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

Click here to see the featured spanking movie clip and photo gallery

Click here to see a Photo Gallery featuring cute brunette Schoolgirl Milli

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

Click this link to see two nice Schoolgirl Spanking Video Clips

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

Sweet Little Tina Walker - Plus a nice Bonus Gallery

MISS JULIA PEMBERTON, the young Biology mistress, was by no stretch of the imagination prudish or narrow-minded, merely a trifle inhibited perhaps because of the cloistered, academic nature of her life to date.

Nevertheless, she was more than a little puzzled one day to walk into the headmaster's study and discover Tina Walker, a pretty sixth-year girl, lying over his knee with her grey pleated skirt up around her waist, white cotton knickers fluttering at half-mast, getting her bare bottom thoroughly, systematically spanked.

Miss Pemberton was surprised for two reasons. First because corporal punishment of female pupils at Swansway Comprehensive was not so much banned as totally unheard of. No member of staff in her experience had even contemplated using it. More conventional punishments such as lines, detention, withdrawal of privileges had always been considered more than adequate. Disregarding the boys for the moment, none of the girl pupils could remotely be described as delinquent, even difficult. Apart from the odd silly prank and the occasional truancy there were never any major disciplinary problems at the school.

Which brought her to the second reason for her bewilderment.

Why Tina Walker? Not only was she never naughty, she was positively angelic. A little dreamy and introspective at times perhaps - those big sad brown eyes of her captivated everyone - but a more pleasant, demure sort of girl you'd be hard put to find anywhere.

'Dear sweet little Tina' - that phrase just about summed her up. Yet here she was, much to Miss Pemberton's amazement, bare from the waist downwards, getting her delicately plump round bottom soundly, shamefully smacked by the red faced Mr Carter - and Mr Carter was never one to do things without good reason. He had her pulled well over his knee, so much so that her nose was brushing the carpet and the other end of her practically pointing up towards the ceiling, her legs waving about in the air, her sandals in imminent danger of parting company with her feet. This meant that not only could the headmaster see her bare bottom, he could also see all she'd got between her legs: pubic hair, sexual organs - the lot. No wonder the poor girl was blushing so. Miss Pemberton blushed too, on her behalf.

No words were spoken - the spanking said it all. Mr Carter was attacking her pretty little bottom with a crisp, unbroken sequence of hard, ringing slaps. Tina's high-pitched, vociferous response to the punishment left Julia Pemberton in no doubt that the noisy barrage of bottom smacks was proving every bit as painful as it looked .

A powerful, almost Freudian bond seemed to link spanker and spanked together, and Julia Pemberton entertained the queer notion that there was a kind of primevally basic appropriateness about the weird tableau unfolded before her incredulous eyes. A mature young lady having her bare bottom blisteringly spanked by a man old enough to be her father.

Neither Mr Carter nor the girl had heard her come in. They were worlds away:

Locked together, hermetically sealed off in some strange, age-old ritual - he the aggressor, she the sacrificial victim.

It also struck her that although she never for one minute doubted the professional integrity of her, headmaster, or that this was anything other than a purely disciplinary measure, nevertheless there was something undeniably sexual about the whole thing. The rubbing together of both participants' sexual organs through Mr Carter's trousers, the girl's conspicuously bared bottom, and in particular the blatant, unabashed way in which she was threshing her lower limbs about in total abandonment to the painful sensations the spanking was imparting to her pretty, pampered little behind.

A quiver of excitement tickled Julia Pemberton's loins. She'd never, ever been spanked. For the first time in her life she found herself wondering what it must feel like.

Softly she tiptoed from the room like a guilty trespasser, closing the door gently behind her. The purpose of her visit had been merely to speak to the head about the consignment of new Biology books she'd ordered months ago that still hadn't arrived. She now had a good ten minutes to kill before her next class. Enough time for a cup of coffee - she could do with a breather and a quiet think after what she'd just seen and heard. The pounding energy of the spanking was reflected in her pulse rate and reverberated in her ears. It was mid-afternoon and the musty, humid staff room was deserted apart from Mr Jenkins, the new History teacher. Tall, bearded and bronzed from a recent holiday in Greece, he was slouched in one of the well-worn easy chairs, snatching a cat-nap before facing the rigors of 4C.

The tinkling of cup and spoon nudged him from his slumbers and he awoke to see Julia Pemberton with her back towards him, filling her coffee mug at the hot water urn.

He was still in that semi-dozing limbo state when those little erotic fantasies dart playfully around the brain, and he noticed how agreeably well-fleshed she was in the bottom department.

With the practiced skill of an aficionado he detected easily the tell-tale ridge of her knicker-line through the taut fabric of her black straight skirt. Sturdy thighs, generous expanse of buttock cheek . . . and in his mind's eye he bent her wickedly right across the coffee table and proceeded to wield an imaginary cane with such deadly accuracy and fervour across the crown of her naked rump that very soon he had her howling and bawling like a blubbering little kid.

Julia Pemberton straightened up and turned round, stirring her coffee, a frown of preoccupation on her face. They got on aright, with their daily chats at coffee-time and during the dinner-break. He ribbed her a bit but she didn't seem to mind, even welcomed his attentions. He was always telling her to relax and not take things so seriously. She was sexually repressed and frustrated, that was her problem.

When she noticed he was now awake her frown disappeared. She smiled at him in her usual way, rather awkward way, and murmured a greeting. he said a little sleepily.

'Hello!' he said a little sleepily. 'Having a good day?'

'So-so. You?'

'Can't wait for Friday!' he yawned, and they both laughed.

The laughter dispelled her nervous tension, and an idea entered her head. Wasn't Keith Jenkins Tina Walker's form teacher? Maybe he'd know whether she'd committed some awful misdemeanour recently:

A crime so heinous as to merit the drastic punishment she'd witnessed in the head's study a moment ago.

'Tina Walker been in trouble lately, has she?' she enquired as casually as possible.

'Sweet little Tina? Good God She's as good as gold, never puts a foot wrong. Done a marvellous project on the Balkans for me. The Balkans -I ask you! He pulled a face in comic distaste. 'Can you imagine anyone getting enthusiastic about the bloody Balkans?'

Julia had to admit she couldn't.

'Well, little Tina's as keen as mustard about them – bless cotton socks. She's been plaguing the life out of me for a supplementary reading list . . . damned if I know what to recommend to her next, she's already exhausted my own library . . . In trouble?' he shook his head vigorously. 'What on earth made you ask?'

'Oh, nothing.' Julia Pemberton suddenly felt embarrassed. Uncomfortable, too, for having even hinted at what might well still be going on just down the corridor.

An awkward silence ensued.

Dammit! She suddenly thought. Why shouldn't he know, if it's all above board? Mr Carter's so impeccable, so beyond reproach, there can't be any harm in -

'Well, actually,' she blurted out, 'the reason I asked is because the head's punishing her - giving her a spanking at this very moment! Immediately she said it she felt guilty, guilty that she's betrayed a confidence, even though it hadn't been bestowed on her.

'Giving her a what?' Jenkins demanded in stunned disbelief.

'A sp-spanking she stammered, blushing slightly. 'I just went in to ask the head about something and there she was, with her skirt all pulled up at the back and her knickers round her knees, over his lap getting her bottom smacked! I didn't know where to put myself!' She'd grown redder and redder while saying this.

Jenkins was by now sitting bolt upright, his nerves tingling.

'Isn't just a little bit, shall we say, unusual?' he asked, the agitated note in his voice betraying his excitement. 'I mean to say, it's not exactly an everyday occurrence, is it, a girl getting spanked at this school? I didn't think we were allowed -'

'That's what I thought, too!' She was glad there was someone to share her secret with.

He got up hastily from the chair. He just had to go and see for himself.

'Must fly! Just remembered I've forgotten something!' He mumbled, and dashed out of the room, leaving Julia trying to puzzle out the sense of his parting remark. As fast as his dignity allowed, he half-walked, half-ran along the corridor towards the head's study.

'This I must see!' he said to himself urgently. 'Christ! - hope I haven't missed it!' He said out loud with such passion he might have been talking about a gold-rush.

Staff didn't need to knock, so he simply pushed open the door. With a pounding heart he saw that he indeed hadn't missed it. The spanking was still in progress.

There she was, sweet little Tina, unveiled in all her teenage splendour, draped ignominiously over Mr Carter's broad, middle-aged lap, shamefully displaying her bare, thoroughly-spanked, dainty bottom and equally well-reddened nymph-like thighs to all who cared to look.

She was crying her heart out, and her poor maltreated bottom bore eloquent testament that the headmaster was bent on giving her the spanking of her life. Her rounded cheeks were deeply stained by scarlet patches - even crimsoning finger marks - and there was not a square inch of virginal flesh left between her waist and her thighs. Even the backs of her legs bore some marks.

No, Mr Carter certainly hadn't finished with her yet. He was still doing it, smacking her bottom with loud, measured, rhythmic slaps that stung even the ears - so goodness knows what they were doing to Tina's frantically twitching, rudely-exposed behind.

In spite of his sexual predilections, Keith Jenkins still felt sorry for her. Sorry that Tina, of all girls, was being put through this humiliating ordeal. Stripped half-naked, made to go over Carter's knee and stick up her bare bottom practically in his face for his no doubt delighted inspection. Keith was she was a virgin – something indefinable about her proclaimed it. She exuded modesty and innocence, never swore, and invariably blushed when one of the boy-pupils came out with some callow crudity or other. She was just ineffably sweet and lovely.

For such a thing as a bare-bottom spanking to happen to her! Heavens, he could see her pouting little fanny from where he was standing, so old Carter must be getting a right old grandstand view of it! She'll never be able to look him in the face again after this . . .

But Keith had to admit he found the spectacle of little Tina getting spanked highly erotic to say the least.

The throbbing rigidity in the front of his trousers was proof enough of that. His erection had leapt to life in the staff room as soon as Julia had mentioned the spanking, and it had grown from strength to strength ever since.

He wondered if old Carter had an erection, too, and whether Tina could feel it pressing up against her?

What on earth should he do? Clear his throat loudly, warn Carter of his presence in the room, and thus bring the disgracefully stimulating incident to a halt? Or beat a tactful retreat and leave them to it?

He was in the process of deciding when Tina made up his mind for him. It wasn't what she said, more what she did.

She started to wriggle and thrash about more frenziedly than ever, while the angry smacks continued to rain down unabated. Her legs waved frantically in the air and although her tears still fell profusely, the weeping noises gave way to moans, and then to urgent shrieks, until her whole body became racked by shooting spasms and she cried out shrilly:

'Ooh sir! I'm coming - I'M COMING!'

The chair creaked precariously, Carter stopped smacking her and steadied her with both hands as she shuddered in uncontrollable ecstasy.

So that's what it’s all all about! Keith Jenkins's mind reeled in stunned disbelief as he silently crept from the room. Sweet little Tina! - well I'll be blowed! And a pang of jealousy, that old Carter should have all the luck, went through him like a knife. Fat, bald, ugly old Carter -how did he pull it off? Or rather pull them off - Tina's knickers, that is.

Was this a game only two could play, or was there room for more?

Tina Walker was, in actual getting spanked at every available opportunity by Mr Carter, who had her literally in the palm of his hand ever since he'd caught her cheating last June in a GCE exam, and had threatened to report her to the Examination Board unless she agreed to let him 'deal with her in his own way', as he'd tactfully put it.

That in itself was bad enough but when, shame upon shame, she'd orgasmed involuntarily the third time he'd spanked her . . . well, by then the cards were stacked well and truly against her. From then on, Mr Carter ruthlessly exploited every unfair advantage over her that he had.

He punished her at least twice a week, sometimes three. She never knew when it was going to happen. He simply plucked her out of whatever class she was in, on the perfectly plausible pretext of giving her extra A level French tuition, and no one was any the wiser. No one but Mr Carter knew she'd achieved her O level pass in the subject by unfair means – and by God, was he making her pay for it! Her almost permanently sore bottom was their shameful little secret, theirs alone.

But not for very much longer. Next Wednesday morning after Assembly Mr Carter, in one of his not-to-be-trifled-with moods, treated sweet little Tina Walker to a blisteringly severe, long drawn-out spanking that broke all previous records. By the end of it she was bawling unashamedly and hopping frantically round the room, clutching at her bright-red, glowing behind, which was unquestionably the most beautiful bottom he'd ever clapped eyes on.

She felt utterly degraded because this time he'd made her strip naked, except for her socks and sandals. She just didn't know where to put herself. She knew he was greedily devouring every intimate part of her body, every facet of her painful humiliation.

She blubbered piteously to herself while she looked around vainly trying to locate the whereabouts of her discarded white cotton pants.

' 'S'not fair!' she exclaimed in an outburst of frightened petulance, at the sheer injustice of it all.

But all Mr Carter did was to sit and stare hungrily at her. He was thinking how desirably pretty she looked with her tear-streaked face and comically red little bottom. So innocent . . . so indescribably sweet and innocent!

He helped her look for her knickers, which they eventually discovered under his desk. Tina had to go down on all fours to retrieve them . She yelled loudly as two more hard stinging slaps descended, one on each out-thrust buttock. Carter just couldn't resist her neat little rump, stuck out as it was at such a blatantly provocative angle.

Next he insisted on helping her on with her blouse. He took simply ages to button it up at the front. Then her tie. He lifted up her collar so she could slide it under. Finally her blazer and skirt, and all the way through his hands had wandering salaciously . . .

That accomplished, he gave her cheek an affectionate little and she felt the heat still radiating from his hand - the hand he'd used to smack her bottom . She blushed at the mortifying memory and rubbed childishly at the corners of her tear-stained eyes. Once more Mr Carter came to her aid. He produced a large pocket handkerchief with which he proceeded to dab away at the remaining tears with fetishistic aplomb.

She closed her eyes and tried hard to think of something else while he pawed and fondled her with his other hand. It slid up the back of her skirt and gripped her right buttock just where it hurt the most. She gave an involuntary 'Ouch !' and wriggled about to escape his grasp.

Reluctantly he let go of her hot little bottom and told her to run along to her next lesson.

Her next lesson! She panicked when she remembered what it was.

'It's PE!' she wailed. I'll have to get undressed in front of the other girls, then they'll all see -' She left her words dangling in mid-air. It was too awful even to contemplate.

She pleaded with Mr Carter to let her off the lesson. He could write a note for Mrs Dunkerley, the PE mistress, to say Tina was 'unwell', and therefore excused active participation. Carter could see her point. He certainly didn't want their well-kept little secret to get out.

He scribbled a quick note and handed it to her.

There, that should do the trick! Now off you go, Tina!' He gave her departing bottom one last lingering whack.

Keith Jenkins always tried to finish his last class on Wednesday morning five minutes early. This enabled him to saunter casually down to the gym where, with a bit of luck, the sixth-year girls would still be gyrating and wiggling their vest-clad, gym-knickered, nubile bodies in obedience to the stentorian commands of Marjorie Dunkerley, a butch, forbidding Amazon of a woman.

More than once she'd seen Jenkins peering furtively through the windows at the girls, but she hadn't brought the matter up with him. She took a somewhat tolerant view of Mr Jenkins's penchant for adolescent girls' bottoms and breasts because she was not exactly immune to their charms herself . . .

So that particular Wednesday, Keith Jenkins, strolling along the glass-panelled corridor by the gym, drinking his fill of all the cheeky little bottoms appealingly disporting themselves in tight gym knickers, happened to spy Tina Walker all alone and forlorn, seated fully dressed on one of the long benches in the changing room . ‘Seated’ wasn't perhaps the right word for it - she was fidgeting constantly, sliding her tender bottom this way and that way, up and down the hard wooden bench where Mrs Dunkerley had instructed her to remain for the duration of the lesson - and nobody dared to disobey Mrs Dunkerley! She'd sniffed contemptuously when Tina had produced her chit from Mr Carter. The girl didn't seem the slightest bit ill - obviously a malingerer! She also looked hot and flushed.

Of course Keith Jenkins put two and two together immediately. Tina's fidgetings and grimaces of discomfort gave the game away. So that old ram Carter had given her another good smacking, eh? Made her pretty little bottom too red and sore for PE?

He beckoned her from the open door and said he wanted a private word with her in his room. Tina was essentially a very good girl, and she didn't really want to disobey Mrs Dunkerley. But she reminded herself that nice Mr Jenkins was after all her form teacher, and as such, did have greater claim over her person than did her gym mistress. So she obediently followed him down the corridor, all innocence and trust.

Her bottom was still stinging painfully, so much so that she had to exercise great self-restraint to prevent herself from rubbing the seat of her short grey pleated skirt or gasping from the sharp smart that came with each step she took as she walked after him.

The History room and the corridor outside it was deserted. Everyone had gone to dinner, there was no fear of interruption.

Keith Jenkins put a kindly, solicitous arm around Tina's shoulder, said he'd noticed how sad and unhappy she'd been of late, and asked her what the trouble was. Could he help? He was, after all, her form teacher. Pastoral guidance was part of his job.

Tina liked Mr Jenkins very much. She also trusted him. An immense relief flooded over her as, throwing caution to the winds, she took him into her confidence.

Mr Jenkins exuded caring compassion, so much so that when she came to the embarrassing bit of having to tell him all about those dreadful spankings, she didn't really mind when he led her over to his chair and sat her on his knee . . . she would even have let him cuddle her . . . in the desolate mood she was in she'd have loved a cuddle!

Her skirt was too short to cover her bottom when she sat down, so her well-spanked, scantily clad behind made direct contact with his corduroy-trousered, muscular thighs. But she didn't mind that either - he was being so sweet, so kind to her.

'Oh Mr Jenkins it's so awful!' she confided. 'Sometimes he smacks me three times in one week!' She began to cry softly into the comforting warmth of his shoulder.

His hand which before had been resting protectively against the back of her skirt (to prevent her from toppling backwards off his lap, Tina had assumed in her innocence) was now working its way underneath her skirt and down into her knickers, where it proceeded to fondle and massage her aching little buttocks.

Tina thought this was a trifle unusual, but then, as he was acting in locum parentis, presumably Mr Jenkins considered it an integral part of his pastoral duty.

She felt something hard nestling up against her thighs. Maybe it was his pipe in his trouser pocket?

Tina hung her head in shame as she confessed to having cheated in that beastly French O level - but Mr Jenkins somehow didn't seem at all interested. He only seemed interested in the spankings, and wanted to know even the minutest details of the punishments, including a full blow-by-blow account of the smacking Mr Carter had given her that morning.

' - you mean he made you take everything off, Tina?' he pressed her. She nodded miserably and shifted her position slightly on his lap. The pipe in his or whatever it was, seemed to be growing bigger by the minute.

'Well actually note quite everything,' she corrected herself. 'He let me keep my socks and sandals on.'

Jenkins's heart pounded as he imagined the scene. This poor, darling little girl, stripped of her modesty, subjected to the obscene scrutiny of that lecherous old Carter. All the virginal sanctity of her bodily secrets laid bare: breasts, buttocks, pubic region - all naked and exposed. And then, what Tina dreaded most of all: the laying on of hands – Carter's spidery fingers greedily pawing her bottom and up between her legs, cruelly caressing her private parts, kneading her, teasing her into shameful lubricity . . . closely followed by the spanking itself, a painful, long drawn-out affair - all the more painful for the familiar sensations it aroused in her . . . Carter, taking his time over it like he always did, slowly slapping her rudely up tilted bum. Punishing it soundly and severely for its provocativeness . . .

'And did Mr Carter make you cry this morning, Tina?' he demanded, in a strangely hoarse, almost strangled voice.

By now he'd tugged her knickers down at the back and his fingers were eagerly exploring the downy warmth of her bottom cleft. He just couldn't help himself. Tina was starting to feel all funny down there, but in a nice sort of way. She infinitely preferred Mr Jenkins's caresses to old Carter's insulting anatomical probing's and gropings.

She raised her cute little bottom ever so slightly, and he carefully inched his fingers forward, disengaging the sticky gusset of her knickers from between her thighs.

He could feel the heat still emanating from her chastened buttocks. The youthful fragrance of her body, the bitter-sweetness of her tear-stained face, the way she clung to him, innocent as a kitten - it was all too much for him, he simply had to investigate!

Gently but firmly he upended her over his knee, flipped up the back of her brief skirt and whisked her knickers right down to her knees.

Tina struggled in panic. She went hot and cold all over. She couldn't imagine what on earth he was doing.

But when Mr Jenkins told her he was simply 'inspecting the damage' she calmed down considerably, supposing naively that their pupil-teacher relationship did indeed allow him to take such unusual measures.

Tina Walker's bare bottom pouted saucily at him, It was by far the cheekiest little bottom he'd ever seen - it seemed to positively invite retribution . . .

Only when he actually started to smack her did the bitter realisation dawn on poor little Tina that she'd been totally wrong about Mr Jenkins. He was just like Mr Carter, after all. Just as bent on getting her over his knee with her pants down -only more devious in the way he went about it.

It was only an hour since Tina had been punished by the headmaster. Her bottom still felt very tender, So, not surprisingly, when Mr Jenkins's playful slaps progressed to more business-like, nerve-tingling spanks that echoed loudly around the empty classroom, the luckless girl quickly dissolved into tears and began kicking and threshing about, not caring anymore about what she was displaying of herself.

Jenkins held the trump card in his hand. He knew that if he spanked Tina long and hard enough, she'd come . . .

And eventually she did, so noisily that he had to put his hand over her mouth to silence her.

Thoroughly ashamed of herself, she slid gingerly off his lap and amid copious tears, proceeded to furiously massage her blazing rear end.

Standing there, her knickers dangling ludicrously around her ankles, Tina reflected bitterly on the unfairness of life. Things were now doubly worse. She had not only Mr Carter, but Mr Jenkins to contend with. Would her poor bottom be allowed any respite at all?

But worse was to come. At that precise moment an irate Mrs Dunkerley was conferring at the dinner table with Miss Pemberton.

'But it's so unlike Tins Walker!' the formidable gym mistress snapped.

'I'll grant you she had a chit from Carter excusing her from doing PE – though for the life of me I couldn’t see the slightest thing wrong with her myself, except that she had ants in her pants and she looked like she'd been crying! But to disappear like that without so much as a by-your-leave, before the end of my lesson - wait till I catch her, I'll give her what-for!' She thumped the table angrily.

Miss Pemberton leaned over and confided something in the mistress's ear, Mrs Dunkerley's steely eyes widened in amazed fascination.

'-Spank her, does he? Well, I'll be blowed!' she marvelled, looking pensively at her empty plate. She was thinking about the cane she'd discovered the day she'd tidied out the cupboards in the gym. Here at last was a chance to use it.

Later in the day, Mrs Dunkerley encountered the culprit lurking sheepishly in the playground.

'I want a word with you, Tina Walker! ' she barked , 'Report to me in the gym after school!'

Tina paled, nodded obedience, and walked on, little dreaming what lay in store, The day was far from over.

And Mr Jenkins, terribly aroused, was mouthing her name over and over as he passed his passion peak in private.

THE END

A story by David Redshaw

Click this link to see two Tina types spanked and caned