nelly. It was her voice that I heard. Sometimes she had her face turned towards me and sometimes she was looking away. Nelly is one of the prettiest girls in the whole of our school, with long curly blonde hair and an oval face with big blue eyes. She has a cute little nose and rather small pouting lips. But this was not how I saw her now. When she turned her face in my direction it was contorted. Her cheeks were flushed and tears dropped from her eyes. Wailings, squealing sounds and cries came from her mouth.

Nelly wasn't sitting up, as I was. She was lying down. Her shoulders and head were close to the floor and she had her hands on the parquet floorboards for support. Her long shapely legs were pendulating up and down. She was stretched out across the lap of our Art Master, her tummy rested on his thighs.

Mr Brisson hadn't asked her to take her skirt off, as he had me. Nelly had hers on because she was wearing her school uniform with the pleated skirt, whereas I had chosen that day to dress in an almost pencil-tight quite short skirt in the same colour, but which they didn't like me to wear at school.

Nelly's skirt was turned up round her waist and her navy blue knickers were not where knickers are supposed to be. They were pulled down to barely a few inches from the backs of her knees. She was wearing knee-length white socks, not stockings, so her thighs were bare except for where the knickers encircled them.

It was Mr Brisson's flat palm which was causing her to make all that heart-thumping noise. He was spanking her naked bum with resounding slaps and his intention was to make her regret the commotion that she and I, or to be more correct, I and she had brought about during his lesson. There was double proof that he was doing well. First the blubbering cries from Nelly's mouth and secondly the ever-growing bright red patches across my friend's well-rounded and very cute, now wobbling and flinching girlish bottom.

I really didn't want to watch, but I couldn't avoid hearing the loud, sharp slapping sounds when his hand time and time again met Nelly's bouncing bottom-cheeks. These noises and the sounds from her lips set my nerves on edge in the most alarming way.

I and my contemporaries are well aware of how a spanking makes a girl's bottom sore, but I would gladly have changed places with Nelly if I had been allowed to because I knew I was not to be let off with a mere spanking. I had to sit there and wait for my turn. Before Mr Brisson had started to punish Nelly he had sent me to open a cupboard and take out a long ugly-looking cane, hard and shiny and frightening. That cane was lying across my thighs waiting to be made use of when Nelly no longer was an object for his attention. I had to sit there apprehensive and scared and very envious of Nelly, who was to be let off more lightly than I. Of course my best friend had cause to blubber and wince like an eel, as she did. When I at times furtively glanced at them, I could see that her apple formed very girlish compact little bottom was red like stop­lights, but thinking about myself I wished for him to go on a few minutes more.

Her spanking came to an end and it was much too soon.

Whining and with her knickers below her knees now, Nelly stood up and Mr Brisson sent her to stand in the corner. She was not allowed to pull her knickers up, but he said nothing about her skirt. She didn't have to hold it up as girls sometimes must, to be made really ashamed.

What afterwards happened to me I would rather not tell. To girls in their mid teens a spanking doesn't mean so much, it's more embarrassing than painful. A caning on the contrary is something quite else. That was what I was going to get. I disliked having to stand up and hand that lithe instrument to him. His eyes were looking me over and it was awful, because I didn't have my skirt on. It is truly humiliating to have to stand as I had to. I didn't know where to put my hands. My blouse ended above my belly-button and I knew his gaze was directed below that level. Even when I closed my eyes I could feel him staring at me and it made me very nervous. It was a relief that my navy blue school knickers weren't of the see-through kind. But I had goose-pimples on my naked skin at the tops of my thighs. It would surely have been less shameful if I hadn't been wearing nylon stockings and a suspender belt. My cheeks were hot with blushing.

Mr Brisson stood up and grabbed my arm right below my shoulder. He led me to his chair, which he turned round. He ordered me curtly to bend over its back. I had never been told to do so before, but I was trembling with fear and knew there was no way I would dare to disobey him. The position he wanted me to take would make me arch my bottom up for him to cane. At that moment there was just one thing I longed and prayed for, and that was to find some way out - that a miracle would happen so that I wouldn't have to feel that horrible cane across my bottom.

There was one thing I could be sure of and that was that I would not find a way out. I hated the cane at school and I hated the cane at home. The pain was terrible and the marks on my bottom stayed for many days before they started to fade.

I was on the verge of tears, but I knew I had to obey. I cast a swift glance at Nelly in the corner. She was standing there with her legs apart and her knickers round her calves, blue against her white socks. She was still rubbing her eyes with her knuckles because she wasn't allowed to rub her smarting bottom.

My knees were weak as I bent over. With clumsy hands I clasped my fingers hard round the edge of the seat. The top of the back-rest dug into the upper fronts of my thighs and I was aware of Mr Brisson moving round behind me to stand close to my left side, cane in hand. Nelly was still whimpering faintly.

The anticipation was absolutely dreadful. I closed my eyes and my body was trembling. My knickers stretched taut across my bottom which felt so exposed and vulnerable, and I prayed that he would let me keep them on. The cane was going to hurt much more than his hand had hurt Nelly. But in despair I felt his cold fingers coming up inside my blouse at my hips

and waist. He inserted them inside the elastic waistband and I fidgeted and the first tears wet my cheeks. Such things do not take long. In a few seconds only, my knickers had been pulled down to mid-thigh, baring my bottom. I sobbed in desperation and to stand properly I had to move my feet apart and back­wards to keep my balance. It was now that I became aware of how uncomfort­able it was to have to bend over the back of a chair like this. Its wooden top edge now pressed hurtfully into my tummy, making me stand on the balls of my feet to alleviate it. Fearing the worst and feeling very precarious, I had to listen to him.

“I’ll give you ten, young lady!” Mr Brisson declared sternly. His words naturally added to my despair and desperately I pleaded for leniency but to no avail. Instead I felt his left hand pushing down hard on the small of my back as his booming voice admonished me.

“I told you, it will be ten” he repeated.

“I’ll count them myself Jeanette, so you don't have to. Just don't fidget too much because if the cane doesn't hit where it is supposed to teach young girls to behave, it will not count” he said pedantically, but I could hear the pleasure in his voice.

“Be still and don't clench that nice little bottom of yours” He paused tapping me with the cane across my buttocks. “You ought to know by now that it hurts less if you are relaxed”

There was a pause again and the cane wasn't touching my skin any more. And then he continued, “Now this is number one”

WHAAACK! The swishing sound before the cane hit my flesh was too short a warning.

“Aaaoooouuuh!” I squealed and pressed my thighs together scissoring my calves as the pain seared through my bottom. Just as the first stroke always does, the shocking scorching sting came as a complete surprise and made me realise I had forgotten how awfully it hurts to be smacked or caned. And a caning always hurts far much more than a spanking.

“Number two now, Jeanette”

That same vicious whistling sound . . . "Yyyeeeooooww!” It really did hurt down there close to my thighs, but I forced myself to stay still.

“Number three”'

“Oooouuuch!”' The cane struck straight across the middle of my buttocks but not so hard this time.

“Four Jeanette” I didn't like the sound of his voice.

There was a pause of waiting first and then it fell.

”Aahoooouuhr……Owww!….Oh!… s-sir!” This one hit me lower down and stung wildly. My bottom jerked a lot and I started crying for real.

“This is number five”

“Ooouuuch!” Higher up and it didn't hurt so much, but I still couldn't help yelping out. I sobbed and panted, hoping I would be able to take them all without fuss.

“And now this is six”

The cane really stung this time. It felt much worse. I screamed out and my cheeks were suddenly wet with tears. The pain in my bottom was maddening. My legs were quaking and the chair back felt sharp against my tummy.

Faintly through my blubbering cries I heard “Seven” And this was the stroke I had feared all along. The cane whipped across my thighs above my stocking-tops, blazing like the devil. Involuntarily I pushed the chair for­ward and my position was now even more awkward and uncomfortable.

“Eight now”

I kicked both legs upwards as the cane struck again across the tops of my thighs, singeing my skin. My legs are so much more sensitive than my bottom and I detested getting such revealing weals there.

“Nine, Jeanette” His voice sounded calmer and unaffected, as if this was just a job he had to do. He was punishing an 18-year-old girl for her own good. But I cried of course and for the third time the cane bit sharply into the flesh on the back of both my thighs. The chair back cut hard into my stomach at the same time, but I didn't care about anything except the need of a fire brigade for my burning bottom.

“Ten now!”

'Ooouuuch!… Ooooh!… Oohhh!” Thanks anyway, I could have said. I got it across my bottom this last time, like a crackling flame. I cried and cried. My whole bottom was so hot and sore. I knew it was over and my feet found the floor. Mr Brisson held my arm, helping me to stand up.

If he had wanted, I would have promised him anything at that moment if he could guarantee that I would never be caned again. I felt sure he had been terribly strict with me. I knew my bottom and thighs bore many angry smarting weals. Those marks on my thighs meant that I couldn't wear shorts or a bathing-suit or even my gym outfit until they were gone. There was to be no visit to the pool for me this week and I would have to find some excuse for the gym lessons too.

Mr Brisson didn't allow me to pull up my knickers. He sent me to join Nelly in the corner and Nelly was ordered to lift her skirt and hold it bunched up around her waist at the front. He wanted both of us to stand there with our bottoms on display for his own pleasure and our salutary humiliation.

Nelly held her skirt up with both hands, but as my skirt had been taken away I didn't know what to do with my hands. I desperately wanted to clap them to my bottom in order to soothe the smart in my skin, but I knew Mr Brisson would be angry if I did. At first I crossed them in front to hide the patch of fluffy hair between my thighs, but as my tummy was turned away from him I had no reason to do so and I felt silly holding my hands like that. So I put my arms down by my sides and after a while I let my fingers play with the suspender straps in front of my thighs just to keep them occupied.

I was still sobbing, but Nelly had calmed down. While we were standing there I soon found to my surprise that I didn't feel ashamed at all, as girls are supposed to do when they are sent to the corner. Instead I was thinking about our Art Master who was the only person in the room to see us. I thought he must be feeling satisfied with his efforts. He was looking at two very dejected 18-year-old schoolgirls whose sorely smarting bottoms showed un­mistakable signs of a treatment of the kind which has always been prescribed for the bottoms of troublesome teen-aged girls. Oh, but it hurt!

Ten or fifteen minutes later we were allowed to dress and leave. Walking home, Nelly and I didn't talk very much. We were both certain that the rumour was true. We promised each other never to tell anyone about what had happened to us. Possibly there would be a new rumour spreading amongst the girls at our school. But we were never going to talk about the old rumour or comment upon the new one concerning Mr Brisson and ourselves. Any girl who wanted to could find out for herself about Mr Brisson's remedy for naughty girls.

THE END

Click here to see two Caning Video clips with the action worthy of Jeanette's fearsome thrashing 

The New Assistant

Shop proprietor George Night is looking for a new assistant….. Anne Stannis is young, shapely and desperate for a job……..perfect credentials for what George has in mind :)…… Once again, and by popular request there is a link to a nice spanking video and picture gallery featuring a naughty young female employee receiving a well deserved OTK spanking from her Boss.                  

With a good crop of applicants George Night naturally had to interview a short list to ensure he was getting the best .

You've got to think of the customer in this business and a nice pair of tits and a saucy bottom are what brings the customers in. I'm referring to men customers naturally. He’d also to have a good look at any other attractive candidates whom he was going to have to reject (he only had a job for one girl). His procedure was simple and straightforward: some general questioning for starters and then the main object of the interview.

Which was requiring the candidate to take off her clothes. Well, he had to think of the customer and the new assis­tant's likely effect on him, and a man could only fully assess this if first of all he had a free and unimpeded view of the candidate himself. It was in this process of selection that Ann Stannis obtained the post. She was a very shapely girl of above average height with short-cut brown hair and a pert, gamine face. The intriguing combina­tion of this dark-eyed face and the voluptuous figure had definitely ap­pealed to George Night. Yes, this was

the one he decided as soon as he saw her. Or rather as soon as Ann remov­ed her blouse and skirt and then for good measure had to lower her knickers. She was the one - - but George Night made all the others remove their skirts and blouses and lower their knickers too. Naturally.

Still squeezing Ann's tits with now some ten minutes to go before the shop door is opened at 8.30 on this Monday morning, Mr Night says, 'You'll pick it all up very quickly, I'm sure. Charlotte did in no time at all. Just make sure the prices are on everything — and they don't try any label swit­ching. You get that sometimes.'

George Night is keenly squeezing and palming the nice firm tits as he speaks. Having a new girl in training is always an exciting prospect and he wasn't in any great distress when Charlotte said she was going to have to leave. Train­ing a new girl means work — but what delightful work! This delightful girl to be bent to his will. And especially this delightful bottom — hard up against which George Night's erection is now in full flower — that in the early days and weeks of training will have to be dealt with regularly and often. Surely that is why girls have such appetising bottoms: so that they can be dealt with.

With his blood up as it were and his member likewise, George can feel a powerful urge to give this bottom a preliminary going-over right now. Un­fortunately however the time for open­ing shop is rapidly approaching. Some men in the trade are happy to cane a girl in public, in front of the customers. While it is a practice which can attract custom George is not a proponent of it. The cane for him is something to be used in private. And looking at the clock it would seem that it will have to wait just a little while. But not for too long: maybe half an hour or so after he has opened up. A quick caning does not have to take very long, as he has learnt with that equally desirable Charlotte (equally desirable but dif­ferent, a big-titted. blue-eyed blonde). A girl can be told to go out the back and get ready; which means get her skirt and knickers off. And then as soon as there is a break in business he can go smartly out to join his waiting assis­tant and get into action right away. Yes. George has a great urge to do it right now but...Yes, he can wait half an hour.

Yes, he can wait half an hour -business anyway must come first. But

George gives another invigorating thrust against the ripe bulb of Ann’s bottom. It would be nice to have at least a quick look at it now. Four minutes to opening time and the opening hour is sacrosanct, the door must be opened on the dot of 8.30. But four minutes….

George lets go of the tits and removes his face form the heady scent of Ann’s newly washed hair. And his erect person from the cleft of these surging buttocks. “Get that skirt up” His voice is a little croaky from all the excitement. “Let’s have a quick look at you before they come in”

Ann looks at the clock on the wall, it is almost time to open. For some long minutes she has been standing here squeezed up against the till with Mr Knight doing these things to her, squeezing her boobs and behind her doing those things to her bottom. It has got her all hot and bothered which is not at all the way you want to be with customers coming in any moment now.

A girl has no choice but to accept this sort of thing from a boss if he wants to do it, there is nothing she can do. Being grabbed and felt up. Also being can­ed...Oh God!...but he is going to cane her, he told her that at the interview. And... any thing else?...Don't think about it. But now...it is only a couple of minutes before the door has to be opened and Mr Night is telling her...

Biting her lip Ann pulls her skirt up. She has stockings and a suspender belt on with her high heels, Mr Night told her he wanted that. 'A girl has to be smart in this job. The customers de­mand it.' Now Mr Night says, 'Hold still. Keep it up there...' And he is sliding Ann's knickers down.

The second hand of the clock continues its inexorable motion...as Mr Night's hands close on Ann's bare bottom. The ripely jutting cheeks shivering...but Ann can only stand still and obedient­ly hold her skirt up round her waist while desperately watching that clock. Mr Night's large hands fondling and jiggling the quivering nude flesh. One of the hands slides questingly in underneath.. .but the clock hand is now almost on the full 8.30. And outside a customer has in fact arrived. Mr Night's hand can't resist a quick final dart...in where it really counts. Then both of the groping hands come away. The gasping Ann is told to pull up her knickers and take up her position behind the counter. Mr Night is striding to the door. The customer, Mrs Fad­ing, a middle-aged lady, is let in. As she enters, with Ann behind the counter still adjusting her clothing, the second hand of the clock has performed an ex­tra quarter circle. This fact is not lost on the eagle eye of Mrs Farling.

'A little bit late this morning, Mr Night.'

That gentleman is a model of self-control, notwithstanding what he has just had his hand on and indeed what else he is planning to do at the very first opportunity. 'Just a fraction perhaps, Mrs Farling. It's my new girl of course. Ann here. Showing her the ropes.'

The room Mr Night has told Ann to go to is empty of furniture except for a single item: a swivel typist's sort of chair. This is standing approximately in the centre of this smallish room which contains nothing else. Or that is

what Ann's eyes tell her as she enters - but once she is inside she can see that this is not quite true. In the cor­ner behind the door is one other thing. A cane. She lets out a whimpering sound. Because that of course is why she has been told to come here. Mr Night is going to cane her. He has told Ann to come in here and 'get ready'. Get ready for a caning. Ann is to get her skirt up and take down her knickers. Mr Night will be in here with her very shortly, when he feels he can leave the shop for a few minutes.

It is 9.15. Since opening at 8.30 there has been a steady trickle of customers of various sorts: men and women of varying ages, plus a few schoolboys earlier on. These latter proved to be universally objectionable, their eyes lighting up at the sight of this new and pretty assistant. 'Cor, look at this!' 'What's she like, Mr Night?' 'Have you given her the cane yet?' 'Can we give her the cane?' 'Has she got big tits?' Etc, etc. At one point Ann un­thinkingly allowed herself to be entic­ed out from behind the counter by two boys and was immediately grabbed. Mr Night did nothing as Ann struggled with them and when she finally regain­ed the safety of the other side of the counter, her blouse all unbuttoned and her skirt unzipped, he said it was her own fault for letting it happen.

The adult male customers were no bet­ter, and there could be no struggling to get away as with the schoolboys, A new assistant was a big attraction for the shop. She would bring more (male) customers in and bring them in more often. 'So this is the new girl, eh George? Let's have a look at her then.' And Ann had to come obligingly out from behind the counter to be admired. To stand obligingly still while the customer's hand patted and fondled this and that. 'Needs the cane I expect, George. Need any help in that direction?'

Mr Night shook his head with some non-committal reply. Ann didn't know it but favoured customers would be per­mitted this privilege. But after the pro­prietor himself of course. Because George Night himself had not yet en­joyed that pleasure and was indeed get­ting impatient to satisfy his need. Glan­cing at the clock and observing the general state of play in the shop. Nor­mally after 9 there was a bit of a lull... so when at 9.15 the shop became empty he quickly told Ann to go out to that room at the back. To get ready.

Another female customer drifts in...to George's concealed annoyance. 'I thought you were starting a new girl. Mr Night?' He smiles his bland smile. 'Yes, Mrs Harcut, she's out the back. Sorting some things out.' What the girl had better be doing of course is getting her knickers down.

Mrs Harcut leaves...and she does seem to be the last for the present. George Night goes to glance outside. Yes, the street is empty. All right then.

Ann has got herself ready. Not men­tally ready certainly but she has done what Mr Night has told her to do. Tucked her skirt up round her waist and pulled her knickers down to the tops of her stockings. As She was shortly before the shop opened this morning? and indeed also at that interview. But now it is not only to have her bottom fondled by Mr Night's gropy hands — though that of course is bad enough. But now...that object standing in the corner of the room. Mr Night's cane. Ann has been standing here trying not to think about it. Though naturally that has not been possible. And now...

Her eyes widen in fright as he enters. Closing the door behind him. 'Ready, are we? We seem to be free for the mo­ment, my girl. So we'll give it a little touching up, shall we? That pretty bum.' His hand can't resist a greedy grab. 'Get up on the stool then, kneel­ing...and get your rear stuck nicely out...'

Ann hasn't actually done anything that might remotely be seen as deserving of a caning of course, but that is no pro­blem. A man expects to cane a trainee assistant simply as part of her training. Indeed George Night, like most male employers of unmarried girls, will con­tinue to cane his assistant even after she would seem to be fully trained and competent in her duties. He will cane her and he will allow others to cane her. Certain favoured customers, gentlemen whose custom he wishes to keep and who for their part will be hap­py to let George Night have that in ex­change for access to this choice young female.

So there is going to be plenty of that cane in store for Ann. Plenty to come of which she is now to get her first taste. Kneeling now on the seat of the typist's stool and holding onto the back with her skirt up round her waist and knickers properly lowered. That ripe plum of a bottom thrust appetisingly out. To receive what George Night now whips testingly through the air. He has to be quick, a man can't leave his business unattended, but George Night has learnt with Charlotte how to be quick. It doesn't take long: a four-stroker say: but enough to get that heady thrill, that surge of the blood. Enough to tide him over for a couple of hours, and then another quickie at lunch time and again in the middle of the afternoon. And then when it's clos­ing time of course, time for something more extended -- when a man can finally take his time at it. But right now...four, say...?

Cracck!...

A gasping whimpering yelp from Ann as the cane stings the springy flesh of her thrust-out rear. Oh Jesus. Hanging onto the back of the chair for dear life as the hot pain throbs up through her. Oh Jesus...she can't...

Cracck!... 'Noo...ooohhhh...!'

Six pm, Time for Mr Night to close shop. At last, the end of Ann's first day. A dreadful day! Those dreadful visits to the room at the back, that room with its solitary chair which Ann has had to kneel on or bend over. For those quick canings snatched by Mr Night whenever there has been a break in the action in the shop. And when there hasn't been a break in the action there has been the other thing: the customers, men customers of course, eager to grope and grab this pretty new assis­tant. Word has of course got round that George Night has a new girl and con­sequently custom has been brisk all day (although George has managed to snatch those moments). Yes it has been a really dreadful day but at last it is

This first day is over and Ann can now go back to her lodgings, Mrs Green's, because Ann's own home is some way away and she is only going to be able to go back there at weekends. Mrs Green, though, is all right, a pleasant lady who will have a meal ready for Ann when she gets back and Ann will be able to have a bath and perhaps watch TV or write a letter and try to forget how awful her first day has been. That is what she thinks as Mr Night puts the closed sign up in the door. She can go now...

THE END

Click here to see a naughty young employee getting a hard bare bottom spanking!

‘Waiting’ – Blushes Spanking Stories

A brief look into the tormented mind of a pretty young lady as she nervously anticipates her Masters return and the punishment that will surely follow

Perhaps, she thought, he wouldn't return after all. It was getting so late; quite dark. Eva wiped the conden­sation from the window so that she could see more clearly. There was no one in sight. The lane bent after about a hundred yards.

Could he have had some sort of accident? The idea gave her sudden hope — but she immediately felt guilty about wishing harm to another human being. Even if it were Mr Napier who was hard and unyielding. Without compassion, it seemed.

Eva pressed her hands to her bottom, which still glowed hotly. As he had instructed, it was still bare — and must remain so until his return. Her breasts, too, were bare, though she had thrown a blouse around her shoulders. When Mr Napier finished, he always insisted she be naked. Eva had become accustomed to it — but that did not make it any less shaming.

He had spanked her harder than usual that afternoon. Why? It did not seem to her that her work had been any worse than usual. She supposed he was just in a 'mood'.

“I have to go out now,” he had said as she had stood there, with tears in her eyes, pressing palms to her burning buttocks.

“Do the work you were set over again. I shall look at it when I return.” Then, with a meaningful look, he had placed the strap on the desk at which she sat. As Eva was well aware, that leather thong hurt far more than the palm of a hand. It stung abominably. Laid over her already tender flesh it would be excruciating. She caught her breath in apprehensive dread.

She had finished the work long ago. There was nothing more she could do about it now. The decision was in his I hands. And never did there seem any rhyme or reason for those decisions. He was arbitrary; the actual quality of work seemed of little account.

Eva turned from the window and studied the written sheets again. There seemed little wrong. That made no difference. Turning back, she pressed a hand to her bare breasts. Unlike her buttock cheeks they felt cold. Back out the window, she peered into the gathering gloom — and I her heart gave a violent thump. Mr Napier was coming round the bend of the lane, head down against the wind.

No accident had befallen him. Within a minute or so he would be back in that room, silent and sombre as he studied her work. Eva looked at the strap on her desk and her throat went dry.

He is going to use it, she said to herself, I know. Tears pricked her eyes. Otherwise, he would not have left it there, in full view. Deliberately stoking up her fears, it was in his nature to do that.

Footsteps were coming up the stairs. Eva's heart thumped. Involuntarily she pressed her hands to her buttocks again. Poor, sore bottom, she whimpered inwardly.

For Eva was now certain...

The door opened abruptly and in he came. One look at those stern features, those implacable eyes, and Eva was quite certain...

THE END

The Hostage

Millicent had been born into the kind of family that a novelist might have contrived as a background for a story of privilege and influence, politics and high finance, and the family, as in all the best novels, had the obligatory skeleton in the cupboard. Uncle Simon.

That family fortunes had, in the intervening years, declined to the point where Uncle Simon had ended up as the only member of the family to have hung on to his share of the joint inheritance was, to put it mildly, humiliating for the respectable side of the family.

Only one of Uncle Simon's relations had had the insight to recognise that his weakness for pretty girls, the thing which had condemned him in the eyes of the family hitherto, was in a fact a very exploitable side of his character now that he had all the money; Millicent's mother, Cicely.

Which explains why, on this particular day, young Millicent is presently half-naked in the drawing room of Uncle Simon's house, and why she will not be listened to should she try telling any tales on her return to the bosom of her family. It explains too why Uncle Simon has proceeded, and indeed is proceeding, without that regard for discretion which one might have expected him to observe in his dealings with his 'niece', albeit a niece by marriage only, since Millicent is actually his sister's step­daughter.

The word 'hostage' has never passed anyone's lips in connections with Millicent's now prolonged stay in her uncle's house; neither have the words 'sacrificial lamb' been used openly. Respectability would not be able to accept the continuance of the situation if such ideas were actually voiced abroad. That such expressions would describe the arrangement rather well is not to say that it would be desirable to bandy them about. Millicent is staying with her uncle for a holiday, which, so far as anyone else is concerned, is all there is to it.

Millicent herself is by now more than a little confused, however. Her letters home have elicited prompt replies from her mother which have blandly ignored the poor girls fervently expressed desire to be allowed to leave Uncle Simon's house as soon as possible, and her telephone calls have had no better result.

When her mother told her to 'be a good girl' and she'd promised that she would, she'd had no idea that 'being naughty could be anything like so painful!

At this precise moment Uncle Simon is glancing amusedly through Millicent's latest missive to her mother, which had been given to the housekeeper to post but which has been redirected by that worthy lady before she pops it in the post box tomorrow. The plaintiveness of Millicent's written pleas to be allowed home trouble his conscience not at all, but they do add a certain poignancy to the situation which obtains here and now in the drawing room. Uncle Simon slips the letter back into its envelope.

Though she can see in the tall mirror over the fireplace that her uncle is reading something, Millicent is in no position to speculate as to what it might be. She is too busy coping with an emotional little drama of her very own. Her knickers are clinging sympathetically to her thighs, as if trying to comfort her in her distress, but her bottom still smarts and trembles and squeezes its fresh-smacked cheeks together with tiny convulsive tremors, and blushes prettily under Uncle Simon's eye. She feels dismal in the extreme, humiliated by the casual way in which she is expected to keep her bottom bared and on display while her uncle idly considers what to do with her next.

She catches the fleeting smile which passes across Uncle Simon's face as he replaces the letter in the envelope, and thinks she can see in that momentary expression a hint of playfulness. It makes her feel yet more wretched, knowing only too well that when Uncle Simon is in a playful mood, tea-time, even bed-time might come and go before she is allowed to slip miserably off the hook.

Uncle Simon then, knowing full well that his young guest's imagination will be working overtime now, lets the unfortunate girl simmer gently in her nervous anticipation of she knows not what, and is not at all surprised when, a minute or so later, he detects the merest suggestion of a gasped breath, together with an involuntary pressing together of bare thighs as if to stifle the sound. He knows that she can rarely keep her tender emotions in check for long when they play these waiting games. She has a gift for self-inspired fits of tearfulness on such occasions, and her bottom begins to shiver gently while her sobs become steadily more audible.

She cries for several minutes, averting her eyes from her uncle's in the mirror, and one hand wanders irresolutely down her bare flank to the knickers hitched around the tops of her legs. Her fingers pluck ruefully at the elastic, betraying her ashamedness, and her pathetic wishing that she might be allowed to pull up her pants and tuck her spanked bum-cheeks away out of Uncle Simon's sight.

She whispers "Please, Uncle Simon - please -" though her voice has no tenor of hope in it. Her plea goes unremarked, indeed perhaps even unnoticed, for all she knows. Her hand withdraws and goes back to clutching her dress at her waist, and she seems to regain a touch of dignity.

She stands more erect, shoulders pulled back a little, and even her bottom, bared and spanked and shamefully exposed though it is, seems to hold itself differently; more formally, self-conscious still but a bit braver now.

Uncle Simon eyes his guest and her saucy insolent bottom, and fancies that in its blushing pertness, its insouciance, it is wanting to apologise for being irresistibly smackable. And who could not forgive a girl, and her bottom, who present themselves still with such hesitant yet deliberate submissiveness, trembly and afraid though they both certainly are?

Forgiven then, though not yet absolved, Millicent and her bottom shiver mutely in a limbo of unknowingness, while Uncle Simon, who knows, shudders a faint thrill of anticipation. He watches her face in the mirror; her expression more composed though still anxious. She parts her lips, perhaps unthinkingly, but he wants to find some suggestion there, of willingness to please, of complicity in this ritual of smacked bottoms and humiliation. It seems that she makes moist promises with her mouth. She touches her lips with her tongue, then slips it back, inside her soft slippery mouth, perhaps asking to make amends, to say her sorrys without the words.

He allows himself to be surprised at her forwardness, though it may only have been his imagination, but puts the thought safely away for reference on some other day. She'll say her sorrys this afternoon in another, more sorry-making way.

He has the instrument of absolution at hand, though as yet this afternoon she has not glimpsed it. He watches her face in the mirror until he's sure he has her fullest attention, and then eases it from its hiding place, leaving it casually in his lap and in Millicent's full reflected view.

Millicent's round young bottom tweaks convulsively at the sudden appearance of this instrument of correction. To say that she is familiar with it would be misleading, in truth she has seen it only once before, yet she remembers the awfulness of that occasion with such clarity that tears are welling hot in her eyes even as she stares disbelievingly at that most shuddery of sights. She pulls her eyes away and strives not to look back. Within moments, however, dread curiosity makes her stare at it again, now unable to drag her gaze away.

Uncle Simon almost smiles at the comic look of apprehension on her face. Yes, my sweet - you remember it well, don't you! And the lesson it taught you, eh?

And to Millicent, with her knickers already taken down and suffering that awful feeling of vulnerability which goes with the nakedness of bottoms in such circumstances, the plainness of her Uncle's intent is enough to release her tears in a swift flood of desolate self-pity, for one moment she dares to look over her shoulder at the cause of her distress, finding it no less awful to behold face to face.

It rests lightly in Uncle Simon's hand, held between two fingers somewhere about its mid-point so that its length curves up towards the tip, jaunty and wicked, he tilts it up a little so that it points blatantly at her naked bottom, and Millicent stutters and stumbles over her sobbing en-treaties until they are swamped by her tears.

He cannot find it in his heart to blame her. He too can recall the last time in fine, intimate detail, and knows what poor Millicent went through. But it can't be helped, smacked bottoms might be alright for little girls, but Millicent is no longer a little girl - and big girls have to be dealt with differently, with altogether stiffer penances to pay.

One finger crooked and beckoning, brings the tearful but still obedient girl to his chair. Two fingers, one on either side, slip Millicent's knickers down to her knees, then to her ankles. She steps out of them hesitantly, clumsily, and catches the fastening of her shoe in the material. She stumbles awkwardly, still weeping and unable to see clearly through her tears.

He slaps her hard on her legs, pretending impatience, and Millicent teeters above him, smooth belly and soft pubic hair inches from his face as he yanks at her tangled knickers.

It doesn't matter. He sends her out of the room in front of him, knickers still caught on her shoe and dragging forlornly along underfoot. He makes her wait at the foot of the stairs while he goes to the study and seeks around for the little pot, the soothing balm which she'll be grateful for a little later. Then he sends her upstairs, following the unhappy bounce of her still smarting cheeks two stairs behind. Stupidly she stands on her knickers and at the next upward step they rip away from her shoe. Uncle Simon scoops them up and follows weepy Millicent into her room.

Upstairs the sun is beaming cheerfully into the bedroom and catches in Millicent's hair as she stands at the foot of her bed, dress still hoisted up to her waist. There seems little need to undress her further, she is after all naked from the waist down to her ankles. He nudges her gently forward and she has no option but to kneel on the bed, supporting herself with her hands. He pushes her dress up her back, up beyond the strap of her bra, and slips both hands round under her hips and coaxes her into the right position, back hollowed, bottom tilted up. Nudged again, she collapses onto her elbows, face pressed against the bed, tears soaking the quilt, while Uncle Simon slips the lid off the little pot.

Then, bottom hot and crimson, yellow dress up to her armpits, socks rumpled, shoes over the foot of the bed, Millicent manages to strangle her sobs into sniffley silence while she is adjusted to precisely the right angle, though it is the quiet of dread anticipation when there is no spirit left even for weeping. With her eyes wide and frightened, Millicent waits for the first touch, the first experi­mental pats on her trembly bottom, the first tear- squeezing stroke.

THE END

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Marian - Blushes Spanking Stories

Delicate as a gazelle you walked into my room that first time, treading just as if the very flowers upon the carpet might trip you up. I remember that littler 'Er...' you uttered - much like a bee's hum heard across a lawn. Deliberately I did not look up at first - saw only those first high heels you wore, jet black, and which Corinthe had wished upon you, I am sure.

Certainly they made your slim legs look even longer than they are and gave to your teenage years an even more appealing look - or rather, I should say, seem to render you (oddly enough) more defenceless than when you wear your ordinary flat heels.

My sister-in-law can be a terrible tease in such respects. Oh yes, she teaches the boys still, and I the girls. The latter, I regret to say, she likes to spank as much as I do. Her hand, I do believe, reaches those parts that others rarely reach, creating effects which she tells me are astonishing.

I quite believe her, though it is as much her ultra-short skirts as her wilful hand that does the trick, I think. Such 'notes' as we exchange on disciplinary matters are brief; more subtle than direct. We both prefer it so. Often it is enough for me to say that I peeled so-and-so's knickers down today. Her imagination does the rest.

That first day when I first looked up at you (so hesitantly you stood, arms at your sides), I indulged myself in the reality of a vision that other men but dream of.

Corinthe had merely said that you were coming up to seventeen and had a ballet dancer's figure. The sort that David Hamilton would love to photograph, she said, and she was right. Your proportions were - and are - remarkable. That waist - can it be more than twenty inches, wasp like and so pliable? Those eyes like seeking lanterns and those hips that seal the sides of your exquisite bottom - ah, there is a mastery of sculpture there. Michelangelo himself might have fashioned those smallish but exquisitely firm tits.

No doubt in several years time (or even now, when you have reached eighteen), you will complain, as I believe girls do, 'My bottom is too big' - and that I would be the first to vehemently deny. It orbs superbly, unexpectedly almost, so proudly poised on the twin columns of your thighs that are neither plump nor over-slim, but perfectly proportioned for their task.

I could, of course, go on. That nose - retroussee (some would call it snub) - those eyes that form an often silent O when the strap sleeks across your wriggling bum. Your nipples, too; how fiercely-shy (or is it shyly-fierce?) they are. They peak upon your perfect tits which are as round and firm as those large Jaffa oranges that always seem to burst through bags.

Silent, or almost always so, you are or were. Corinthe had tutored you beforehand in that. She did not say so, but I needed not to ask. That tiny flip-up skirt she made you wear together with an over-tight white blouse and sheer black stockings told me all.

A purist might have had you otherwise that first day, with white socks, a slightly looser pleated skirt and black, strap-over shoes. Ah yes, and a striped tie as well - but Corinthe had foreseen perhaps that even such might hinder wandering fingers where your buttons stretched to bursting point.

You had to bring a note to me, you said. I remember that I rose, went round my desk, and touched your fingers as I took it - felt a tingling there. A nice touch was the bow you wore that held your brown, abundant hair behind your ears and gave your oval face an extra look of purity. Even then, I must confess, I wondered vaguely if you were already luxuriant in that respect elsewhere.

I read the note slowly even though I knew what it contained. Telepathy, maybe. I am used to Corinthe's tricks. She had a Fifth Form boy to deal with that bright day. I feared indeed that you might hear his cries - the wails of one who would seek relief in more directions than the one she would first put her mind to. But no - she had already thought of that, the witch, and had ordered him up to the second floor, herding the poor young fellow on, as one might say. He would certainly suffer a rather intimate loss before she brought him down again, but with Corinthe that might take some time. I said that she can be an awful tease. Perhaps you also knew that then - had experienced teeth-gritting spankings under her palm. I did not wish to know that then -preferred your bottom virgin to the urging tawse. It would seem that I had to deal with you, I said. I remember that you blinked, looked down, and how sweet your oval face looked in the light, making me remark the sense of quietude that pervades you often in my presence. Even now, you only hiss your breath out softly when I roll your knickers down. And you will even blush to read that, yes. The crown of your head was underneath my eyes, each fine brown hair seen as through a magnifying glass, and - there, below - the proud-firm jutting of those spring-hard breasts that waited their first awakening, too. Or first from my hand at least. I suspected, just a little, (more telepathy?) that you may well have been practiced on'.

I locked the door - a mark of sternness, as I thought, though in your case it proved unnecessary. If, I said, you took your skirt and knickers off. Odd that - I did not actually tell you to. Remember that? Yes, gentleness marked every word I spoke at first. How lean with longing I desired to see your knickers fall! No, no - not fall - glide down. Whether you faced me then (already shyly taking your skirt off) or turned your back to me, I did not mind.

You turned. Quite properly you faced my desk. Ah, those slim calves, the tightness of those stocking tops, jet black against your creamy skin! And then your knickers… Craftily, Corinthe had given you the smallest, most transparent ones that she could find. The back was twisted slightly in between your apple-smooth, impertinent cheeks - ah yes, so ripe for one so young, so bulbous, waiting for the benediction of the strap.

Slowly you slid them down -almost as though you were conscious of the waiting of my eyes, and of your consciousness as well of the proudness of your derriere. The cheeks roll deeply under, making those delightful creases where the ivory columns of your thighs support the plump and faintly-quivering flesh. Down, down the tiny, gauzy panties went. In bending, lifting up one leg and then the other, I had an extra view of paradise - soft curls, a twinkling of rolled, pinky lips.

You cast them off and stood again and did not bend until I told you to and, when I did, I remember how you placed your palms upon the desk and how your perfect pose surprised - back dipped, your bum superbly orbed, legs just a cautious inch or two apart.

A momentary panic must have seized you then. You murmured, 'Please, no!' once, then your head bent. Like a garden nymph you looked, your bottom thrust in patience waiting. Just a wee provocative, I thought, though I swear you did not know it to be so. Had you been tested once or twice before you came to us? Again, I've never asked, I've always felt you would not say. At the first CRA-AAACK! of the tawse you winced. A fine pink blur stained your pert cheeks. You choked that sound back, though, and perversely I knew I had to strap you harder then. The challenge was appealing more than punitive. Or maybe both, for what unconscious sensuality of out-thrust cheeks you offered to the tawse!

I seared you thrice. Your hips jerked wilfully, your bottom swivelling like a ball upon a jet of water, your high heels twittering upon the floor, and from your lips little whimpers of fright. No screams, though - no unsettling squeals that even so are often music to male ears.

Those three were not enough, of course. I had to get into the depths of you - even that first time, yes. THWA-AAACK!…SPLAT-CRACK!.......OOOOH!'….you gasped, and such a pretty, moaning sound it was as made my trouser zip strain out as much as from the view I had of you.

Your heels had clicked together at that last. Perhaps you knew it was the last and thought... But no, I must not speculate. - 'Do not get up', I said. Your eyes that had been open, closed. Your bottom - tingling hot, I know - stilled itself with a primness that amused, and I made you stay thus until I put the tawse away, then told you to get up and dress. Rather pointedly, I turned my back on you the while you did and gazed out on the quad. Corinthe would be but halfway through her task, I thought. My own was infinitely more delicate.

'Have you learned from that?', I asked. I did not turn. I wanted more of that soft voice. I heard the elastic of your panties snap.

'Yes', you said meekly. - 'What then have you learned?', I asked. I wheeled around. Your tongue licked once across your upper lip.

Your skirt was snagged up, but you waited, then - 'To be obedient', you said, and said it rather as if by rote, as if someone had written up the words across a blackboard. - 'That is all?', I asked. Asked it unfairly, yes, -provocative. Your eyes swam somewhere then across my shoes.

'To...'.

'Yes - go on', I said. I had a presentiment, I guess. A small, electrical charge was in the air.

'To... to, to take my knickers down when I am told', you said.

Corinthe? Your very words were blossoms in the air. How dearly I wanted then to bring the cane to you, and yet I knew I had to keep the balance of the hour.

'You will do so next time the moment you come in, without my telling you. That's understood?', I asked. You nodded only then. The faintest blush spread in your cheeks. Your left suspender showed - the gripping clip that drew black nylon to a fine V. I moved forward, twitched your skirt down, touched your silky thigh. You did not start nor jerk, but looked shy and impassive all at once.

'Are you a boarder or a day-girl?', I then asked, for you had not been with us long, as I knew. A day-girl, you replied, which gave me pause to think. The Academy (or so Corinthe chooses to call it in a charming but old-fashioned way) closes at five for day-girls. Some, though, do stay on for 'extra lessons'. I reminded you of that, though adding nothing to my words. Other girls whom I had had under the tawse or cane were simply told to stay. It is quieter after five, and more convenient.

'You want me to stay, sir?' you replied. I need the volunteering of those words from you. Your lower lip so often pouts, and looks deliciously suckable. Tomorrow, I replied - no doubt to your relief.

You swallowed audibly and said, 'Yes, Sir. At five, then, do I have to come - or what?'

The last two words had a slight strain of impertinence, but I forgave you that. They stemmed from newness, nervousness, though none showed in your eyes that always seem to have a look of waiting rather than of apprehension. I would say that of your bottom, too, and know it not to be a fantasy. All manner of crazy things came into my head with the smoothing of my hand across your stocking tops. T want to hear you sob', I wished to say - T mean to caress your bottom afterwards'. Instead, of course, I simply said 'five thirty'. It was good to make you wait. - 'Yes, sir', you said, and then went quietly out after I had unlocked the door for you.

Corinthe looked in before I left. I had watched you leave - from my high window watched you leave, knowing the bulb beneath your then longer skirt, your straw hat neatly perched upon your hair, white socks again instead of nylons that would have made your mother raise her eyes.

'All right?', asked Corinthe. -'Fine', I said. She lingered - cat with cream, I thought. - 'She was O.K.?', asked Corinthe. - 'Yes', I said impatiently. I saw you climb into a waiting car. I would not tell her more - would not. She shrugged and pouted, and then went, saying 'Goodnight' in a curt way. I had chosen well my day - the next day she would be away. I would deal with you in my own room, upstairs.

Remember how I did - how hesitant you were when, skirt and knickers off, I told you to remove your tie and blouse? I wished you to protest, maybe - to earn an extra six. You did not, though. Your lips compressed a little, then you peeled it off and stood with hands across your pubic pout. I had laid across a chair a tawse and cane. Deliberately, yes. You looked but quickly at them both. According to all the 'rules' you should have pleaded, 'Not the cane, sir, please!' but you did not. I admired you for that extra 'wilful-ness' - the over-proud refusal that you have to plead.

Goddamn it, I will make you plead, I thought. I picked the cane up, but you merely stared down at the carpet, legs together, neat white socks, black shoes. I almost hesitated then, but knew I must not, made you turn and put your hands upon the back of that wooden chair.

I tapped your legs and made them move apart. How mutinously you shifted your flat heels! - 'Come, MORE', I said, and said it sternly, too, until you pouted all at me, from beneath your bulb, the brown curls sprouting just a little to my eyes.

Dammit, you did not even ask why I was caning you, and yet victoriously I brought a high, thin squeal from you at last as the cane coursed its first THWITT! across your bum and left a pink streak in its wake. A squeal? But that was all it was. No sobs, no pleading wail.

The five I gave to you thereafter were slow. I made you wait ten seconds in between each one. And lighter? Yes, they were a little, yes. I meant your hips to swivel more; they did. At each you uttered a thin cry, I making you strain high upon your toes with two fine sweeps beneath your wriggling bum.

'For the moment that will do', said 1.1 wanted you to reach behind and clasp your bottom. No - you did not, deeply-tingling as it must have been.

'May I get up, sir?', then you asked. 'I have not told you to', I said. I reached a hand out to your quivering cheeks, but then withdrew it just as though it had been scorched itself. 'Get up', I said impatiently. I had to turn and walk from you. You would have seen what I myself displayed, though hidden under trouser-stretch.

'You may go home now', I said. You did not speak, but quietly dressed again. - 'Your tie is crooked', I remember saying and straightened it and let my hands drift down beneath its fall between your tits whose nipples then were urgent, peaking out. I touched them lightly, felt the sharp, hard points, expecting you to jerk. You did not jerk but gazed impassively into my shirt. Did you wish my hands to linger? Who could tell with you? Other girls have all but wheedled their breasts into my palms to avoid a further caning -but you not. Your silence was more awesome to me, in its way, than were my words to you, I'm sure of that.

'I shall attend to you twice a week - every Tuesday, every Friday. Do you understand?', I asked. Perhaps I wanted a long, blurting speech from you. You simply nodded, moved away, and then stood hesitant. -'Yes, what?', I asked. - 'Nothing, sir', you said - and nothing is more maddening (or to me, at least) than have a female leave some words unsaid. You wished me, I believe, to sak you 'What?' again. I am not so foolish as to fall for that.

'Tuesday', I said curtly, then you went, feet laggard down the waiting stairs. The -car was waiting there again, exactly as if you had known how long you'd stay. I resented that, and yet admired you for it, too. I wished to break you in, I know, but could not bring myself to cane you any harder then.

Tuesday and Friday came and went. I strapped you on the Tuesday - on the Friday coursed your bottom with the cane. That last stroke with the cane - remember that? It was the hardest I had ever swung the thing. You screeched a high-pitched shriek and then... ah then... at last you sobbed, sobbed on until I had to dry your tears, your nipples naked, burning through my shirt, your bottom tender to my seeking touch. Yes, touch. I dared my fleeting fingers round your bottom the while you bubbled out your little cries.

'Go home', I said. How sullenly you dressed and went, and went in total silence, too. You stayed a longer moment in the hall downstairs that time. I know you did. It was three minutes longer, monitoring yourself, before you walked out down the drive and reached the car, hot-throbbing as you must have been. How did you not wince when you sat down? Maybe you did -excused yourself.

Two further weeks passed thus. 'Have you not caned her yet?', Corinthe asked once. I shook my head as though you little interested me. I have no doubt she questioned you and that you, too, were mute. Other girls came into my study, bared their bottoms and received the tawse, departing weeping, heads bowed, slouching out. But you were never like that, were you? No. I increased your caning strokes to twelve, but made them lighter. Even so, your cleft orb was deliciously criss-crossed, the marks vivid, I am sure, for half an hour at least. You sobbed a little but you never snivelled nor whined, as did most of the other girls.

On the third week, 'I have to leave', you said. 'Daddy is taking me on a trip through France and Mummy said I haven't learned enough to stay'. - 'I understand', I said. Those were not the words I wished to say. You told me moments after coming in, and stood there fiddling with your skirt.

'I regret, of course, that you are leaving - and more so that I evidently have not taught you very much', I said. 'Actually', you said, and then infuriatingly you stopped again. -'Yes?', I enquired. The cane and tawse lay lonely on a chair. - 'I have... I have learned something, sir - oh honestly', you said - looked long towards the waiting chair, and then you fled.

I still wonder about that -

THE END

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Theresa - The best seat in the House

Here is a nice little tale about a nice little tail!…..don’t you just LOVE that wonderful piece of artwork? Oh and there is a nice little video clip at the end of this story, especially for all lovers of bare bottom hairbrush spankings!…..As usual, please enjoy :)

JEREMY turned a corner and saw the house. A 1960s box of cheap brick and aluminium windows, in a road of identical bunny-hutches. Each des-res was just detached from its neighbour. Each had a little concrete drive-in and lawn in front, the sort that a well-trained long-jumper would clear in a single leap.

A melancholy business, clearing out 'Aunt Em's'. Decent old trout, really, and good of her to leave him the lot. That last night in the nursing-home, she looked up from her pillow, the twinkle still in her eyes, her words indistinct. 'Be a real young fast card, Jerry/ she gasped, her final act of admiration. The others assured him of her parting thoughts. Fast card? Were they still with crinolines and steam-boat gamblers1 Jeremy, his hearing more acute than theirs, heard, 'Be a real young bastard, Jerry!' Aunt Em said it with malicious encouragement. The language these old girls picked up from the day-room television! And then Aunt Em smiled, closed her eyes, and snuffed it.

Jeremy slid the Yale into the lock. A house of outmoded furniture and bric-a-brac, sentimentally appealing from school holidays spent with Aunt Em and Uncle Stan. He toured the rooms, noting the casualties of her declining years. Dripping taps pleaded for washers. Rubber insulation crumbled from bare wire. Windows were edged by contours of damp. In a casement corner, under cracked flashing, a fall of coffee-coloured powder looked appallingly like dry rot.

Five days to sort the dump out. Sorry, Aunt Em, but it really is a dump, a tip. Poor old girl. The worse he behaved, the more she had spoilt him.

He leant his elbows on the windowsill, among the dry-rot spores, staring through net curtains at uniform houses across the road. There were tall tress beyond, parkland breaking up the suburban wastes. A council estate would have been better-built. The area reeked of pensions, home-helps, low-level employment, repossession, and social dependency. And it was like living in a car park. At one end, by the main road, overnight lorries parked. Elsewhere, a car or two filled every pavement drive-in. Surplus vehicles lined the kerb, a Maginot-line of Fords, Rovers, Fiats, Vauxhalls . . . Small wonder that young and gabby Mr Reardon, the house agent, wanted the property on the market at 'a bit of discount'. The whole neighbourhood had been discounted at birth.

Five days to clear the house. No point lingering. Nothing for fun in this place. He thought of the other night with Josie Phillips. Her cry of discovery had blended outrage with helpless wonder at his ruthlessness. 'You beast, Jerry! Look what you've done to me!' He smiled at the memory. Thank you, farewell, and adieu, Ms Phillips. More careful next time, sweetie-pie.

Aunt Em and Uncle Stan's retirement shack was not at the hub of high society. The couple opposite, for instance. Cleaning the car in their regulation fifteen-foot concrete drive-in. Two cars in fact. And the chap then walking out to the road and opening another hulk that was obviously a re-sprayed insurance write-off. Three cars in that cosy little slum. No, four. He was opening the boot of the next clapped out hundred-thousand-miler and taking out the spare wheel. How could two people drive four cars?

'Got the foot-pump, T'resa?' the man yelled, drowning Radio 1 on a car stereo.

Jeremy scanned the house-front for Theresa. Golly! How had he missed that lot? It was a while since he had seen a figure quite as splendid. Taller than the man, she appeared to advantage in a tight red blouse and shorts that looked like swimwear or white elasticated briefs to be worn under a skirt. Stretch-briefs and blouse met, tightly-belted, at the waist.

Theresa could be 30, more or less. Jeremy bet himself that she had been a professional dancer when she was 20 or 25. A showgirl figure like that, she had to be. He lifted the net curtain an inch, his chin on the window ledge and peered through the chink. Uncle Stan's field-glasses that used to hang on the hall-stand' Barr and Stroud 20 x 20, purloined by Petty Officer Stan from the Admiralty on ' demob in 1946. He went downstairs two at a time. There they were in their scuffed brown case.

Upstairs, two at a time. Curtain up again. The weight of twin black metal tubes resting on the sill. Turning the focus of the eye-pieces. Let's have a good look at you, Theresa. She was facing the man, saying something, showing fine but rather narrowed hazel eyes, narrowed perhaps against strong summer light. Her cheekbones were quite broad. There was a firm but neat and pretty line to her nose and chin. This portrait was set off by a stylish tumble of fair ringlets to her shoulders. An appointment at the hairdresser every week or two, he guessed.

Now she turned away, shammy in hand, to wash down the back of the Mini in the little drive-in. Tall and long waisted, a lithe and beautiful mover. Long and graceful bare legs, her hips and her legs showing a firm lightly-muscled maturity. An active young woman, not a couch-potato.

A slight movement of the glasses caressed the taut white web of elasticated briefs as she bent, lingering on the bottom-cheeks of a firm-figured woman at 30. Regular sex and perhaps the necessary exercise of child-bearing had given Theresa's body a seductively worldly-wise look, her bottom showing a proud self-assured swell, a Spartan erotic maturity. Something suggested that the young tart had married early enough to have a daughter in her teens.

Jeremy's eyes caressed Theresa's long, lightly suntanned thighs, as they branched upwards and outwards a little from her knees. They were not fat or even plump but well-fleshed and well-exercised. The tight elasticated cotton of her white stretch-briefs left her legs completely bare. As she polished, her head turned in profile, the fair ringlets tumbling. He studied her face through the glasses, the stylish curls whispering aside.

To polish the roof of the Mini, Theresa shook back her coiffure and lifted one gracefully agile calf, resting her foot on the rear bumper, stretching forward over the car roof. The white cotton of her knickers was splittingly tight above her bare thighs, cut too high to cover the handsome well-fleshed cheeks of her backside completely.

As she worked with the cloth in a slow flesh-creasing rounding of her bottom-cheeks, the elastic hem of her briefs was drawn higher, exposing the pale lower curve of her arse.

Jeremy edged the net curtain higher, training the lenses more closely as the young woman bent forward. Her hips swelled. Theresa's tightly-knickered bottom-cheeks and parted thighs strained and surged. She worked with a sinuous curving of her tall, trim, long-waisted figure. Once, self-consciously, she reached back, pulling the knickers into place over her rear cheeks.

The proud self-assured swell of Theresa's bottom-cheeks arched towards the near side of the road. Several houses down, builders' men stopped for tea by their van. Grins and glances. New erections there all right. Theresa's firm willowy thighs and handsome backside would cause a sleepless night or two.

He studied her as she polished, one foot on the bumper. Theresa's arse was spread and thighs tensed apart in the humid cotton of her briefs. She paused. He lifted the glasses to her head and shoulders. She had frozen in her posture but her face was turned. She was looking back towards him. Jeremy kept still. The young woman called the man to her. They conferred together. Theresa put her foot down from the car's bumper and turned, facing Jeremy.
They were standing side by side now, looking up at his window. Damn it! He had just begun to enjoy himself. Could they really see the lenses poking under the curtain? They moved behind the Mini and looked over the top at him. Theresa said something to her man and nodded towards the window where Jeremy crouched. The man went indoors. He came out carrying what looked like a mobile phone.

Staring across the road, he tapped in a number and spoke to someone briefly. Who? A couple of heavies among his unwashed friends? The police? With a sense of apprehension and regret, Jeremy let the net curtain subside very gently. Really, officer7 Binoculars, you say? Surely not! A couple of glass ornaments that my aunt had. Two little pear-shaped globes of smoked glass to hold a couple of flowers each. On her bedroom window ledge. Not unlike binocular lenses at a distance, I suppose. Gone to the Oxfam shop, I'm afraid. Oh, really? How very amusing! They thought that1 Well, these things happen, don't they. Not a bit, officer. Always pleased to help.

Who was he kidding, Unrepentantly, Jeremy longed to stand over Theresa as she worked, a genial slave-driver, hands shaping her thighs and rear cheeks, guiding her, bottom-smacking her . . . Reluctantly, he left the binoculars and thought wistfully of one or two of the lessons he would like to teach Theresa with her tall dancer's figure. For the moment, he returned to business.

Mr Bradshaw, from the valuation department, arrived next morning before Theresa in her shorts had appeared to brighten it. Jeremy opened the door. Bradshaw's dark hair was neat as if set by a blancmange mould. His dark grey suit required only a matching cap to qualify him as a hearse driver. To Jeremy, he represented fiscal confiscation of Aunt Em's legacy.

'Not bad,' the valuer sniffed appreciatively, touring the house and making notes. 'Fair nick, I'd say. Top end of the range.'
'You know dry rot when you see it?' asked Jeremy pleasantly. 'While you're about it, go up into the loft and have a look at the rafters. Batten nails rusted far enough to let the roof slide into the back garden any minute.'

Mr Bradshaw shrugged. Not the type to climb ladders and crawl round lofts in his funeral suit He had had a go, done his best for the Revenue, and flopped.
'Come out here,' said Jeremy sharply, and Mr Bradshaw came. They crossed the lawn and the pavement. Jeremy snatched at his alibi for the binoculars. Concerned citizen monitors destruction of neighbourhood quality-of-life by thoughtless car-crazed yobbo and his missus.

'Look at these bloody cars.'

'What cars?'

'That lot! Every driveway! Blocking every inch of pavement. Days you can't think in this house for the row from these D-I-Y motor mechanics. Not to mention motor-bikes. You reckon amenities here are top of the range7 And look at the state of the paintwork on that slum opposite. Top of the range?'

'Complain to them, then.'

'You complain to them,' Jeremy said. Take your turn for a fat lip.'

Mr Bradshaw in his undertaker's suit looked carefully at each car opposite and scanned the facing house-front. A curtain moved and a door opened cautiously. Theresa came out with a waste bag, glanced at them and bent over to open the dustbin. Mr Bradshaw's head went forward like a game-cock, eyes fiercely keen on the cleft where the tightly-knickered Amazon cheeks of Theresa's bottom curved into her crack. His nostrils twitched, as if scenting a dry-rot spore or a rusted batten-nail concealed in the intimate declivity.

'Sought after area,' he said, watching the self-confidently rounding cheek-movements of Theresa's backside in brief-cut knickers as she went indoors.
Jeremy saw him off. Bradshaw revved up his loony-tune limo and drew slowly away. Jeremy closed the door to an inch gap. He was able to see Theresa's partner, walking to the nearest banger, leaping in, squealing from the kerb and racing for the road junction as if besotted by Mr Bradshaw's exhaust pipe.

If he was ever so careful, there was no way they would see the double-barrel of the glasses. Surely? In any case it wasn't a crime to look at something happening outside your own front door. Civil liberties and so forth. He spent a pleasant half-hour which ended with Theresa pushing at the back of the Mini, towards the car port, the man shouldering the driver's door and steering. A glorious two minutes through the lenses, long showgirl legs bare, tensed and straining. How many men would love to feel those wrapped round them, bare and urgent? Theresa's firm swelling bottom-cheeks flexing and clenching, as if trying to roll a golf ball between them. On a sultry day like this, those knickers must be clinging wet to her agile arse-cheeks with all the exertion.

They finished,turned and once again stood looking at his window. But how could they see he was there? He moved back and, as if for the first time, saw the long oval of the dressing-table mirror. Reflecting light back through the net curtains.

Reflecting to the outside world the image of anyone who happened to be standing in its view. In other words, they had been able to see him all the time, perhaps. Not in detail, just him there watching through binoculars. He went thoughtfully downstairs.

Twilight thickened. Street lamps flickered on. A white car cruised up the road, long red and yellow flashes down the sides, a blue lamp on top. It slowed outside the house, turned a corner and stopped. Like a stunned fish, Jeremy's heart flipped and sank. The driver was walking back, bareheaded, the unmistakable cut and buttoning of his uniform showing where his civilian mac hung open. Jeremy shrank as steps paced the path and the doorbell trilled.
Weaving implausible stories, rehearsing his civil rights, he opened the door. The policeman grinned, reached out, took his hand and shook it
'Charlie Sharpies,' he said cheerily. 'Sorry to hear about poor old Em. Friend of Stan's, I was. Angling club. You got an electric blanket I lent Em last winter? Glad to have it, if it's not wanted. If I'm not interrupting.'
'Come in] Do come in!' Delight and relief soared bird-like through Jeremy's apprehension. They found the blanket.

That's a good old pair of binocs,' Charlie said as they stood by the stripped bed. 'Not getting rid of those, I suppose.'

'Probably,' Jeremy said. 'Interested?'

Charlie picked them up, drew the net curtain wide and stood in the window, trying them on the view. Jeremy could swear Theresa's bedroom curtain moved.

‘Take them.'

'Sure? You really sure'

'You were good to Uncle and Aunt.'

'Well, thanks.' Charlie tried the glasses on the view again. 'Souvenir of Em and Stan. Lovely old couple. The best.'

In the doorway, Charlie tried them once more on the opposite view, thanked Jeremy, and walked back to his car with a wave of gratitude.
He stood in the downstairs window, a little faint from the reaction. Half an hour passed. Pity about the glasses. Hello! The chap opposite. Coming out, opening the boot of an old banger, throwing things in. Turning to Jeremy's window. Shouting something. 'Fast card', perhaps1 Driving off! Theresa alone in the house. Lights on behind curtains. Presently Jeremy went upstairs to the ledge where the binoculars had been. As he gazed across he saw a curtain move. She had been looking at him as he looked towards her. Bloody hell! There she was in that blouse and knickers outfit, coming across. The bloke probably gone to fetch his heavies... The door bell rang and they exchanged their first words in Aunt Em's hall.

'Don't think we can't see you. Why are you doing it? What have we ever done to you?'

'I think there must be some . ..'

They aren't stolen, you know, the cars. Every one legit.'

'I never said .. .'

'You were planted here by that little sneak this afternoon. We followed him. We got the building now. Tax inspectors, VAT, giro snoopers. Now the police! Spy on people trying to make ends meet on UB40! Oh, we know you!'

He was safe! Oh, joy! He need only be the upright and implacable taxpayer - and the battle was won.

'Laws,' he said sternly, 'are made to be obeyed.'

'I wonder,' she said, 'just how long that'd last if I offered you something you couldn't refuse. You enjoyed those binoculars. Every time I bent over, my partner reckoned . . .'

'Crime is followed by punishment, not pleasure,' he said with a frown.

'Oh,' she said. That's it, is it? Fancied tanning me when I bent over. That what you want, is it?'

'Absurd!'

'All right. I'm free now and on Saturday. As long as he's still away. Let's see you have a go at tanning me. Supposing you've got the nerve. And then you see what happens to you if you try to make a case as well.'

'I'm  not  saying that  chastisement has no place in . . .'

'I bet you're not.' Theresa picked up an eighteen-inch plastic ruler from the hall table. 'You tan me with this and then cry off. Right? You like the idea, don't you? Least the front of your trousers does. Chastisement! Don't make me laugh! You're a kink. All right, do it. Then tell your fairy friends what you like. But you and them fuck off. See1 Else you're in trouble, not me.'

Jeremy said nothing. He went into the unfurnished sitting-room, closed the curtains with a swish and pointed to the centre of the floor.
'Bending,' he said and took the ruler from her. The pants first.'

The pants stay on.' Theresa shook her tumble of fair curls into place. The narrowed hazel eyes, broad cheekbones and pretty features were resolute.
The legs, then/ he said philosophically, 'since they're bare.'

Theresa bent over, the first doubt in her eyes. He curved his left arm over the waist of this tall mature young woman to steady her, looking down at the willowy length of her firm sun-browned thighs and rather girlish bare calves.

She flinched as he flicked his fingers roughly across the backs of her thighs, rippling the satiny flesh which was both firm and well-exercised yet softly warm. He shaped the long dancer's curve of her legs down from the hips to the knees. A short hand-smack to the back of the thighs. Another. The tumble of ringlets moved as she half-turned her face. Smack! His view of her profile showed how she winced and bit her lip as she waited for him to do it again.

Jeremy drew back, studied the beauty of the young woman bending, then slapped hard across the backs of her upper thighs with his open palm. She clenched her behind and jerked up a little.

'Bend over!' he said abruptly. 'Properly!'

He brought the palm of his hand down hard enough across the backs of her legs for the smack to ring loud on the walls of the emptied room. Theresa cried out at once in pain and protest. Without another word he slapped the backs of her legs again really hard. She cried out and tried to twist from his arm over her waist but he held her firmly and reached for the plastic ruler, waiting then until he felt her slowly relax.

He brought the supple transparent ruler down sharply on the lower and slimmer gracefulness just above the backs of her knees. It stung her enough to make her twist her legs, jamming one knee into the back of the other to contain the smart. Again he saw her bite her lip. Settling into his rhythm, he chopped the ruler down smacking hard aslant each thigh in turn, downward swathes of ruler-red from bottom-cheeks to hollows of her knees. Blushing paths showed where the ruler had measured its length. But what made her yell, as her words confirmed, was the little hole for hanging the ruler up, which dotted the backs of Theresa's legs with intense discipline. And then he saw that the lettering on the rule was actually embossed in black on the underside which was tanning her. As the glow intensified, the words 'Shatter Resistant' blushed neatly and repeatedly across the backs of her dancer's streamlined legs.

Six sharp impacts on the smooth and fullest thigh swell just below her arse, catching the flesh crease which divided Theresa's bottom-cheeks from her thighs. A fine rosy harvest blooming. The seventh he brought down very hard, catching the crease between her right buttock and thigh with great accuracy and making her hit the top of her vocal range. He smacked the ruler very firmly across the middle of her right thigh. She wobbled and wriggled, bending with his arm over her waist, protesting but managing to cut short the yell. He tanned her hard again, this time catching both legs and bringing a long stripe to her upper thigh-backs. Then two clips across her calves, severe enough to make her high-step, each knee touching her belly in turn.

He stung her right leg high up and then the left leg almost at once. She moaned and bit her lip. Then she yelled at the smart of the ruler low down, just above the backs of her knees. Whack! High this time, more than she could take, her knees bent almost dragging them both to the floor.

'Stop!'

He stopped. No sense waking the entire neighbourhood.

'If we stop now, we shall continue later.'

'Just stop! I don't care! Just stop!'

He let her stand up, Theresa trying to walk tall and clutch the backs of her legs at the same time. She writhed to the hall and stood with her back to Aunt Em's long mirror, staring distraught at the rear of her showgirl thighs.

'Oh, shit!' she wailed. 'If he comes back, he'll see . . . Look what you've done!'

'Extraordinary thing/ Jeremy said casually. 'Someone else was saying that to me only last week.'

But Theresa was not listening. Her eyes widened in disbelief.

'What's that!'

'It says "Shatter Resistant",' he said helpfully. 'Nothing to be ashamed of. Shows you've been tanned by a ruler of quality. You wouldn't care to finish?'

'No!'

'Saturday then.'

'Don't count on it!'

'Oh but I do,' he said wistfully, 'I really do.'

Next day he saw that she was working alone on the Escort, polishing the blue coachwork and determinedly never looking across the road. Hubby or whoever he was had done a bunk at the sight of Charlie Sharpies in uniform. Taking her punishment was apparently Theresa's own idea of how to avoid the sentence that a giro or tax inquiry might bring. She wore a long cotton skirt today, right down to her ankles. Not proud of being shatter resistant after all. Jeremy sighed. There was her backside too. He liked what he saw of Theresa's bottom. Firm, full cheeks. Statuesque even. Shame about Saturday. It seemed she felt the penalty had now been paid.

Mr Bradshaw returned that afternoon.

'It's not going below fifty thousand,' he said firmly.

'Forty-seven, the agent says.'

'You need to get rid of your agent,' Mr Bradshaw chuckled.

'Not half as badly as you need to get rid of that suit,' Jeremy said. Mr Bradshaw left, pausing to gaze at the house and cars opposite. Two minutes later the phone rang.

'You bastard!' Theresa said. 'You told them! After you made promises to me.'

Told them nothing so far,' Jeremy answered. 'You could have seen the last of men with binoculars. You choose. We'll talk about it on Saturday night.'

There was silence for a moment.

'About ten,' she said ungraciously, 'I shan't finish before.'

Saturday night is the loneliest night of the week!' sang the crooner on the teatime Golden Oldie Show. May be lonely for you, Sunshine.

At 10.34 that evening the bell rang, or rather squeaked from the brevity of her pressure. Theresa wore her long skirt. Under it he had commanded on the phone that morning skin-tight translucent panties, the price of remaining covered. To see the long skirt come down, stepped out of, folded on a chair, would be a tonic.

He guided Theresa's tall long-waisted figure to the sofa, her legs and hips moving with well-controlled maturity, her lightly muscled and suntanned body against him with its suggestion of a physically active young woman. He glanced at the fine, rather narrowed hazel eyes, cheekbones quite broad and the firm neat line to her nose and chin, the stylish tumble of fair curls to her shoulders. He made her kneel on the sofa and then lie forward over its arm, supporting herself by her palms on the floor. The skin-tight pearl grey translucence of her knickers encased the strong swell of her backside and hips in its gloss, the cleavage between her rear cheeks mistily suggestive. He ran his hand over the full and firm swell of Theresa's bottom-cheeks, feeling her body warmth through the nylon gloss.

'Just wait like that,' he said.

In the kitchen, he looked among the detergents for what he wanted. A sponge for Theresa. Lux, Vim, Persil . . . There it was! He soaked it under the tap and returned to the front room. She tried to look up and back at him.

'What's that?'

'A sponge he said. 'I need those panties wet-tight on your behind. And that way you'll feel it more.'

Not easy to push herself up from palms-on-the-floor. As she gasped and reared, he sponged over the cheeks of her glossy pearly-grey panty-seat until the trickles ran down her bare thighs. Suggestive wet-look nylon, tight and clinging translucently to the broadened curves of Theresa's bottom-cheeks. He stood over her, hand on the back of her waist. A plimsoll used in the garden lay to hand. The heel was only a little muddy. He touched it lightly to the nearer cheek of the young woman's backside, teasing, warning. Then the tanning. Whack! . . . Thwack! . . . Whup!...

He made sure she really felt them, Theresa emitting a sharp puppy-like yelp at the third. He tanned the nearer cheek of her bottom first. Whap!... Thwack!... Whack!...

'Keep your arse properly still for it, T'resa! Or do they call you "Trace" or Tracey" or "Terry'?'

Her piercing protest was no answer to his question.

Whop! . . . Whack!. . . Smack! . . . Intrigued, he saw that the garden-plimsoll heel had printed its rubber ribbing muddily on the wet seat-cheeks of Theresa's translucent panties. He paused to draw the thin panty-hem up over each cheek, gathering the nylon twist in her intimate rear-cheek cleavage. The proud swell of each buttock was bare now, resilient maturity a little fuller when freed from the constraining nylon. The backside of a trim-figured woman in her early thirties perhaps. His hand mapped one bare curve of Theresa's posterior, appreciating the sleek smoothness of it.

'You don't want your knickers spoilt, do you?' he answered to her dismay.

He stroked her smooth bottom-cheeks gently and felt her relax a little. He ran his hands up her flanks, down her willowy legs and up again over her long-waisted midriff. Her head turned in profile, fair ringlets disordered.

Free of the nylon, Theresa's bare bottom-cheeks jumped and quivered under the rhythmic impacts of the rubber heel. Jeremy tanned her unsmilingly and hard. He paused for breath. His watch bleeped eleven. He touched the heel to the rather fatly swelling and flesh-creasing cheek of Theresa's bottom, warning her to be ready, touching, teasing, coaxing the swell of panic in her belly until waiting was almost worse for her than getting it ...

Whack!. . . Smack!. . . Thwack!. . . Whap! . . .Whack! . . . Whup! . . . Whap!. . . And then the other cheek ... At last he straightened up, ordering her to stand in the corner, facing the wall, and wait. Theresa obeyed, moving slowly, catching her breath at each step. Her lips were parted, as if after exertion, and she blinked moisture from her eyes. Jeremy watched her stand in the corner. He studied the sleek double swell of Theresa's bottom, her knickers still twisted in her rear crack. Each bottom-cheek showed a deep blush and the corrugated rubber heel of the plimsoll was muddily printed and reprinted on the swelling glow.

He kept her facing the corner for an hour. Theresa lowered her face and the tumble of light ringlets cascaded in disorder. He saw the tension of anticipation in the bare length of her thighs. She pressed them together and her head was bowed a little more. The firmly swelling cheeks of Theresa's bottom tightened once or twice, as if in sudden fright at the thought of worse to come. She half looked round, and he just caught the narrowed hazel eyes and pert profile, the wide-boned cheeks. He let her see a length of sash-cord dangling in a loop from his hand. Her cheeks contracted in crawling panic, so that Theresa's bottom-crack was pressed to a thin tight line. Jeremy stood up.

'Bend over to touch your toes!'

She looked round uneasily.

'At once!'

Cautiously and reluctantly, Theresa stooped, one hand on her knees. Her head was turned so that he could see her eyes slanting an uneasy look at him. As she stooped, she held her other hand over her bottom, its cheeks bare as the nylon remained twisted in her crack.

Take your hand away from your arse, Theresa! Bend right over. At once.'

She lowered her head and obeyed him, bending until her extended fingers touched her toes and the fall of her collar-length ringlets hid her face. The strain of the posture showed in the tight lines of her thighs. Old sash-cord held in a loop was ideal. The cheeks of Theresa's buttocks swelled suggestively fuller and broader.

The cord tanned her squirming and twisting bottom-cheeks with a hushed Swit!. . . Swit!... Swat!….until the sash left a light pattern of curling spank-prints on each dancing-girl bottom-cheek. Swit! . . . Whip! Whip! . . . Swit! . . . The crack of the cord curling and clinging agonisingly around both bare cheeks excited his passion. Theresa's bottom, broadened and surging, was cheek-creasing and writhing as if in a deliberate attempt to seduce him! Her bottom-cheek were beautifully patterned and arabesqued by punishment, there was more.

Swit!. . . Swit!. . . Swit!. . .   Tanning her now, Jeremy murmured the admiration he had felt while watching her Amazon-girl backside through binoculars as she bent and stretched in her tight cotton briefs to polish the Mini. It was as if his feelings were coming full circle. Much later, as she gave another and more urgent muffled cry, he put down the cord.

Without rebellion, she allowed him to raise her and was led mournfully to the sofa to lie facedown. Quite unable to keep still just yet, of course. Jeremy studied the swelling, writhing and cheek-creasing of Theresa's backside, patterned by the loop. There was only one remedy for a young woman with such a smarting bottom. Theresa was in just the state to be taught a lesson or two.

He left on Monday. The cars stood idle, not a curtain twitched. No sign of hubby. Theresa was still keeping herself to herself. On the bus, he felt in his pocket for change and to his surprise touched a folded handful of nylon gloss. Then he recalled that she had preferred not to put them on under her long skirt in her disciplined state and he had forgotten them. Their place among his souvenirs was assured.

Two weeks later his phone rang. It was Reardon from the house agent's.

'Good news. Had an offer. Forty-seven exactly. Just what I predicted. Xo dry-rot, apparently, and the batten-nails are fine. Saves you five grand on repairs, knowing that. No survey. Client seems to know what he's talking about.'

'Well, if that's the best you can do, I suppose I'd better take it.'

'Should if I were you. Purchaser has a firm mortgage offer. Name of Bradshaw. Moving to a new post. Bit hush-hush, I think. Keen photographer. Not short of cash. Seems to have enough money to ride at weekends, anyway. Hunting crops and dog-whips in his hall-stand. Keep the neighbourhood in order, eh? Ha-ha! Quite taken with the house. And very much likes the outlook – no accounting for taste. Spent an afternoon at the upstairs window taking notes and a few photographs before he finally made his offer.'

Jeremy felt a strange sense of contentment.

Tell him it's a deal,' he said. 'I'd like the old place to go to someone who can exploit the possibilities of thee view.'

THE END

Author: Richard Manton

BONUS: Click here to see a Theresa look alike receiving a stinging hairbrush spanking

Judith

A short story from days long past when young miscreants were sent to the Reformatory to be Caned, Birched and whipped by hired disciplinarians. Here we are privy to the chastisement and caning of Judith through the eyes of the infamous James Miles!   

I refer you to an editorial in the Britannia news-paper. With lips pursed and birch raised over some recalcitrant reform­atory beauty, he represented the might and majesty of the Law. His story found a place in fiction, as well as folklore, in Ron Rich's The First Victorian. Only the French — whom every decent Englishman of the day despised — suggested that the disci­plinarians were having the time of their lives. Small wonder that books like Etudes sur la Flagellation, which blew the gaff on Miles and his kind, were rigorously banned in England. 'Le Vice Anglais' was how they des­cribed it in Paris. The truth is that if James Miles fails to send you rushing out to join STOPP, then STOPP will probably have to manage without you.

Perhaps you would want to spend a day as James Miles before com­mitting yourself either way. The morning's labours must begin after breakfast, for there are so many de­faulters to be dealt with. You retire to your sunlit study overlooking the garden and await the first tap on the door.

Is it a coincidence that the first delinquent who comes in is also one of the most beautiful in your care? Why is it that the ugly ones never seem to incur so much retribution? In this case, Judith is quite a tall and graceful young thing. The light brown hair is worn in a sweep from her high crown to her shoulders framing the pale oval of her face with its clear fair-skinned features and hazel eyes.

You instruct her to lay her skirt on the chair and to present herself in stockings and tight cotton draw­ers. In this state you discover that she is not only quite tall but has long elegant legs which any glamour girl or beauty queen would envy. Pulling yourself together, you instruct her to lay her knickers on the same chair. Then Judith must face the chair and bend over it tightly with her hands on the seat.

Just before you attend to her there is some reformatory business to be done. You sit at your desk, quill pen in hand. Two or three feet in front of you is Judith's rear view. The long light brown hair has been braided into a pair of plaits to pre­vent it spilling forward as she stoops. From the rear you view the long graceful legs and seat. The black stocking-tops at mid-thigh, the elastic suspender arch at her waist and the suspender straps down each flank conveniently frame the area of interest. Perhaps you permit your­self a quiet smile of anticipation as you sit forward and familiarise your­self with the target.

Predictably, though you sit at your desk for half an hour, like the dedi­cated public servant that you are, you do not somehow get round to the paperwork.

'Bend over more tightly, Judith,' you say from time to time. 'Even more tightly still! No, don't keep looking round at the cane!'

Judith may be a demure and well-spoken young lady, the stuff of which pupil-teachers and govern­esses are made. But she has broken the rules and this time it is she who is on the receiving end. You rise and touch the bamboo across the pale oval cheeks of Judith's trembling bottom. No smiles now, for your mouth is set firm and your eyes gleaming.

The sharp impacts of the cane ring out one after another across the nymph-cheeks of Judith's arse. Such a ladylike young backside undergoing so undignified a punish­ment! The silken whisper of stock­ings rises as her graceful legs squirm together. One knee jams frantically into the back of the other. The ele­gant ovals of Judith's bum-cheeks twist aside and there is a wild cry. Not surprising when you view the smarting willow-pattern of bamboo printed in fire on her behind. But you cannot permit such wriggling.

'Want me to take you back to the beginning and start again, Judith? No? Then bend properly. Up on tiptoe, forehead on the chair seat. No need to blush about it . . . '

So the caning continues. You no doubt pause from time to time to survey your handiwork. Then comes the dread utterance.

'Quite' still, Judith! I'm not sat­isfied with your bottom yet!'

Naturally you are ready for your elevenses after such exertion. Forti­fied again, you turn to the problem of Sally or Sal. Here is a diminutive hooligan with a shock of henna-tinted hair, a high-boned impudent face with rouge on the cheeks, and dark defiant eyes. She and her two friends have been consigned to the reformatory for breaching the peace in no uncertain manner…………..

THE END

Author Unknown

To download a very nice caning video clip click this link