The New Riding Whip

This is a Janus story from 1986. It has all the elements of a great spanking story but most importantly it's heroine Alicia Thornfield is just beaufully described and so haughty and arrogant that we just can't wait to see her properly humbled.
Alicia is Sir Robert's step-daughter and she's living with him only under condition that she accepts his discipline. Wonderful. At 21 and having dropped out of university she is clearly a heap of trouble. The story starts with her crashing her car into her step-father's Jag. Worse still, she then tried to get the gardner to take the blame. A nicely-described and very credible cause for serious punishment.
The story then cuts, almost filmicly, to Sir Robert deciding to thrash the girl and then asking the housekeeper to order her to his study and asking that she brings the new crop he had recently given her. Tension building nicely here and then we get a feature of some of very best cp stories - a flashback.
We learn how just last week he had had to beat the girl - this time for carelessly breaking a vase. In an elegant phrase we read that 'so enrapt had Sir Robert been by her bottom clad in tight floral knickers that he had not hit hard'. Not hard, perhaps but still he'd delivered six of the best with cane on the be-knickered backside. Lovely.
Then it's back to Alicia who's now in her room, quickly changing into riding kit to try to escape. Nicely erotic moment as she pulls up her jodphurs and feels the 'ghostly tingle of the caning her step-father had dared to give her last week'.
We're half way through, anticipation is at fever-pitch and yet the real drama has yet to start.
Alicia tries to slip out but is apprehended by the housekeeper and ordered to the study, crop in hand. On the other side of the door Sir Robert has a feeling 'akin to Champagne' as he contemplates what he's about to do. Who can blame him - he's a lucky guy.
Nicely judged scene where the pouting lovely 'wheedles and weeps' but - thank God - to no avail. Soon enough she's hearing her sentence - its eighteen strokes, on the bare, bent over the sofa because the desk had hurt her last time.
It's always good to know what's coming - it makes it seem like a just punishment not some wilful thrashing and the detail here is superb.
Very slowly 'resigned to her fate' Ms Thornfield undoes the buttons either her side of her riding britches and slowly lowers them - and it feels like slow motion - to reveal green-and-white chequered knickers. A lovely, convincingly random choice. I'm sure if I'd seen this girl I'd have speculated about her underwear; would probably have seen the outline but would never have guessed at green and white panties underneath.
Desperately Alicia tries to keep them up but, with real, growing anger, Sir Robert booms 'and the knickers' and down they come.
Her apple-shaped bum is set off 'as a jewel' and the beating baronet begins to raise his weopen.
Its a really good thrashing. Every one of the eighteen strokes is described. The weeping girl tries hard to control herself but is duly brought down to a totally humiliated, abject little girl. The stripes build, the heat mounts and her buttocks are soon a lovely crimson.
I don't recall if the knickers are restored or if she limps out with them at half-mast. I do know that this story endures re-reading time and time again and that beating a bit of posh-totty with a crop with her panties at her knees is one of the very best fantasies I know.

So here it is:

The New Riding Whip

HER upper body was pressed against the steering-wheel, and her dazzlingly pretty face gaped aghast through the
windscreen. She had hit something! After several stunned seconds she straightened up in the driver's seat,
Suddenly pale beneath the suntan which still lingered from those fragrant weeks in the Greek islands. Strands of golden hair obscured her wide, vividly blue eyes, for her head
had jerked forward at the collision.
Shakily, feeling faint, she pushed the hair back from her flawless forehead and opened the door of the brand-new
Jaguar. Stepping out on long, lissom legs she stretched her lithe young body and smoothed the rucked-up skirt over her slender hips. Then, with tingling nerves and a sick feeling of
dread, Alicia Thornfield walked to the front of the gleaming vehicle to inspect the damage.
The wheelbarrow she had driven into lay crushed and splintered on the broad gravel driveway, but this was not what the girl was staring at. The offside wing of the Jaguar was
shockingly defaced by dents and scratches, and the headlamp and the blinker were smashed! The awful
sight made her inhale deeply, pushing her tip-tilted breasts against the sheer silk fabric of her blouse.
Desperately she turned and looked around for someone to blame for this disaster, for the fool who had put the wheelbarrow there, right where it shouldn't be, in the middle of the drive into which she had just turned the car. In the distance she observed Rogerson, the gardener, hurrying
towards her shaking his grey-haired head; and even then the mettlesome young woman's full red lips curled with distaste to see how his startled gaze roamed over her bare legs beneath the tight skirt. 'You damn well ought to know better than to leave your stupid barrow here!' Alicia shouted, stamping her foot in fury and fright. Even to the unimaginative gardener she looked petite and doll-like, almost unreal in her perfection
of feminine shapeliness. It could have been that French actress, Bardot -re-formed and scarcely 21 again raging
at him beside his employer's distressingly damaged vehicle. The agile figure was daintily trim, little waisted with breasts like apples quivering under translucent silk, the trim thighs succulent-her legs smooth, sun-browned stems more lovely than the loveliest bloom in the orchid house from where he had hurried on hearing the distant crump. To the gardener, she looked rather like a flower herself.
But the aloofly alluring nymphet face, achingly pretty, was red and twisted now as she screeched at him, scattering the soft, honey-gold hair about that perfect head. 'You silly old bastard, I've a sodding good mind to ... to .. .'
'Ooh, dear,' said Rogerson, dragging to a stop. 'Ooh, my, Miss Alicia. Your stepdad won't be too happy when he sees what you've done to his new car!' 'What I've done, I’ve done?' the girl wailed. 'How was I supposed to know that bloody wheelbarrow was here? It was your fault. I was looking at the
rose-bushes when I drove in.’
'With respect, Miss,' ventured Rogerson, 'Sir Robert told me to leave it here when he called me to the orchid-house. And anyway, there's plenty of room on either side. If you'd been lookin' where you should've been .. .'
'Shut up!' she shrilled. 'Fix it, do something useful! Before he sees it, too!'
The gardener shook his head, well used-as were the other servants – to the stormy temper of this spoiled, succulent slip of a girl; a temper remarkably similar to that of Sir Robert, her stepfather, with whom he had just been discussing orchids
Uncomfortably similar, the man thought, and almost smiled.
'Ain't nothing I can fix, Miss,' said Rogerson. 'That'll need a crash repair job down the garage.'
'Oh, you're absolutely hopeless!'
Abruptly the girl swung round on her heels, and the man caught his breath at the sudden sight of her tightly compacted
little rump wiggling roundly beneath the clinging skirt as she
hurried up the broad stone stairs to the entrance-door of the stately, ivy smothered house.
As Alicia hastened to the temporary sanctuary of her room, cold spurts of dread pulsed through her, which quickly heated to panic that made her heart bump. She had borrowed her
stepfather's car on one of those reckless impulses of hers, believing him to be away. Certainly he would never have allowed her. After all, she had a car of her own-but it was a lot
more fun to drive a brand-new Jaguar than a three-year-old VW Golf. And, damn it, he'd obviously come back while she was out on the road and, assuming his car to be in the garage,
was pottering about with his wretched orchids! Now Rogerson
would blurt it all out. It was only a question of time. She decided to escape on her horse, Athos, for a few hours until her stepfather's anticipated wrath had cooled. Just in case, dreadfully, he took it into his head (and hand!) to do to her again what he'd done last week or so when she'd broken one of his ugly antique vases in an outburst of pique! The very
thought of that made the girl squirm.
In her bedroom Alicia hastily stripped off her day-clothes and
scrabbled in the cupboard for her riding-gear. As she leaned forward to work her ankles into the narrow jodhpurs she paused, catching sight of her bent-over bottom in the cheval-glass mirror. The plumply curved mounds, scarcely covered by the flimsy lace panties, were still marked with two pale pink stripes on the silky skin where the buttocks swelled out from the tops of her pretty thighs. Marks from that excruciating caning he had dared to give her last week! Faintly swollen, slightly raised, they tingled as her fingers touched them. This ghostly tingling returned the girl to her
urgent need for haste, and she quickly straightened, hauling up the skin-tight breeches ...
'How could that wretched girl run straight into a barrow when there's room for at least ten cars?' Sir Robert was exclaiming, dangerously red in the face as he surveyed the crushed wing of his coveted Jaguar. At six-feet-three and shaking with rage,
he made a daunting sight. Some thirty years ago he had boxed for the University and rowed stroke in their best eight'. Now in his fifties, a handsome-featured man who had not only retained the hair on his head but most of its sable colouring, he stood straight and powerful, protesting his ill-fortune in an operatic baritone.
Ordering the gardener to arrange for the car to be mended at the garage in the village, he stalked off towards the house, determined to have a serious chat with his seemingly incorrigible stepdaughter.
He strode into the spacious hallway and paused, breathing harshly in an effort to control his fury as his hot glare settled on the umbrella-stand, which bristled with brollies and sticks. From it he selected a smart new lady's riding-whip, which he
angrily swished through the air. Then he walked through to his private study at the back of the house, thwacking the thin crop against the palm of his hand with a thoughtful but determined expression. Picking up the internal telephone he rang the housekeeper, Mrs White, and asked her to tell his stepdaughter to come down immediately.
Mrs White smiled grimly as she walked up the stairs and along the corridor to the room at the comer of the building. At her approach the door flew open and Miss Alicia dashed
out, dressed for riding in those skin-tight breeches which hugged across her eye-catching buttocks and so tantalised the male staff. The young mistress was also wearing a white
blouse, and calf-length boots on which she wobbled away towards the back stairs, clearly anxious not to be seen.
'Miss Alicia!' the housekeeper called. The girl froze in her tracks, and when she turned her face was flushed and her lovely blue eyes looked feverish.
'Sir Robert would like you down in his study, please.'
'1-1 have to take Athos out for his daily exercise,' the girl replied as nonchalantly as she could. 'Tell him
you haven't seen me, okay?'
'Your stepfather knows you're in, and was most insistent that you come down at once,' intoned the housekeeper with a somewhat malicious smile: like most of the domestic staff,
she had more than once been on the receiving end of this beautiful, willowy girl's temper.
'By the way,' the woman added, 'I noticed that Sir Robert took
your new riding-whip from the hall stand. It's in his study with him. I expect you'll need it later, when you go riding.' With that Mrs White swung round and clomped away, scarcely concealing her excitement and pleasure at what might well soon be happening to that spoiled, slender young beauty within a very short space of time.
As Alicia retraced her steps miserably towards the main stairs,
unconsciously she let her hands smooth over her narrow hips and backwards across her pert, pouting seat. Through the drum-taut fabric of her breeches she felt again the still-swollen stripes across her compact bottom. This wasn't her lucky week at all. She had got the cane only a few days before, despite her age of almost 21. Now it looked horribly as if she might be in for a taste of her own riding-whip! In a helpless gesture of defiance she tilted her dainty chin and
pulled back her shoulders, strangely satisfied at how the buttoned-up blouse tightened across her proudly high-nippled breasts.
Alicia was all too aware of her stepfather's rages. Since her mother had passed away almost three years ago, she had lived alone with him and three servants in this old mansion from which he controlled his companies. All through her teens, Alicia had been high-spirited, but it wasn't until after her mother died that her stepfather began to treat her more like
an irresponsible girl than a young lady.
She did concede, however, that the physical punishments he had begun to mete out were usually her own fault Alicia appreciated the continuing luxury of living in this large house
with servants, and hadn't made any serious efforts to get a job. After a year at university she had become tired of studies, and defiantly stayed at home. Her stepfather wanted her to accept
work in one of his companies, but she had declined; and, after several vain attempts at persuasion, he had become angry and informed her that as long as she was living under his roof without contributing to her own upkeep, she was to obey him and accept his discipline. Meekly, yet sullenly, Alicia had agreed to his terms.
As the girl moved with increasing trepidation towards the combined library and study where Sir Robert worked when at home, the breeches seemed to cling extra tightly to her
hips and thighs. Alicia liked them like that, enjoying clothes which presented her figure to advantage. At the door she paused, breathed deeply, yet again, and raised her knuckles to knock.
Then she lowered them, and realised she was trembling.
On the other side of the stout mahogany door the incensed stepparent paced impatiently about as he waited for his errant young charge to appear. His gaze wandered around the room with its well-stocked bookcases and fine old oak panelling, finally coming to rest on the supple riding whip he had placed prominently on the large, leather-topped desk. For a moment he mentally pictured Alicia's girlishly sleek-skinned flanks,
and experienced a somewhat guilty, steadily-rising excitement. The whip had been a gift to the girl when he had
bought Athos for her, and he had always thought how exhilarating it would be to use it on Alicia's truly attractive bottom. Her bare bottom as naked as that of her horse! Sir Robert squared his heavy shoulder and couldn't suppress a sigh, very much aware of the particular quality of pleasure such thoughts gave him. It was a heady feeling akin to the intoxication afforded by champagne, only more so!
Last time, some ten days ago, he had made her bend over this same writing-desk. Alicia had been wearing a ridiculously brief skirt, which he considered frankly indecent. Furious
as Sir Robert had already been on account of the girl's clumsiness, the riveting sight of those round, packed-to-bursting rumps and silky thigh-backs had flooded the man's
senses with a great glow of well-being; of supreme anticipation! He had turned up her skirt and uncovered a
pair of deliciously-shaped buttocks encased in skimpy pink nylon knickers with a pattern of small flowers and a lace edging. He had been in something of a daze as he picked up the cane and delivered ten crisp whacks across that gorgeous rear, remembering only that the girl had complained with sharp aaaooouuuches and OOWWU1S, though probably more loudly than she had reason to, for in his rapt condition he had not hit hard.
After the caning Alicia hadn't wept much, but had snifflingly promised him to behave better in future. In the intervening days, however, Sir Robert had found himself secretly hoping that his beautiful 20-year-old stepdaughter would revert to her true nature. And now, sure enough, with this inexcusable 'borrowing' and damaging of his Jaguar, the wilful girl had played straight into his more than-willing hands.
Now he began to positively savour the imminent encounter. As Alicia had protested at how, during her caning, the desk-edge had bit into her hips at the front, he now decided to
have the girl lying across the arm support of the leather-clad sofa. Thus she would have her hips raised higher, which would prevent her from attempting to stand up between the strokes to rub her bottom as she had tried to do before.
At the uncharacteristically timid rap on the door the big man stiffened more tensely in his brown gardening tweeds, and ran a finger round the inside of his collar.
'Come!' he barked.
The door crept open and Alicia stepped into the study. In her riding habit, with well-polished riding-boots, her slender figure was indeed a fetching sight to behold. He always enjoyed seeing her in that costume, with white blouse buttoned demurely to the neck, and tight khaki breeches snugly contouring her buttocks, thighs and hips. On horseback, with helmet and jacket on too, she always caught the eyes of the spectators. On this occasion, though, he was to be the sole spectator; and he intended it to be a spectacle very much worth the watching. Sir Robert's heavily handsome features hardened, and his eyes were like flints. The only gestures which betrayed the excitement he felt were the way his fingers pushed through his white-flecked hair and his firm, grave mouth twitched at the corners.
Shut the door, Alicia,' he said quietly.
Blushing, and in increasing dread, the girl obeyed. She took a few steps forward and then her eyes grew round on seeing her own flexible plaited riding-whip on the desk over which she had sprawled that last dreadful time.
'I-I'm sorry about the car, honestly I am,' she said. Her voice trembled.
Demurely she held her eyes downcast, then dared a glance at him from beneath long eyelashes.
'Being "sorry" simply isn't enough, Alicia,' her stepfather rapped. 'You blithely take my new car without permission - that, in itself, would have been offence enough to justify how I now intend to deal with you.' His voice grew in force and pitch, so that each word made the girl flinch as if from a slap. 'But you then, through sheer wanton recklessness, drive it into a barrow and have the gall to try and put the blame on the gardener!'
Feeling increasingly apprehensive, panting with growing agitation, Alicia was shifting her weight and fidgeting as she tried to find a way out of this appalling scrape. She had a genuinely guilty look on her face now, and did her best to avoid his angry glare. But her flinching gaze only settled again on the riding-whip.
'Look at me, young lady,' he rasped. ’Raise your head and look me in my eyes when I'm talking to you!'
Alicia's neat white teeth showed as she bit at her lower lip and glanced up at him from under wet, trembling lashes. Tears had appeared in her large blue eyes. '
‘Please, father, I've said I'm sorry,' the girl implored. 'It will- hurt so much!'
Desperately, Alicia tried another tack. 'Look, I'm almost
21 now! I-I'll pay for the damage somehow, but please don't use that on me. I'm a grown woman now, I'm .. .'
Sir Robert towered above her as she wheedled and wept. The very sight of that graceful young woman with the honey-gold hair, enchanting face and wringing hands might have melted the heart of a less imaginative man. But Alicia's stepfather's imagination was too strong to deny his heated mental images the fulfilment of reality. He swelled his great chest, lifted his strong-jawed head higher, and picked up the girl's own riding-whip.
'Alicia,' he intoned gravely, tapping his broad palm with the springy shaft, 'I have already told you that you have no one to blame but yourself for the predicament you are in-and you will pay in the manner I have chosen.' She gasped as he moved around the desk towards her. 'Get over there to the
sofa,' he instructed, almost softly now. 'I want you across the arm support with your feet to the floor.'
Instinctively, Alicia turned to obey. With hands clasped to the seat of her smartly-tailored breeches she moved most unwillingly to the sofa, daring to hope that he would at least let her keep her breeches on. She had used that new leather switch quite often enough lately when riding Athos. It
stung even him, so she was well aware of its whipping quality. The trim young woman stopped close to the arm support and cast a pleading glance back at her stepfather, searching for words that might stop this happening. None came.
'Take your breeches down,' came the command.
'No, please!' Alicia's voice grew shrill as her hands flew to the waistband of her pants-not to release it but to hold them in position.
'Take them down, or I shall do it for you!' His voice was implacable, and she could hear him breathing harshly.
'Oh. No. No-o. Please, stepfather, let me keep them on!'
'Do as I tell you, Alicia,' he ordered, and the young lady knew there was nothing else for her but to obey.
Wretchedly she fumbled with the buttons, five on each side of the drum-tight breeches. She undid them slowly, clumsily, fingers trembling, till the side-splits fell open. Yet still she held her breeches up. When Alicia glanced imploringly at him, she saw him taking the leather whip from the table, and quickly averted her eyes. Glowering, yet inwardly elated, Sir
Robert stepped up • behind his quavering stepdaughter, thwacking his palm with unmistakable intention.
'Let them down to your knees,' he ordered, noting with further quiet pleasure the hem of her blouse and a small nylon garment in green and white through the slit-opening. Defiantly, desperately, Alicia continued to hold her breeches up.
'Please, father,' she begged, 'i-it will hurt too much. You know I'm still sore.. .' The girl increased her sobbing, frantic to be spared this punishment which she had dreaded from the moment the car had hit the wheelbarrow.
Her face was red and swollen from the tears, and she felt utterly ashamed. Yet, in an act of obstinacy which marked her character, she continued to tug up the breeches as highas she could. And, because she was at the same time bending slightly forward, the fabric stretched very tightly around her protruding, deliciously apple-shaped behind. It was an enticement impossible to resist. Sir Robert raised the crop and let it swish through the air to land with a dull swat right
across where the cloth was the most taut.
Alicia let out a shrill yelp. The smart was perfectly atrocious. She felt it penetrate in stinging waves even through her breeches, and at once she jumped to the side, half-turning her back away from him.
'Are you ready to obey me now? asked Sir Robert harshly, raising the whip again. The lovely girl whimpered, hesitating only a moment more before she pushed the breeches down, unveiling a pair of the flimsiest green-and white chequered knickers with a narrow lace edging around the thighs.
Then she turned with a deep sigh, face glittering with tears as she looked beseechingly at her stepfather, the khaki riding-breeches wrinkled around her knees in a most humiliating manner. 'And the knickers, please.'
This time the proud girl gaped. 'No! she exclaimed. 'You can't mean ... ?'
'But I do mean, Alicia,' the big man retorted, feeling the glowing within him enhance to a quiet radiance. 'You will pull your knickers down so that your buttocks are entirely bare.' As if to underline his instruction, he lightly tapped the bare skin of her thighs below the knicker-legs. 'Now?
Slowly, as if resigned at last to her fate, Alicia put her thumbs inside the elastic round her waist and sobbingly stooped to pull the scant protection down. With the globes of her buttocks thus starkly bared, and desperately shy in case he might see her exposed front, she quickly bent over the leather chair-arm and stretched herself out on her tummy, legs slightly apart and dangling down, hiding her face in her open hands.
Seeing his stepdaughter bent submissively across the sofa with her bare bottom uppermost and panties at her knees, Sir Robert yielded to an irresistible temptation to examine more closely Alicia's enticingly attractive buttocks. So gorgeously curved they were, with flinching muscles in the springy flesh.
It was a perfect bottom, like some succulent peach, pushed high by the arching of its owner's supple spine to receive
its well-deserved chastisement.
'It's your flagrant disobedience which has merited this thrashing,' Sir Robert now summarised in low, even tones. 'You must learn responsibility for your actions, Alicia.' He stood, to one side of her prostrate body, noting with great satisfaction how her buttock-muscles tensed and jumped under the silken flesh. Flexing the riding-whip, he raised his arm. 'As you soon will be 21,' he told her, 'I have decided to be more strict with you than before. On the last occasion you received-ten. Today it will have to be fifteen.'
'Please,' she gasped. 'Please, you can't. 1-1 still have marks from the cane; you know my skin is so sensitive . . . Aaaaawwwch! Alicia had hardly finished her protest when a hissing in the air was followed by a crisp smack and her complaining shriek of pain from the ferocious sting the riding whip caused as it smote smartly across her naked, flinching bottom. The thin, flexible leather at once recoiled and landed again below its first mark, though not quite so hard as the initial blow. Involuntarily the girl stretched her body rigidly and her arms shot forward as her feet lifted from the floor.
For several seconds she lay stiffly horizontal, whimpering as she fought to absorb the pain.

'Put your feet down, Alicia,' he told her sharply. 'I want your bottom bent tightly over.'
In a mist of anguish and embarrassment Alicia did as bidden, thrusting her knuckles into her mouth as if biting them would prevent her from yelling out for the next stroke, and the next.
As Sir Robert swung back the riding-crop, warming to his enviable task, the oppressive weight of day-to-day business problems seemed to lift from him, to be replaced by a heady sensation of glorious release.
The sound the crop made as it whipped through the air, the feel of its meaty impact on those so-sweet pillows of flesh, were like elixir to his soul.
lVhiissh- SPLlCK!
'Uuuhuuu, the girl sobbed, wriggling her so very vulnerable
bottom in a rage of pain and humiliation. Through the raspings her body made as it bucked and threshed against the leather chair-arm she remembered something her stepfather
had said when he had beaten her before, that she ought to be
grateful as long as she could atone for her transgressions in this way, because the alternative might one day be prison and public disgrace .. .
Sswiish-whackl Even as she cried out, she shuddered at the thought of being locked away in a shabby cell. Instead, it seemed, her own elegant, expensive riding-whip was scoring
another burning mark diagonally across her left buttock, and the last inches of the switch etched a far more painful stripe across the back of her right thigh.
'Aaaghh, please-please NO!'
Ssswiiish! That smack came too soon after its predecessor. Alicia had scarcely time to release the shrill yelp which accompanied it, before the doubled smart in her bottom forced
her to emit a shrieking, gasping, unintelligible croak.
For a few moments Sir Robert paused to allow his quailing stepdaughter to catch her breath. The man's eyes glowed with the pleasure of a connoisseur being richly satisfied as he surveyed those round, ripe rumps now striped and crimsoning.
He was in heaven! Sucking in air he again poised his hand high above the seductive target and brought the riding-whip whistling down.
Ssssplaatt! A new stripe burned across the resilient girl-flesh just below the crown of her rippling cheeks, and again Alicia emitted a cry of anguish. And then, like before, while she was squeezing her thighs hard and clenching her buttocks, she
received another screeching stroke immediately after, lower down in the tender bottom-skin near the tops of her shuddering legs. Alicia gave a gurgling cry and squirmed violently, wrenching her semi-nude body and removing her scorching buttocks from the target area.
Sir Robert paused as the following stroke was about to descend, then bent and grasped Alicia's left arm and forced her back into position over the padded leather support while the miserable girl pleaded and wept.
'Pup-please, stepfather-please, no more. I c-can't take it . . .' Alicia blubbered.
'There are eight more to come, Alicia,' he told her harshly. 'You're old enough to be brave and take the punishment you've earned, without making so much fuss! If you turn your
bottom again I will add more strokes!'
For a few moments Sir Robert let his stepdaughter rest. She had never in her life been thrashed so severely, but the lesson would be salutary. In the brief break, as her sniffles subsided
and her sweet young body settled, he savoured anew the uniquely intoxicating sights and sounds of the thrashing, the girl's mews and groans, and the feel of the pliant riding-switch
so light and lively in his grip.
Stretched across the arm of the sofa, Alicia welcomed the pause. She tried to relax and make her body go limp,
pressing her knuckles to her lips as she waited for the beating to resume, very much aware of her stepfather standing close behind and breathing hard as he regarded her red-striped, twitching, wincing bottom. Then he again, slowly, raised the
vicious crop-aiming at the pinkened tenderness where Alicia's thighs swelled lusciously into the half-globes of her pertly provocative, temptingly patterned backside.
Hwissh-thwackl The riding-whip sped down and struck accurately across the creases which marked the undercurves, forcing fresh shrillness from the girl's lips; and while her
buttocks were still trembling from the impact the switch fell once more, a little higher up, flattening the flesh and making her whole bottom wobble. Alicia gasped and cried, raising her
hips as if to meet the next stroke on its journey down, but her stepfather deliberately waited until she was again lying prone with her belly pressed to the chair-arm before he swept the whip down. The stroke made its authoritative crisp report
and a new red mark showed how the crop had hit across both her thighs immediately below the clenched buttocks.
Wailing and blubbering as she was, Alicia was by now doing her best to prepare herself for the pain each time the springy whip bit into her smarting flesh, and the sheer physical tension caused the muscles of her crimsoned bottom to move in flinching and twitching movements by themselves.
She began to feel a sense of pride in not crying out when the riding-whip struck into her flesh.
The next followed almost at once and hit right across the tops of her bare half-moons; and this time only a stifled moan left her mouth, though she could not prevent her hips from
jerking up and down. Alicia further began to find that the pang of the smacks was not unendurable-or so she was able to convince herself. There was of course no question
about the fact that he was punishing her most severely, and she had to weep because the tears helped to alleviate the stinging pain and made it possible for her to submit. The
repeated twinges which shot through her bottom when the riding-whip landed to decorate her skin with still another red-glowing stripe, caused her to blubber-though much more
quietly now, and this blubbering helped her to keep the position in which her stepfather wanted her.
Sir Robert had been counting the strokes in his head, but now he started to grunt them out loud. When Alicia heard 'Twelve, she began to feel relieved. And then, at last, she heard
him counting 'Fourteen' and 'Fifteen'.
For at least a minute afterwards, as she continued to lie across the leather chair-arm feeling her bottom throbbing hot and sore, tears coursed down Alicia's pretty cheeks, and all that could be heard was the gradual slowing of his grunting breaths and her own soft snifflings.
At length Sir Robert put the riding-whip back on his desk, almost with reverence, and for a while he stood back and examined, with silent admiration and a profound satisfaction,
Alicia's red-patterned, comely young bottom. The fawn jodhpurs had slipped down round her ankles and the green-and-white knickers were wrinkled below her knees. There
were stripes all over her shapely posterior and also a few long red marks across the backs of her thighs. Sir Robert raised his left hand and gave the girl a firm spank on the right cheek, watching as it burst in to fire again.
'All right, Alicia,' he said, his voice a little tired now after the elation he had experienced. 'You can get up now. I hope that you will always remember this lesson. It wasn't really to use it
like this that I bought this riding-whip for you.'
Alicia struggled to regain her feet and composure, pushing herself exhaustedly up from the sofa-arm. For a moment she held both hands to her face to wipe off her tears, before
realising that she was displaying herself to him in front. She quickly stooped and pulled up her knickers, yet scarcely seemed to care that the breeches were still round her feet.
'Yes, stepfather,' the girl sniffled. 'I will try to behave, honestly I will.' She looked down meekly then added, almost saucily: 'I-I'm so sore now, I don't know if I'll be able to take Athos out for his exercise today.'
Sir Robert smiled, then frowned with some effort at the tearful girl who looked so vulnerable and charming in her white blouse and skimpy panties with the rest of her clothing
down around her legs. A far cry from the normal, proud and bossy Alicia.
'But you had better,' he admonished her. 'That horse needs his run, and a sore bottom doesn't hurt a great deal more because you are sitting on it. Pull up your breeches now, then go and
wash your face and get along to the stables. You know you like riding Athos.'
Alicia couldn't resist a furtive rub at her bottom-cheeks before bending and tugging the jodhpurs back up her legs, fingers fumbling as she re-fastened the five buttons at each side. The breeches felt even tighter now, perhaps because she was more
sensitive where they fitted closest! At least, she sighed, her punishment was over.
Half an hour later the girl hurried away to the stables feeling very much better. Her stepfather had appeared to be in an excellent mood and had smacked her-still somewhat painfully
-on her behind when she had come back to fetch her riding-whip from his study. Indeed, so relaxed did he seem, Sir Robert hadn't even forbidden her to use her own car or to visit her friend after dinner.
In the cobbled yard that smelled of horses and hay the groom, Hubert, helped her to saddle Athos-who still was too young to stand still when the leather encumbrance was put on his back. After Alicia had checked the length of the stirrups, she led the
fretful stallion out into the field and climbed somewhat stiffly into the saddle while Hubert held him.
'Be careful now, Miss Alicia,' cautioned Hubert, patting the horse's flank. 'Athos . isn't too safe yet. Remember what your stepfather often says, that if you have to use the riding whip,
then do it gently and with very light taps.'
The old groom simply could not understand, and nor would Alicia have been able to explain to him, why she allowed her horse to race away in such an uncontrollable manner. Nor
why as Athos surged into a gallop with almost slack reins and
his shapely rider bumped up and down in the saddle, shrill little squeals could be heard from Alicia all the way into
the distance.

Debbie's Luck Runs Out

Rather than review a story - for my second post I've adapted someone else's. It's one of Mike from London's wonderful schoolgirl stories that Laura Werner collected in her 'Spanking Corner' in the mid-nineties. Its a stunningly simple tale. I've made a few 'improvements' to suit my taste - I felt Debbie couldn't get away with having her bottom protected throughout and thought she needed a taste of the tawse as well as the cane. Enjoy it!

Debbie's Luck Runs Out!
________________________________________

It was the beginning of afternoon break and Debbie Storey was running along the school corridor pursued by her friend Lucy Cook. There was a strict rule at Mayhew Road School about running in the corridors, but neither of the girls was thinking of that. Debbie ran happily around a corner at full speed - and collided with Miss Copsey, the Geography teacher, knocking her to the ground.
Debbie herself was rather shaken by the impact, she had been running very fast, but her mouth fell open in absolute shock when she saw whom it was she had ran into and realised that she had actually knocked a teacher over. She stood rooted to the spot in horror. Behind her Lucy, alerted by the noise, approached the corner at a more sedate pace.
It took Miss Copsey some time to recover her breath and stand up, straightening her clothes. When she did so she was, understandably, very angry.
'How dare you run about the school like a madwoman, girl?' she asked when she had regained her feet. 'Don't you know there's a rule against running in the corridor?'
Debbie remained silent. She was still shocked at what had happened, and anyway there was no answer to the teacher's questions. The only thing she could think of was to say that Lucy had been chasing her. But that would only get her friend into trouble as well, and she would still be the one who had knocked a teacher over. So she remained silent.
'Right!' said Miss Copsey. 'You need a sharp lesson, young lady! Will you accept punishment from me, or do you want me to send you to Mrs Livesey?'
Even in her dismayed state Debbie did not take long to reach a decision. If the headmistress, Mrs Livesey, thought that a girl sent to her deserved corporal punishment then her minimum infliction was six strokes of the cane, whereas other teachers could not give more than four strokes. Furthermore Debbie had heard that Mrs Livesey often made girls take their knickers down for a caning, which the remainder of staff were only permitted to do for exceptional transgressions.
So Debbie had to balance the small chance that the headmistress would not judge her offence worthy of the cane against the certainty of more severe punishment if she did think so. And Debbie could not dare to hope that a severe disciplinarian like Mrs Livesey would allow a girl who had knocked down a member of her staff to leave her office with her bottom un-caned. In fact it was much more likely that Miss Copsey would, after getting over her initial shock, let her off with a lighter punishment.
The Geography teacher had, in fact, a reputation as one of the teachers most reluctant to resort to corporal punishment. Debbie knew that she hardly ever used the cane and only rarely made use of the tawse or strap. Of course the circumstance that she had just been bowled over by a fifth year running along the corridor in flagrant disregard of the school rules might alter the case! But Debbie realised that anything must be preferable than a visit to Mrs Livesey's study and answered Miss Copsey accordingly.
'I'll take your punishment, miss,' she mumbled.
'Very well, Debbie. Go to the staff room and wait outside for me, facing the wall. I'll be along in a few minutes.'
The other girls had disappeared by now and the corridors were deserted as Debbie made her disconsolate way to the staff room. She walked slowly now, not thinking of running. The next few minutes were not likely to prove very pleasant, she thought.
Finally she reached the staff room and stood outside the door gazing into a large landscape painting which adorned the corridor wall there. She hoped that anyone seeing her would think that she was just interested in the picture and not that she had been sent to stand outside the staff room like a naughty little girl. But this ploy was unsuccessful as she soon realised.
'Debbie Storey. Who sent you here?' It was the voice of Mrs Bennett, her form mistress.
Debbie turned around and blushed slightly. She hadn't been getting on very well with Mrs Bennett recently and just the previous week had received from her only the second strapping of her school career. It had only been three whacks of the two-tailed tawse and hadn't actually hurt all that much, but Debbie had felt humiliated at having, at sixteen years of age, to offer up her pantie-clad bottom for the form mistress to hit and at the thought that all the other girls in her class knew what had happened. Unhappily she told the teacher that Miss Copsey had sent her there.
'I warned you what would happen if you didn't pull your socks up, didn't I?' grunted the form mistress as she opened the door and entered the staff room. Debbie felt her dislike of Mrs Bennett rise to a new peak. Surely her form mistress should be on her side and take her part against other teachers such as Miss Copsey! But it seemed she had little to hope for there.
It was some minutes more before the Geography teacher approached the staff room. Some part of the delay was in order to give Debbie time for reflection and repentance, but mostly it was because Miss Copsey, having had all the breath knocked out of her, was not yet feeling ready to meet her colleagues in the staff room. The twenty five year old teacher was quite fit, but it still took her rather longer to recover from such a tumble than a teenager like Debbie. And she had collected quite a few bruises and aches in that unexpected fall. Nevertheless Miss Copsey was not a martinet and didn't want to be unfair to Debbie on account of the fact that she had been hurt herself. She resolved to punish the girl no differently than she would have done had it been another pupil she had knocked over.
When she reached the staff room door she opened it and, tapping Debbie on the shoulder, told her to go in. When they had both entered the room Miss Copsey saw Mrs Bennett sitting in an armchair and, knowing her to be Debbie's form mistress, thought that it would be proper to consult with her. So she told Debbie to go to the end of the room and go into the storeroom which opened off to the left.
Debbie did as she was told, trying to ignore the interested looks which she was attracting from the various members of staff. She walked into the storeroom and closed the door behind her. Debbie knew from the accounts of her friends and classmates that the storeroom doubled as a punishment room, although she had never been there before - both of her strappings having been administered by her form mistresses in the form room.
Looking about her Debbie saw piles of old textbooks, exercise books and boxes of stationery. Dozens of music-stands were leaning against one wall. But Debbie's attention was drawn to a shelf on the far wall. Two long, and evidently well-used, tawses were lying on the shelf; and dangling from the shelf by their crook handles were no fewer than three yellowish-brown canes, varying in length from a little over two feet to almost three feet long. Debbie bit her lip and her hands went behind her back to the seat of her pleated skirt. It was the first time Debbie had ever seen a cane but she could imagine only too well the effect one of those pliant rods would have on her tender behind.
Debbie had kept out of serious trouble at school, until now, partly by being careful and mostly by being lucky. But many of her friends had not been so lucky. Lucy, for example, had been caned twice and Debbie well remembered her tear-stained face and reluctance to sit down after her first encounter with the cane. The memory was the more poignant as Debbie was well aware that she had deserved the cane fully as much as Lucy on that occasion and had just escaped through her usual good luck.
Even more frightening was the fate of the really naughty - or really unlucky - girls in her class who had been sent to Mrs Livesey. Earlier that term Elaine Moore and Teresa Renshaw had been reported to the headmistress for bullying a first year girl. Elaine was rather a 'hard case', a real bully, always in and out of trouble. But Teresa was a quiet girl who had never been in serious trouble before and had acted as she had partly out of fear of Elaine.
Mrs Livesey had made no distinction, however, and both girls had their tight knickers taken down and had received eight strokes of the cane on the bare bottom. Terri had cried like a baby for the whole of the rest of the morning and had then gone home without permission at lunchtime, staying away from school for the rest of the week. Even now, about a month after the punishments, Debbie thought that Terri was still being rather careful about sitting down. Many girls had asked Terri for details of what had happened but she just shook her head silently in reply. Elaine was more forthcoming but even she had been very subdued after that caning and had not yet completely reverted to her old ways. So, despite never having felt the sting of a cane on her own pert backside, young Debbie was in no doubt that it would hurt!
Next to the straps was a large black book with the words Punishment Book embossed upon it. Debbie felt tempted to open it. It would be interesting to find out which girls had been caned or tawsed and had succeeded in keeping it quiet. But she did not think it would be safe to open the book when Miss Copsey might come in at any moment. Her eyes moved back to the twin-tailed tawses, consideringly.
She hoped desperately that Miss Copsey would feel that a belting would meet the case. She was well aware of the irony of this. She could not have imagined, only last week as she bent over a desk for two solid whacks from Mrs Bennett's tawse, that she would so soon actually be hoping for a strapping!
Outside, in the staff room, Miss Copsey was discussing the same subject.
'What's Debbie Storey done now, Susan?' Mrs Bennett had asked the Geography teacher.
Miss Copsey had explained what had happened and asked the form mistress what punishment she thought was appropriate in the circumstances. 'I was really angry at first,' the teacher continued, 'because she had actually knocked me over like that. But I suppose it was really an accident. So I thought that if she apologises to me properly then a few whacks with the tawse will meet the case. What do you think?'
'I disagree! That young lady needs a good lesson in my opinion! I gave her a "few whacks with the strap" last week. It doesn't seem to have done much good, does it!? And whether or not it was an accident, why was she running like that in the first place? No, I think you should give her a full four with the number one cane. If it had been me I'd have marched her straight to Mrs Livesey, no arguing!'
'But I thought Debbie was a well-behaved girl. I've never seen her sent here for punishment before!'
'No, Susan. Debbie Storey is rather a con artist. She's very good at going to the absolute limit and then just wriggling out of trouble at the last moment. She's at the root of a lot of disruption in my form but she's clever enough to fix things so that other girls get punished and not her. This time she's finally made a mistake and gone too far. You would be doing me a favour if you give that little madam a sore bottom that she will remember for some time.'
Then, lowering her voice so that the other teachers in the room couldn't hear her, the form mistress continued: 'I should have thought that you, Susan, of all people would be aware of the beneficial effects of a caning in bringing a silly girl of Debbie's age back to her senses!'
Susan Copsey blushed. She herself had been a pupil at Mayhew Road some years before. Of the present occupants of the staff room only Mrs Bennett had been a teacher at the time, and now she was recalling an incident which Susan would rather have had forgotten. About ten years before she herself had stood in that same room - but as a culprit, not a teacher! Like Debbie she had been in the fifth year when she herself had gone too far, in her case by cheeking her English mistress and using a swear word. The rules had been different then and Susan's one and only caning had been a full six strokes. On the bare, knickers down. She remembered Mrs Bennett sitting in that same armchair as she had stumbled out of the storeroom in tears, clutching her exquisitely sore bottom. She was wearing rather sexier underwear today but her bottom squirmed inside her skimpy panties as she remembered how it had burned that day.
But she knew that Mrs Bennett was right in as much as that caning had certainly had a good effect on her. After that painful and shaming experience Susan had knuckled down to hard work and had passed all her exams. If she had not been brought back down to work in that unpleasant way she would probably not have gained any qualifications at all and would certainly not be a school teacher now. So, still blushing a little, she nodded slowly and left the form mistress, passing into the storeroom.
The door closed behind her and Debbie turned from her contemplation of the punishment instruments towards the young teacher.
'Well. Have you anything to say for yourself, Debbie?' asked Miss Copsey.
'Yes, miss. I'm really sorry. It was a complete accident. I know I shouldn't have been running in the corridor, but I honestly wouldn't have hurt you for the world! I was horrified. I know you've got to punish me for running, but please don't add anything on because I knocked you down. That was an accident and I never meant it!'
Debbie was very good at conveying an impression of injured innocence. Just then she looked as though butter would not melt in her mouth. At any other time the Geography teacher would probably have let herself be persuaded and have let the girl off with a merely symbolic strapping or even a hand-spanking. But after her conversation with Mrs Bennett and the revived memory of her own schooldays, she felt differently.
She looked at the teenager grimly. 'Debbie, I don't like using the cane, as you probably know.' Debbie shuddered involuntarily at the word "cane". The teacher continued: 'But the "accident" would not have happened if you had not been rushing along the corridor in complete disregard of the rules of the school and completely reckless of any other people going about their normal business.
'If a car driver has an "accident" as a result of being drunk than he is punished more severely than the drunk driver who is not involved in an accident. And in the same way your punishment will be more severe as a result of the consequences of your breach of the rules.
'Also I have discussed your general behaviour with your form mistress and she is not very pleased with you at all! We talked about what would be an appropriate punishment in all the circumstances and we are in complete agreement. I am afraid I feel, reluctantly, that anything other than the cane would be a mistaken kindness. I think that you have ridden your luck at this school for a long time. Well, now your luck has run out!'
And Miss Copsey walked forward to the end wall and removed the longest of the three canes from its place on the shelf. She turned and faced the now obviously very scared teenager. Taking the cane in both hands she slowly flexed it, almost into a semi-circle, demonstrating to Debbie that despite its length and thickness it was still wickedly supple and pliant. Then the teacher released her left hand and the cane immediately sprung back straight again with a sudden hiss.
'Right, Debbie, take your blazer off and hang it on the hook on the door.'
Instead of obeying the frightened girl made one final attempt to escape with a lesser punishment. 'Please, miss,' she said, 'I've never had the cane before. Can't you give me the strap instead? It was an accident and I promise I won't ever run in the corridor again. Mrs Bennett has got it in for me and I bet she's made me out to be a troublemaker, and I'm not - honestly!'
But this time all Debbie's wiles were no use. Miss Copsey knew that the truth of the matter was that the girl was getting off lightly. If Mrs Livesey had been brought in she would undoubtedly have awarded a much more severe punishment.
'No, Debbie. Arguing with me will do you no good at all. I have made up my mind, and if you do not obey me this minute you will receive additional strokes for refusing to accept punishment. Now remove your blazer and hang it up!'
Sullenly Debbie obeyed, in silence.
'Right. Now pull that stool out and bend right down over it, holding onto the bar. I'm going to give you four strokes, and I advise you to stay in position throughout or it will be the worse for you.'
Once again the fifth former did as she was told, cursing Mrs Bennett under her breath as she slowly bent over the stool. She knew that it had to have been she who had put Miss Copsey up to it. The Geography teacher used the cane very rarely indeed and never gave the maximum. Strands of Debbie's long, light brown hair fell forward over her eyes as she bent. Suddenly she felt Miss Copsey's hand on the hem of her blue school skirt.
Her whole body trembled as she felt the skirt being slowly lifted to reveal more and more of her bare thighs and then her skimpy polka dot panties straining across her curvy teenage rear. Debbie could hear her heart suddenly beating very loudly as she felt the teacher pin the hem of her skirt high up in the middle of the back of her cream-coloured blouse.
Suddenly Miss Copsey paused. ‘These aren’t regulation school knickers, are they young lady?’
‘I..I don’t know miss’
‘Well I do know. And so do you. It’s navy school knickers until the sixth form. This scanty wear is certainly against the rules, you little tart. Polka-dot knickers indeed. I shall give you two extra, on the bare, for this exceptional breach of discipline’
Poor Debbie didn’t know what to say and decided it was best to say nothing. She’d been so proud of her new lingerie when she’d bought it just a few days before, little had she imagined her nice new knickers would ever be seen by a teacher.
The tiny dark blue panties with their little white spots had ridden up slightly and the lower portions of the girl's delightfully shaped rear were on view to the Geography teacher. Susan realised that this would mean that the cane would largely fall across bare flesh but she did not feel inclined to be any more lenient as a result. Mrs Bennett had convinced her that if any girl at Mayhew Road deserved a very sore and stripy bottom it was Debbie Storey.
Miss Copsey placed the cane carefully across Debbie's trembling bottom, eliciting a deep intake of breath from the bending girl, then she took a step back and lifted the cane high. Debbie closed her eyes tight and tried to tense herself for the now inevitable caning. She heard the hiss as the cane swiped down and then, a second later, felt the impact as it lashed at full force onto the lower part of her bottom, its tip digging deeply into bare flesh unprotected by her knickers. It was another second more before she felt the unimaginable stinging pain explode through her behind - the force of the impact having momentarily numbed her nerves.
But when she did feel it her reaction was dramatic.
'Aieeyee!! Owwww! Owww!' she yelled at the top of her voice. Debbie had wanted to take her caning in silence, knowing that the teachers in the staff room were bound to be listening, but she simply couldn't help herself as she felt that awful sting. It was simply not of the same order of magnitude as a strapping - she had never dreamt that even the whole four strokes would hurt that much, let alone just the first stroke! Debbie lost her grip on the stool and jumped upright, her hands going to her outraged posterior. Still gasping with pain she danced around the room, holding her bottom. She could feel a weal already swelling up under the thin cotton material of her knickers.
Susan Copsey watched her impassively. She knew that many girls reacted in this way to their first ever stroke of the cane, although she remembered that she herself had bravely taken her own punishment by remaining quiet and in position throughout. She waited a few seconds so as to give Debbie a chance to pull herself together.
The fifth former continued to hop from one foot to the other, hands pressed to her smarting rear, and looking at the Geography teacher with a mixture of shock, accusation and appeal showing on her pretty face. She cut an odd figure with her blue pleated skirt still pinned up at the back, revealing her tiny knickers. Very cautiously she tenderly allowed one of the fingers of her right hand to touch the mark made where the tip of the cane had landed on bare flesh. Then she withdrew her hand and looked at the finger. She could not believe that there was no blood! It felt as though she had been cut open! Her hands went back again to her stinging bottom, trying to hold in the incredible pain and also, if possible, to delay, or even escape, the rest of her punishment.
Miss Copsey allowed her about half a minute and then addressed the squirming and moaning schoolgirl. 'All right, Debbie, that's quite enough. I know it hurts. I meant it to hurt! But you still have three strokes to come. Now get back over that stool right away. And if you stand up again I will take that as a refusal to accept punishment and call in Mrs Bennett in to hold you down! In that case you will receive further extra strokes and I'm sure you don't want that. Now be a sensible girl and get yourself back down over the stool right now!'
With a terrific mental effort Debbie forced herself to walk back in front of the stool and bend down. Now that she knew just how much that cane hurt she could hardly believe that she was presenting her bottom for further strokes. But there was no alternative! As she stretched herself downwards she felt large tears welling in her blue eyes and dropping onto the wooden flooring.
'Good! Now stay there, young lady, unless you want extra strokes!' Susan Copsey reminded her as she drew back the cane. Debbie certainly intended to stay in position, but when the second stroke smashed down almost exactly on top of the first, it was too much for her.
Once again she yelled wildly and straightened, clasping both hands to her injured behind and squirming away out of Miss Copsey's reach. She was now sobbing unashamedly. The Geography teacher was not prepared to accept this. She had told Debbie what would happen if she didn't remain in position for her caning and she had every intention of carrying out her threat.
Ignoring the weeping sixteen year old she went to the door and opened it. 'Mrs Bennett,' she said, 'I must ask you to assist me. Debbie is refusing to accept her punishment.'
The form mistress did not hesitate. Straight away she rose and joined Miss Copsey and the tearful fifth former in the storeroom. She sat down on the stool and ordered Debbie to go across her lap so that she could hold her in position. But the weeping girl made no movement towards her.
'All right,' said Mrs Bennett, 'If you will have it!' And she stood up and darted across the room to catch hold of Debbie's arms. Then she dragged her back by main force and manoeuvred her over her knees as she sat down on the stool once more.
'How many strokes has she had so far?' she enquired when she had the squirming girl held securely in her strong grip with her wealed bottom once again in position for punishment.
'Two!' answered the Geography teacher, rather impressed at the ease with which Mrs Bennett had restrained the teenager.
'All right! If I were you, Miss Copsey, I should not count those. This little minx deserves at least two extra strokes for refusing to take punishment and for putting me to all this trouble. The easiest thing is to start from scratch and give her another four! Rely on me to make sure she keeps still!'
Miss Copsey found it much easier to administer the rest of the caning now that Debbie was being held. The girl struggled desperately in the form mistress's strong grip and screamed loudly at each stroke, but there was no escape.
As the sixth stroke bit viciously in Mrs Bennett released her hold and, squirming wildly, Debbie fell off her knees on to the floor and stayed there, howling.
‘Get up, girl. You have two more strokes on the bare for failing to wear proper uniform. I will however, be a little lenient and give you those with the tawse instead. The cane can be a little harsh on naked flesh’
Debbie slowly draped herself back over the form mistress’s knees and her teacher slowly inserted her fingers in the waistband of her knickers. Gently she peeled them off the burning flesh of the teenager’s bottom to reveal a burning backside showing six clear stripes.
She let the panties rest just below the thighs and went over to get the pliant tawse. Its two thongs were about six inches long and fearfully supple. They might not have the bite of the cane but they would certainly make Debbie jump. Raising the strap above her shoulder she brought it down juddering into the naked flesh.
‘Noooo, please, no more’ Begged Debbie but Miss Cropley was utterly determined and brought the strap down for a second, and final time. The noise of the impact echoed into the common-room next door and Debbie fell to the floor weeping.
The form mistress stood up and, ignoring the well-thrashed schoolgirl, and spoke to Miss Copsey.
'Well, I'll leave it for you to write this up, then. Glad to have been of assistance!'
The door closed behind the form mistress and Miss Copsey put the cane and tawse back in their place and moved towards the still howling teenager, wriggling on the floor. She tapped her on the shoulder, 'Come on, Debbie,' she said, not unkindly, 'stop making that awful noise and stand up. It's all over now!'
But it took the sixteen year old more than a minute before she stood on unsteady legs before her chastiser. Slowly she bent down to pull up her illicit panties. Miss Copsey made the entries in the Punishment Book. Debbie Storey; Form 5B; Four strokes for running in the corridor, colliding with a member of staff; Two strokes for refusal to accept punishment; two strokes of the tawse on the bare with knickers removed.
Finally Miss Copsey told Debbie to turn round so that she could unpin the skirt. It fell down, covering the beaten area. Debbie thrust her hands back under her skirt to try to comfort her wealed bottom, but the Geography teacher angrily told her to take her hands away. Sullenly Debbie obeyed and instead pressed her hands to the seat of her blue school skirt. 'All right, Debbie, you may go,' said Miss Copsey, opening the door to the storeroom, 'And remember - no running in the corridor!
Poor Debbie could hardly walk, let alone run. Bent slightly forward and with her hands still clasping the back of her skirt she hobbled slowly through the staff room oblivious to the interested stares of the teachers. Miss Williams, who was nearest the door, opened it for her with a slight smile on her face and the well-caned girl stumbled out into the corridor. Miss Williams closed the door behind her and the assembled staff broke into a round of applause.
Mrs Bennett expressed the feelings of them all. 'Well done, Susan,' she said, 'I don't think our Miss Storey will be sitting down comfortably for the rest of term. That's exactly what that little madam has been asking for a long time.'
Outside Debbie was making her slow, painful way back down the teachers' corridor. When she reached the vestibule she was met by Lucy Cook. 'Oh my gosh! What happened Debbie, did you get the stick?' she asked, shocked to see her friend still in tears, with her hands clamped behind her skirt.
'Christ, Lucy! Do you think I'm doing this for the fun of it?' Debbie exploded. 'Of course I got the cane! And the strap. And it bloody well hurts! My bum is on fire!'
'Sorry, Debbie. I know what it's like. I've been there, you know! How many did you get?'
'Oh . . . four.' Debbie did not want to admit that she'd had to be held down or that she’d had a bare-bottomed tawsing as well.
'Yes, that's the maximum. The Copper must have been in a godawful mood after you knocked her down. It was terrible luck. You didn't say anything about me, did you?'
At last Debbie was able to provide a sop for her wounded self-esteem. She hadn't given her friend away.
'Lucy . . . ' she asked, wriggling at a sudden spasm of violent pain, 'You've had the cane. How long does this awful pain last? Is there anything I can do to stop it hurting so much?'
Lucy shook her head sadly. 'No. There's nothing you can do. The worst of the stinging will wear off in an hour or so, but if she's laid it on you're going to have some nasty bruises for a long time. You're lucky the next lesson's Home Economics - at least you won't have to try to sit down! Now let's go to the washroom and get your face tidied up. And, Debbie, I'd stop holding onto your bum if I were you. It won't stop it hurting and it'll just make the other girls make fun of you.'
Most of the other girls were not unhappy that Debbie had finally received her overdue comeuppance, but they were sympathetic as it was obvious how much she'd been hurt. Debbie's parents had been warning her for a long time that if she didn't mend her ways she was going the right way for a caning at school, and their reaction when they found out was that their daughter had got what she had been asking for.
The shock of that beating gave Debbie a long-needed jolt, and her behaviour and schoolwork both improved. In time she came to realise that she had got no more than she had deserved and even came to like and admire Susan Copsey. But she and Mrs Bennett preserved a mutual dislike for the rest of her time at Mayhew Road.

The Schooling of Charlotte

The Best Spanking Stories in the World...Ever!
In my life-long love of spanking I've been lucky to explore the real thing many times. I've seen countless videos and DVDs and viewed thousands of wonderful images but for me the greatest joy still lies in reading really well-written spanking stories. This blog will share some of my personal favourites. I'll try to summarise the story-line, give some of the key lines and explain and analyse why it works so brilliantly.

My number one all-time favourite story was published in Janus in around 1975. It was called 'The Schooling of Charlotte'. It is an absolute classic.

The story is beautifully told with some wonderfully evocative language. It tells of a stunning but petulant sixth-former, The Honourable Charlotte Castleton, who attends a riding school run by Mary Radcliffe. Ms Radcliffe is in her early twenties, highly attractive and very dominant. Charlotte has misbehaved by beating her horse excessively. The riding instructress decides to punish Charlotte appropriately and has, we are told, been given permission to 'physically chastise' any pupil who merits it.

Charlotte is appalled at the news and challenges Radcliffe provocatively by invoking her father who, she threatens, will close down the riding school if the punishment proceeds. Radcliffe ignores this bravado and goads the girl by asking her if she has ever been punished at school and if so in what way. Charlotte is then humiliatingly forced to describe how the girls at the school are caned and even have their knickers taken down.

In a wonderful phrase Mary Radclffe responds by saying 'then I can't see what possible objection you can have to my thrashing you. For thrashed you will be and, call it poetic justice if you like, but you will be punished with your own riding whip'. At this poor Charlotte realises that this is serious and then, fatally, tries to bargain by asking not to punished in front of the other girls in the riding class. Radcliffe of course refuses this request and soon the poor girl is made to bend over a saddle-horse for a very public punishment.

The best spanking stories always dwell properly on the preparation and this one describes in wonderful detail how Charlotte's jodphurs are removed revealing a pair of tight white knickers 'that strained to contain the luscious flesh within' Such a stunning phrase! Despite protestations, Mary Radcliffe slips her fingers into the waistband of these drum-tight skimpy knickers, peels them down to the knees and the naughty girl's bottom is then properly exposed for its thrashing.

I often find the beatings themselves can be disappointing but this one isn't. The poor defenceless girl gets twelve strokes from the crop. Each cut is described in painful detail. The girl tries hard not to cry but Ms Radcliffe finally breaks her on stroke number six. The crop slashes down time after time, the poor girl weeps loudly and the witnesses - ten of her school-mates - are all in rapped shock.

This story sets a high bar and as Charlotte eventually tugs her tiny while panties back up you can't help wondering which of the other girls is going to pulling theirs down now that their teacher has so obviously got a taste for physical punishment.

What makes this so special? Like all good things it's a combination of factors. The first half or more of any good spanking story should be spent on the build up. There needs to be a convincing cause for the punishment; the victim must be in need of discipline and she should progress through the story from arrogance to fear through to abject humiliation. Similarly the authority-figure needs to take only minimal pleasure from inflicting the pain and must be resolute but not sadistic in meting out the beating. Certain rituals are critical, too: Clothing needs to be appropriate and needs to be removed slowly and methodically. Skirts, jeans or - in this case - jodhpurs need to be well-fitting and taken off with care and after protest.

Most importantly, they must always reveal knickers that are small, tight and well-chosen. We need to know what they are like. Patterned or plain, white or coloured? After all which of us doesn't spend minutes of every day looking at spankables and wondering what covers their firm little backsides? They may be called panties occasionally but please not pants or drawers and never, ever do we want a thong!

In this story the knickers are taken down from the start. I usually prefer it if they are removed half-way through the punishment but there certainly does have to some bare-bottom action with the reddening flesh nicely described. I also prefer it if the knickers are at half-mast rather than removed entirely.

So here it is - A Masterpiece:

The Schooling of Charlotte
By Patricia Webb

'Ride, prepare to trot. Trr-rot.' Under the direction of Mary Radcliffe the class of six girls applied the aid and the horses trotted smoothly round the perimeter track of the large indoor riding school. Halfway down one long side they circled away leaving the top half of the school clear for a young girl exercising a dark bay thoroughbred.
Mary Radcliffe, tall, dark and attractive and looking younger than her twenty-two years, was a hard taskmaster and no faults escaped her. As the ride circled her she schooled each
girl until satisfied that horse and rider were working to the best of their ability. The six girls ranged in age from fifteen to eighteen and were pupils from nearby St. Catherine's School, to which Mary Radcliffe had been appointed riding instructress.
The school echoed with the sound of Mary's staccato commands, the dull thud of hooves upon the tan and the jingle of harness. Suddenly, without warning, there came a commotion near the double doors. The honourable Charlotte Castleton, her temper expiring at her mount's disobedience,
brought her riding whip slashing down repeatedly across the bay's quarters. Sandy threw up his head and squealed with fright and pain, swinging his quarters as he tried to escape
the whip. Everyone looked round and one or two girls had their hands full trying to calm their snorting, side-stepping
mounts as the horses sensed Sandy's fear. Mary's brow darkened in anger.
'Charlotte,' she shouted. 'Stop that at once.'
Charlotte, her face flushed with rage, scowled at Mary as she hurried towards her. Eighteen years old and very attractive, Charlotte was, like the other girls, a senior pupil from St.
Catherine's.
'He's been an absolute pig,' she began furiously but the incensed Miss Radcliffe cut her short.
'Shut up,' she fumed. 'I don't want to listen to excuses. How dare you mistreat a horse like this. Dismount at once.' She ran a soothing hand down Sandy's sweating neck. 'I said at once, Charlotte,' she repeated when the girl was slow to obey. Her eyes glittered and her lips compressed as, with a disdainful shrug, Charlotte nonchalantly swung a leg across the bay's striped quarters and slid lightly to the ground.
Skilled horsewoman though Charlotte was, she lacked a certain sympathy towards her mounts, demanding instant obedience to her aids and never failing to punish disobedience
even when a horse, through insufficient schooling, was incapable of responding to aids that were, as yet, unfamiliar to him. Essentially proud, her attitude was haughty and overbearing, even to her riding instructress, and there had been several occasions when Mary Radcliffe had been sorely tempted to take her across her knee and spank her aristocratic
bottom, And it was with a feeling almost of excitement that she realised that here at last was her chance to teach this arrogant girl a well needed and long overdue lesson.
'This isn't the first time I've seen you lose your temper with a horse,’ she broke out. 'But it will certainly be the last. I'm going to teach you a lesson by example, Charlotte, and 1intend to thrash you as you have thrashed this horse.'
Charlotte's fair brows ascended.
'Thrash me,' she repeated incredulously. ‘You wouldn't dare.'
'Oh, wouldn't I?' Mary Radcliffe returned grimly. 'We'll see about that. You'll stable Sandy and then return here so that 1 may punish you as you deserve.'
Nonplussed, Charlotte stared at her.
'Certainly not,' she retorted. 'And if you dare lay a finger on me 1 shall report you. You seem to forget who 1 am and who my father is. One word from me and he would have this stable closed. Permanently.'
Mary's eyes blazed and before she could stop herself her hand flashed out and caught Charlotte squarely across the face, sending her head snapping sideways. My God, she felt better for that! Charlotte yelped and put a hand to her stinging cheek. She was pale with anger and the scarlet imprint of Mary's hand was plainly visible.
'You,' Mary barked before Charlotte had time to recover. 'You are nothing but a spoiled brat who deserves to be taught a much needed lesson in respect. Respect to me and respect of my horses. As to your father. Well, I, too, have many influential acquaintances and your childish threat causes me no qualms whatsoever. And it certainly won't alter my decision to thrash you as you deserve. Furthermore, I am well
aware that all girls at St. Catherine's are subject to corporal punishment and it may interest you to know that when I undertook the position of riding instructress it was made quite clear to me that any misbehaviour of the pupils under my tuition would be dealt with by me in whatever way I saw fit. Naturally, I shall report your behaviour and my punishment of you to your Headmistress. For punished you'll certainly be.'
Charlotte, her colouring coming and going, listened in sullen silence, recalling her Headmistress's warning that she had empowered Miss Radcliffe with full authority to deal with any insubordination. Whether that actually permitted her to physically chastise a girl on the bare bottom as Miss Radcliffe seemed to be inferring, Charlotte did not know, but she realised with misgivings that Miss Radcliffe's mind was made up and that the honourable Charlotte Castleton, a senior prefect at St. Catherine's, was about to have her bottom caned.
Mary Radcliffe, her desire to physically chastise the girl about to be realised, felt fully in control of the situation. Charlotte was looking far less sure of herself and she noticed a definite sense of apprehension about the girl as she saw her nervously finger her breeches-clad bottom.
'Now, Charlotte,' she went on briskly. 'Return Sandy to his stable and then come back here. The rest of you girls do likewise as I think it appropriate that I punish Charlotte in
public seeing that she saw fit to behave so disgracefully in public.'
Charlotte was aghast at the prospect of being punished before the other girls. Only Angela was a fellow Sixth former, the other five all being members of lower forms and therefore
used to deferring to her position as a prefect. That they should be present while she was caned was unthinkable.
'No,' she retorted indignantly, her chin tilting. 'Punish me if you wish. But I certainly won't allow you to do so in public.'
'My dear Charlotte,' Mary Radcliffe drawled, not at all dismayed by her defiance. Indeed, her imperious attitude would make the humbling of her all the sweeter. 'You have no say in the matter whatsoever. Here you have publicly misbehaved and here you will be publicly punished. And call
it poetic justice if you like but I shall beat you with your own riding whip.
Give it to me please.' She held out her hand, her eyes never leaving the girl's sulky face.
Charlotte almost refused then, white to the lips, she relinquished her riding whip. Mary bent it between her hands. Three feet of black leather covering a whalebone centre tapering to a thin looped tip. This would really make her jump.
'Now, Charlotte,' she said. 'Take Sandy out and return as quickly as you can. I don't want to have to come and fetch you.'
'You won't have to,' Charlotte snapped, furious at the inference that she might be afraid to return and take her punishment. Without looking at anyone, she slipped the reins over Sandy's head, ran up the stirrups and led him out of the school. It had been nearly two years since she had felt the bite of a cane across her bottom but she would be damned if she would allow herself to be intimidated by a girl only four years her senior and, apprehensive though she felt, her expression gave no hint of her anxiety when she returned to the indoor riding school. The sight that met her eyes was not designed to encourage. In her absence Mary Radcliffe had had one of the heavy wooden saddle horses brought from the tack room and placed in the centre of the school.
Looking very formal in her black cap, black jacket, cream breeches and black boots, Mary Radcliffe was waiting beside the horse, gently tapping the whip against a booted calf. The
six girls stood silently to one side.
'Like a bloody firing squad,' Charlotte thought bitterly. Well, if they wanted a show she would give them one and, head high, she sauntered across the tan surface towards the little group. Pausing before Mary Radcliffe, she stared almost challengingly at her before allowing her gaze to fall to the whip held casually in her right hand. Even now she could
scarcely believe that she would soon be feeling it whipping down across her bottom.
Mary saw her staring at the whip as though fascinated and swished it experimentally through the air. The high pitched whine sent a thrill of fear through every girl and Mary had the
satisfaction of seeing Charlotte wince.
'Right, Charlotte,' she said almost cheerfully. 'For abusing one of my horses I shall give you twelve strokes across your bottom with your own riding whip.'
'Twelve,' Charlotte repeated, dismayed. The most she had ever received at school had been eight.
'Yes, twelve,' Mary intoned. 'It's no more than you deserve so please remove your cap and jacket.'
Charlotte recovered her composure and with an insolent shrug she took off her black cap, ~hook loose her blonde hair and removed her tweed hacking jacket. Standing now in white shirt, beige breeches and black boots her mature figure was shown to perfection. Firm, up-thrust breasts jutted against her shirt, her slender waist accentuating the swell of her hips and buttocks. Long, slim legs.
'And now take down your breeches. '
Charlotte almost laughed. 'My breeches!' she exclaimed, having no intention of doing anything of the sort.
'Of course,' Mary returned, quite unperturbed. 'You didn't think I would allow you to ' keep them on, did you? I assume you aren't caned across your skirt at school, are you?'
Charlotte remained stubbornly silent.
'Well, how are you punished at school?' she persisted as Charlotte averted her eyes and stared at a point somewhere above her head. She was well aware that her words were goading Charlotte into a mood of defiance against her and a faint smile touched her lips. She admired spirit in a girl. It would make the subduing of her all the more satisfying.
'I'm waiting, Charlotte. '
Charlotte looked at her then, her face pale, eyes flashing. 'Depending on who's punishing us we have to bend over a desk or the arm of a chair. Our skirts are then raised and
our knickers taken down.'
'I can see you speak from experience,' Mary quipped, enjoying her discomfort. 'Well, I therefore fail to see what possible objection you can have to my thrashing you on your bare bottom. Take down your breeches at once, Charlotte, or I shall call upon the assistance of these girls to do it for you.'
Charlotte had every objection but that latter remark told her how futile it would be to oppose Miss Radcliffe. And judging by the smirks on the faces of the younger girls they would
like nothing better than to forcibly take down her breeches. Well, she would deprive them of that pleasure at least and swallowing her pride she turned her back on everyone and
began pushing them down. They had an elasticated waistband and it was an altogether provocative display as she slowly inched them down her thighs to her knees, her hips swaying
seductively.
'Bend over and grasp the bar,' Mary Radcliffe commanded as Charlotte remained standing rigidly erect before the wooden horse. 'I shall give you twelve strokes across your bottom and I shall expect you to take your punishment with the minimum of fuss. Should you display any resistance then I shall restrain you.'
Twelve strokes with that flexible riding whip would be punishment indeed, but her threat of restraint stiffened
Charlotte's resolve to take them in silence and she stared disdainfully over her shoulder at the grim-faced instructress.
'You won't need to restrain me,' she observed scornfully.
With that rejoinder she turned back and bent gracefully forward across the inverted vee of the wooden horse. Her shirt rode up to expose white cotton knickers that strained to contain the luscious flesh within.
Mary Radcliffe stepped to Charlotte's side and, instructing her to raise her hips clear of the horse, slipped her hand beneath Charlotte's belly, inserted her fingers into the waistband of her skimpy white knickers and pulled them down, first from the front and then over the twin mounds of her buttocks. She pushed them right down to join her breeches about her knees.
Charlotte felt the cool air fan her naked bottom and writhed inwardly as she heard the sniggers of the younger girls. With a flick of her wrist, Mary turned back Charlotte's shirt so that
she was now naked from her shoulders to her knees.
There was no doubt that Charlotte possessed a superb bottom. Full and well rounded, the deep cleft of her buttocks showing darker against the ivory white of her resilient flesh.
'Place your legs apart,' Mary Radcliffe ordered implacably.
Charlotte felt her colour rise as she braced her shapely legs against the elasticated waistband of her brief knickers and breeches knowing she was blatantly exposing herself to the gaze of Miss Radcliffe and the tittering girls. She felt both angry and humiliated for she knew that once word of her thrashing got round the school her authority as a prefect would be seriously undermined. The younger girls particularly would relish the thought of a prefect getting whipped and the knowledge that she had been punished in public by the young riding instructress would send them into added transports of delight.
Mary Radcliffe stepped to Charlotte's side and placed the tip of the whip across her buttocks to get her measure: She saw the girl's cheeks clench at the touch then, giving two preliminary taps, she raised her arm and brought the whip flashing down across Charlotte's defenceless bottom.
Despite herself, Charlotte gasped with shock and pain, tenaciously . gripping the bar with hands that were Icy cold.
God Almighty, she had forgotten how cruel was the bite of a rod across tender young flesh!
Mary had never physically punished anyone before and she watched fascinated as the whip seemed to sink into the girl's bottom cheeks, the creamy flesh depressing and rebounding,
the blood rushing to the surface to form twin tracks of searing fire. Charlotte tried to tighten her muscles in anticipation of the second cut but her very position made it impossible
~or her to do so. Bent so far forward with her bottom thrust high into the air and her legs braced apart, her naked buttocks remained soft and yielding. A magnificent target.
After an interval of perhaps five seconds, Mary raised her arm and brought the whip whistling down and a second line of fire tore across Charlotte's bottom just below the first.
Her cheeks clenched convulsively together and she pressed herself against the wooden horse but no cry escaped her. Mary frowned slightly, as she had expected a greater reaction than this. Perhaps she was dealing too lightly with the girl. She took a firmer grip on the whip and cut number three thwacked down full across the fleshiest part of Charlotte's well developed buttocks. Her body contorted and Mary was rewarded with a stifled gasp of pain she could not quite
repress.
From her upside-down position Charlotte could see the whip dangling limply in Miss Radcliffe's hand. Then it disappeared from sight and she tensed herself for the fourth cut. She would not cry out. She would not. She was beginning to breathe rather heavily and a hiss of indrawn breath escaped her as the whip sliced down across her right buttock cheek, the tip curling round and biting into her hip. She cringed away and shut her eyes, biting back a cry of pure torment.
Her bottom quivered uncontrollably and then bounced madly as the fifth cut was delivered with full vigour across her smarting left cheek, the looped tip seeking and finding the
sensitive crevice of her buttocks. Despite her resolve to take her thrashing in silence this cruel stroke was almost unbearable and a strangled cry escaped her lips. Before her
trembling bottom had fully absorbed the pain of the fifth cut the sixth cracked down across the very tender flesh at the base of her bottom where her buttocks curved to meet her thighs. Charlotte's head snapped back and hot scalding tears filled her eyes.
Mary Radcliffe, sensing that Charlotte's control was nearing breaking point, gazed down upon her trembling bottom with almost clinical interest. Novice she may be in the art of physical chastisement, but she was giving this girl a hiding she would not forget. Charlotte's bottom was no longer
creamy white but flushed and angry, the six hot weals neatly bisected by the crevice of her shapely buttocks
'Six more to go, Charlotte,' she announced impassively, removing her jacket to give even greater mobility to her strong right arm.
Charlotte moaned and gritted her teeth as she heard the high pitched whine of the whip before it exploded across her tortured buttocks with a force that utterly destroyed her stoicism and sent her into a paroxysm of impassioned weeping. Again the whip sang through the air sending Charlotte reeling to the left as it bit deeply into the inflamed
flesh of her right buttock cheek. An equally ferocious cut across her left buttock cheek sent her reeling back again and her agonised shrieks echoed through the riding school. She no
longer cared that she was being caned in the presence of younger girls. She could think of nothing but the burning
pain centred in her twitching, throbbing bottom and her tears flowed continuously and unashamedly down her face.
Mary Radcliffe placed her left hand firmly on the small of Charlotte's back, pressing the trembling girl against the horse and with deliberate precision brought the whip slicing diagonally down across a bottom that quivered with fearful anticipation.
The stroke drew from Charlotte a shrill cry of anguish as it burned across the pulsating weals and the now subdued audience watched as her inflamed bottom writhed convulsively and her legs kicked wildly to display the secrets that lay between her thighs.
Mary smiled grimly and delivered the final two cuts with equal ferocity across the very tops of Charlotte’s thighs, smooth white flesh as yet unmarked by the whip but upon which there now sprang two fearful scarlet weals. Charlotte howled as white hot pain engulfed her and as Mary released her she shot upright, her hands frantically rubbing her stinging, swollen buttocks in a desperate attempt to ease the burning pain, tears cascading down her face.
'There, Charlotte,' she heard Mary Radcliffe say through a mist of pain. ‘You’ve had your bottom soundly whipped and I hope it's taught you never again to ill treat a dumb animal. Do you think you've learnt your lesson? '
Charlotte, head ,bowed, hands still clutching her punished cheeks, remained standing facing the horse. Sobs still racked her body and she. was totally incapable of speech.
'Please answer me, Charlotte,' Mary Radcliffe insisted, turning her by the shoulders.
Charlotte kept her gaze lowered then slowly she ran a trembling hand through her tangled hair and raised her flushed and tear-stained face. ‘Yes,' she croaked hoarsely. 'Yes, I've learnt my lesson.' She never thought to hear herself say those words but the rod is a great leveller and every trace of her former haughtiness had dissolved beneath the sting of the whip. Long after the pain had receded and the bruises faded she would writhe beneath the added humiliation of having had her knickers lowered and her bottom bared for the cane before girls subordinate to her.
'I sincerely hope you have,' Mary Radcliffe observed. ‘Because if ever you give me cause to punish you again then this thrashing will seem like a light spanking compared to what you'll receive next time.'
Charlotte winced and fresh tears filled her eyes. 'You - you won't have to beat me again,' she murmured, her voice barely audible. She 'despised herself for having broken down so completely but the intense pain of this thrashing had taught her a lesson she would never forget and she vowed that never again would she allow herself to get into a situation where she could be humbled by the whip.
Mary regarded the subdued girl in silence. She was surprised to discover how stimulating she had found the caning of Charlotte to be. Simply by asserting her authority and forcing
Charlotte to bend submissively before her to have her bottom bared and caned, she had reduced her from an arrogant eighteen year old to a tearful repentant child and she wondered if perhaps this might not be an excellent way of encouraging discipline throughout her stable. She could name at least three other pupils who would benefit from having their panties taken down and being given a taste of the cane across their bottoms. However delightful she found the idea to be, and it certainly appealed to her dominant nature, that remained for the future. Here was the present and she was
determined to teach Charlotte one more lesson in humility.
'Good,' she said at last. 'Now before I dismiss you please listen to what I have to say.' She turned Charlotte round and bent her forward from the waist so that her thrashed bottom was once again presented to the assembled girls. She raised her hand in brought it down smartly first on the right cheek and then on the left. Each spank landed with a resounding crack. 'If any of you girls are ever tempted to lose your temper with a horse then I hope the sight of this girl's behind will give you pause for thought. Because next time it may
well be one of you who has to expose her bottom for a thrashing.'
Charlotte almost wept afresh with rage and humiliation at this spanking, knowing that the six girls were taking in every inch
of her crimson, weal striped backside.
No-one said anything, though Mary Radcliffe did not miss the apprehensive glances that were exchanged. Her lesson in discipline had gone home with a vengeance.
'Right, Charlotte,' she said curtly, giving her one more slap across her smarting rear that made her gasp. 'Adjust your clothing and then you may go.'
Charlotte straightened at once and, still keeping her back to. everyone, gingerly pulled up her little knickers and then her breeches. She winced and squirmed as the material hugged and chafed her burning bottom and she knew it would be days before she would be able to sit down without being painfully reminded of her beating.
Retrieving her hat and Jacket, she turned to go.
'Aren't you forgetting something?' came Mary Radcliffe's amused voice.
Charlotte looked round and Mary smiled as she snatched her whip from her hand and walked stiffly from the school.