A Glimpse Into 1994

R.T. Mason is one of the best writers in this field - he manages to build tension, capture the exquisite agony of the victim and has an attention to detail which few can match. I don't normally like stories set in the future or the past but this one works superbly and Jenny's caning and tawsing are stunningly real. It comes from Janus (of course) from 1984

A GLIMPSE INTO 1994
By R.T Mason
1984 did not turn out quite as George Orwell predicted, although few perhaps would dispute that there has proved to be a certain timely symbolic truth to his allegorical fantasy. But things can change very rapidly. Perhaps 1994 could be the year? The year when the\State and Big Brother take over, especially against undisciplined excesses of youth. Discipline is naturally the keynote: a strict non-nonsense regime reinforced with a liberal use of corporal punishment. Females will undoubtedly be treated as strictly as males. If not infinitely more so...

'Oh no!' burst out Jenny. 'Look at the time!'
The digital watch on her wrist said quite unequivocally 20:57. And equally unequivocally the Curfew for schoolgirls in term time in 1994 was 21 :00 hours. She struggled desperately to her feet and went to grab her bike, propped against a nearby tree. Jenny's companion, her boyfriend Chris, began frantically bundling up the blanket they had been lying on. His face bore a dazed look. One moment he and Jenny had been quietly lying there smooching, and then suddenly . . . this awful frightening realisation.
They were on the Common outside their home town of Southdown. The Common was a very pleasant place to be on a peaceful. still-warm June evening such as this. It had in fact been rather too pleasant and seduced by the tranquil evening and each other's company they had quite forgotten the time. And the Curfew.
The Curfew did not apply to Chris because although he was the same age as Jenny he was no longer at school.
In 1994 boys could leave at 17 but because of the unemployment situation girls were kept at school for two more years, until they were 19. Both Chris and Jenny were now 19; and Jenny was in her last term at school.
But while she was still at school all the School Regulations had to be strictly observed.
One of the most strictly observed Regulations was the 21 :00 term time Curfew when all girls must be indoors, at home. The only possible exception to this would be if you were attending a State rally or lecture or something similar: you certainly couldn't be out on the Common with a boyfriend, or even cycling back home.
'Oh God!' wailed Jenny, straightening herself up and buttoning her blazer. 'Someone's sure to see me'.
And indeed that did seem very likely. For one thing she was in the full school uniform of State School for Girls Number 2417 (Southdown) . White blouse and navy-blue knee-length pleated skirt, and red-and-blue striped tie with the red blazer with blue piping and its crest 'Southdown School for Girls'. And of course dark nylons and black court shoes. All as in the School Regulations.
Because also in those School Regulations was the requirement that every girl must wear full school uniform at all times and not just during school hours.
One reason for this was that then a girl could be immediately spotted anywhere if her behaviour was in any way incorrect.
Such as for instance being out after Curfew.
The situation was pretty hopeless, for both of their homes were over a couple of miles away on the other side of Southdown. And you could be sure there would be plenty of good honest citizens about with their eyes wide open. Older male citizens, naturally. Indeed they were known to come out especially at about this time simply in the hope of finding a young and pretty female who had somehow missed the Curfew deadline.
'Well, we can only hope for the best.' said Chris. But his voice did not sound very confident.
They started pushing their bikes across the rough grass towards the road. And almost immediately, as they rounded some bushes, there was the very type they had hoped to avoid. A good honest middle-aged citizen. His name was Arthur Mannings and he came here most evenings, walking his dog, on the off chance that he might come across what he now saw: a girl in school uniform. Because it was clearly a good citizen's duty to see that breakers of Regulations were apprehended.
The good citizen immediately waved for them to stop. Chris felt a momentary impulse to try and make a run for it. But he knew that would only make it worse. They stopped. The man with the dog hurried towards them.
He was panting a bit when he caught up to them. Panting with the extra effort to get to what his keen eyes now confirmed was a nice tasty catch. Mr Arthur Mannings' eyes were small and rather piggy-like in a round middle aged face now pinkly perspiring. The eyes were of course focused on Jenny as she stood nervously holding her bike.
'Lovely evening: he observed, a bit breathless. But his thoughts were clearly not on the evening but on this quite tall but decidedly well-built specimen of girlhood. His eyes greedily took in the pretty shoulder-length blonde hair and the clean attractive features. Even more they took in the rest of her: the indication of firm breasts under the blazer; the nyloned calves; the shapely rounded hips under the pleated skirt.
The good citizen's gaze broke off to check his watch. It was now exactly 21:01. 'But late for a schoolgirl to be out,though. Southdown School for Girls, eh?' He added, 'By the way, my name's Arthur Mannings; I'm with the Ministry of Social Affairs: while his hand reached out and tapped the crest on Jenny's blazer. And then the hand gave a quite deliberate squeeze to the breast below.
Jenny flushed and backed away. The hand let go.
'Can I see your ID, Miss?' He bent down to let his dog off the lead.
Fumblingly Jenny felt in first one and then another pocket. She experienced a wave of panic for to be caught without her ID Card would really be the end. Finally, with relief, she found it and meekly handed it over.
Mr Mannings studied it, reading out the details. 'Jenny Susan Allison; 21 Westbourne Avenue, South down. Aged 19 years. Pupil, Southdown School for Girls (State School No. 2417). State identification No. 043,892,124/F.'
He looked at the photograph, comparing it with its owner, then slipped the ID Card in his pocket.
'Don't worry your pretty head’ he said to Jenny's look of alarm. 'You'll get it back. But we are past the deadline for pretty girls to be back home in bed. Aren't we?'
Jenny flushed red. 'We .. we just forgot the time. Pl . . please don't report me. I've n .. never broken the Curfew before.'
The good citizen had the expression of a cat with a big bowl of cream. He didn't in fact intend to report her, as indeed Jenny and Chris might have guessed. Well, why let some Official of the Education Ministry have all the fun.
The fun of bending this mouth-watering girl over a caning horse and slipping her tight knickers down. And then getting to work on her undoubtedly splendid 19-year-old rump with a nice supple three-foot cane.
Yes, why let some official have that pleasure when he, Arthur Mannings, might just be able to do a bit of that himself.
He gave them both an owlish look.
'It is of course a very serious matter as you both know. A girl could very easily get herself in trouble, that's why we have the Curfew. What've you two been doing anyway? If you've been having intercourse then you'll both be in very serious trouble.'
That was true. In 1994 it was strictly forbidden for a girl to have sex while she was still at school and girls caught transgressing this rule were sent off immediately to a Reform Centre. Which was not a place any girl would enjoy going to.
'No!' gasped Jenny, flushing afresh. 'We . . there was nothing like that.'
Good citizen Arthur reached forward and took hold of the hem of Jenny's skirt. And simply lifted it up in front of her waist. His eyes gazed greedily at what was revealed: Jenny's thighs in the dark nylons, the full pale flesh above crossed by taut narrow white suspender straps; and, above, her brief tight white knickers.
She stood crying, with Chris also having gone bright red in the face, but both knew they could do nothing.
'Well, you have got knickers on’ Mr Mannings acknowledged primly.
'Though of course you could have had them off and just put them on again.'
'No!' blurted Jenny.
'Turn round’ ordered our good citizen.
Jenny hesitated, then did so, still holding onto her bike. Mr Mannings now lifted her skirt up at the back, to her waist. Jenny's bottom was displayed, a splendidly full but firm specimen, the twin rounded cheeks tightly encased in the scanty skin-tight briefs. Chris's face bore a sick look as the hand reached out and intimately fondled his girlfriend's bottom; then gave it a sharp slap.
'Mmm ... Well we'll have to see. You should be reported of course: but maybe we can find some other solution. Both of you can come back to my place and we'll discuss it.'
He asked for Chris's ID and after a quick glance put it in his pocket. Then told them to leave their bikes there and they could collect them in the morning. He could take them back in his car, first to his house and later he would drive them to their own home.
Jenny and Chris glanced at each other but they both knew they had no option. What the man planned . .. well, it obviously wasn't going to be pleasant but they were well and truly caught.
He called his dog over. They left the bikes in the bushes and walked to where his car was parked. They got in, Jenny in front next to Mr Mannings, and he drove off. His hand was almost immediately down on Jenny's thigh.
Looking straight ahead, she felt her skirt being pushed back. The slightly pudgy hand took a firm grip on the nyloned thigh beneath.

* * *
It didn't take long to reach his house, in a neat tree-lined street at the opposite end of the town to where Jenny and Chris lived. In the hall Mrs Mannings appeared, a pleasant-looking lady of about her husband's age. He explained that he had a couple of young visitors; a little problem of the Curfew. Mrs Mannings asked if they would like some tea: yes, that would be a splendid idea, said her husband.
She went off to the kitchen taking the dog. She could see Arthur was quite excited and no wonder. Muriel Mannings knew that when he went walking the dog he always hoped to catch a girl breaking the Curfew, but of course it was a reasonably rare event. He would be in a really good mood tonight after this. She felt a little sorry for that pretty girl, knowing what she would get from dear Arthur; but then it was her own fault. Young people, including young girls, had to be kept on a firm rein. Otherwise you'd have them running wild with drugs and vandalism like in the old days.
In the lounge Mr Mannings took Jenny's blazer: the promise of full firm breasts, he saw, was amply born out. He mentally licked his lips. 'Yes: he observed judiciously, 'the Education Ministry Inspectors take a very serious view of Curfew breaking, as you know. You could easily be sent off for a session at a Reform Centre.'
'No please!' whimpered Jenny.
'But clearly you have to have some punishment: for your own good. And I would be failing in my duty as a citizen if I let you go scot-free.'
Arthur Mannings' eyes gazed steadily at the shapely girl and the equally unhappy boyfriend at her side. Then pursing his lips he said it. 'I could of course, instead, give you a caning here and now.'
It was what they had both half expected.
He badly wanted to cane Jenny himself, that fact had been lurking just below the surface ever since he'd caught them. And what choice did Jenny have - unless she preferred going to a dreaded Reform Centre?
Looking down at the floor, she stuttered,'Yes .. I'll t .. take a c ..caning.'
Arthur Mannings this time actually did lick his lips. 'You're very sensible, my dear. Don't you think so, Chris?'
As Chris remained dumb Mr Mannings moved in close to Jenny and cupped her breasts in both hands. She gave a sharp grasp but kept still. The breasts in Arthur Mannings' hands were firm and ripe. Squeezing them, he looked smugly at Chris. A very nice-looking girl, eh Chris? But she's got to take a little punishment and I want you to be here to see it. That way I think it will be a bit more of an ordeal for both of you. Because you must bear some of the blame for this.'
He let go of Jenny's breasts as the door opened and his wife entered carrying a tray with the tea. She smiled sweetly at all three, then put down the tray and silently left..
They sat down and drank their tea at Mr Mannings' insistence, though neither Jenny nor Chris wanted any. Then Jenny was simply told to stand, lift her skirt and take down her knickers. Mr Mannings went briskly to a corner cupboard... and came back holding a wicked-looking 30-inch rattan cane.
He placed a stool in the centre of the room. Jenny was to kneel on it and bend down so that her head and hands were down on the carpet. The pretty girl looked at Mr Mannings, then at the stool. The humiliating position he was telling her to get into would be almost worse than the actual caning. She could picture herself over that stool - with Chris having to watch.
'Please ... ' she pleaded. 'C ...can Chris go. Please'
Mr Mannings' piggy eyes glistened.
'Certainly not, my dear. I've told you that is part of the punishment: for both of you. He has to watch. Now come on up on the stool.'
With beads of perspiration tingling her skin Jenny forced herself to comply.
Knelt on the 18-inch-high stool and then bent forward and down. Her hands down on the carpet, then lowering herself further until her face was down there as well. Her bottom by far the highest part of her body ...Arthur Mannings, with a look of gloating anticipation, took the hem of Jenny's skirt and flipped it up, over her back. Atrociously, her knickers were then lowered from her bottom, and there, thrust up and out by her posture, were the twin swelling hemispheres splendidly bare: a beckoning target of ripe resilient flesh.
He primly slipped the lowered knickers down a little further, to the taut tops of her nylons. Then his hand came back to openly fondle those swelling rondures, glancing as he did so at the red-faced boyfriend who was trying to look anywhere but at Jenny's bared bottom.
His voice sharp: 'I want you to watch remember, Chris!'
As Chris reluctantly brought his eyes back in the required direction Mr Mannings brought his right hand down to deliver a firm spank on the defenceless girl’s left buttock. It made a wonderful sound and left a clear red imprint.
Mr. Mannings then took up the cane again; and testingly applied it across the up thrust rear. Two or three teasing transverse taps causing the firm flesh to wobble slightly. Jenny, already cringing with humiliation, now felt a shiver of fear.
For Arthur Mannings everything seemed ready to go. A quick glance at the youth, and the cane was raised in earnest. Smoothly accelerating up in a high arc. .. and then, gathering momentum, down.
Whi ... iipp ... CRACK! A sound like a pistol shot. Almost simultaneously a strangled gasp from the victim and another, in involuntary unison, from the watching boyfriend. At the same time the raised buttocks went into a desperate jerking dance with their pale form suddenly displaying the stark twin lines of the cane's impact.
Good citizen Arthur Mannings evidently knew how to use the cane and he knew the value of a suitable pause to let the sting of its impact be fully appreciated.
He was well enough aware that the crescendo of pain from a soundly applied cane stroke climaxed a few seconds after delivery. And then the cane came zipping up through its arc again ...and again descending...
Whi...iipp ... CRACK! .. The pistol shot, the gasps, the desperate jerking of the stricken bum as before. And now two pairs of those-bright red tramlines. Arthur Mannings, eyes gleaming, was in his element. A heady sense of sexual excitement filling him as he continued, repeatedly whipping the cane down. A sense of sexual excitement which from the very beginning had the front of his trousers tightly distended.
He kept on, the cane rising and falling, intoxicated by its solid meaty smack into the girl's defenceless bottom; intoxicated by the increased desperation of her gasping cries, her tortured writhings which were stretching her lowered knickers almost to breaking point.
He didn't want to stop but eventually he had to. Even in 1994 there were limits. And the limit this evening came when after ten strokes and Jenny's bottom a welter of criss-crossing red lines, she simply collapsed forward onto the floor crying her eyes out.
Arthur Mannings reluctantly realised she had had enough and, panting, put down the cane. In any case he needed to break off himself. He briefly watched as the stunned red-faced boyfriend sprang up from his seat to go and comfort the girl as she lay sprawled on the carpet. In the lounge Jenny still lay sobbing. For Chris, having to watch her get it from Mr Mannings in that savage manner had been an almost mind-blowing experience: distressing and yet at the same time with an awful fascination.
That cane repeatedly jolting with its sickening thwack! into Jenny's bare bottom .. . He realised guiltily that he would have felt compelled to watch whether Mr Mannings had made him or not.
Because for Chris, as for Arthur Mannings, the proceedings had also had a fierce sexual excitement. And from about the third stroke of the cane Chris had shamefully found himself in the same state of response as the man who had been wielding the cane. He knew that he would never ever be able to forget hearing and witnessing those explosive percussive thrashing impacts.

* * *
Jenny Allison's evening encounter with Mr Mannings was not particularly unusual in 1994 - though getting the cane in front of her boyfriend was a special refinement thought up by Arthur Mannings. Jenny, and most other girls, were usually careful to avoid breaking the Curfew but there were also numerous other rules and regulations which could lead to your getting a thrashing. Rules of deportment and dress and what you could and could not do: in fact rules about pretty much every aspect of life, in school and out. Rules which if you were caught infringing usually led to a sound caning or strapping.
Apart from in school, where it would be one of the masters, the caning was supposed to be done by an Education Ministry Official in the local Education Office where they had various small rooms set aside for the purpose, with caning horses, caning benches, etc. But many middle-aged middle-class men who would almost by definition be themselves State Officials of some sort, would feel free, like Arthur Mannings, to beat girls themselves.
Like Arthur Mannings, they tended to keep a keen eye open for any chance infringement of a regulation, however petty; and then, also like Mr Mannings, they could usually persuade her to submit to a little unofficial caning. Because if you went to the Ministry Office there was not only an on-the-spot caning, there was also a good chance of being sent to a Reform Centre. Where, for three weeks or whatever it was, you could be caned or strapped, or beaten with a crop morning and night if deemed necessary; and the caning wasn't all, there was plenty more to make sure you didn't want to return for a second visit.
All of this in England in 1994 was designed to keep the youth of the nation firmly in their place, and girls in particular very firmly in their place. That was partly State policy and partly just the way it operated: State Officials were 99 per cent men and the average middle-aged man undoubtedly found more pleasure in dealing with a pretty girl than with a youth.
So 19-year-old Jennifer Allison inevitably knew all about the cane: she got it regularly at school, at least once a week, and there were those other occasions when she got beaten as well. Like two weeks earlier when another good honest middle-aged citizen - not unlike Arthur Mannings - had accused her of being rowdy on the bus. It was not true but that did not help. Did she want t6 be reported?
And so she had gone with him to his house where she had had to take her skimpy black knickers down and bend over his dining table to receive six stinging strokes of the tawse on her bare bottom. Don't bother to complain, that was simply what happened in 1994. As it had with Mr Mannings. Mr Mannings was only special in that he had chosen a particularly humiliating posture for the caning and, more than that, had insisted on doing it in front of Chris.
For Chris Wilkins, though, things were rather different. He knew girls got caned and therefore Jenny got caned, but it was not something he had ever discussed with her. It was not a pleasant thought, Jenny for instance having to bare her bottom for her school Principal, and so he preferred not to think about it. But now having been forced to watch he could not avoid thinking about it. That scene in Mr Mannings' lounge was not something he would easily forget: disturbing and upsetting but at the same time mesmeric.
After the caning when Mr Mannings had dropped Chris off at his house his feeling of sexual arousal continued and got worse, becoming more centred on a sharp desire for Jenny. He and Jenny did have sex from time to time although sex before marriage was strictly prohibited by the State, with the girl especially being severely dealt with if it was discovered.
He knew it wasn't on: for one thing they only dared do it out in the country where they wouldn't be discovered and Jenny anyway was now home with her parents. But the desire grew stronger as guiltily Chris found himself imagining what it would be like to be that awful Mr Mannings, lashing that cane down onto Jenny's defenceless bare bottom. He couldn't get to sleep and finally there was only one thing for it ... picturing in his mind the cane being wielded first by Mr Mannings, then by himself, then by Mr Mannings again, but crucially, by himself.
Needless to say he felt awful afterwards. And his guilt was still present next morning. The next day was a Saturday, with no work or school, and Jenny and Chris met after breakfast to walk up to the Common and collect their bikes. It was another lovely day but neither had any thought for that as they set off in embarrassed and tongue-tied silence.
Both inevitably had their minds full of the evening before: Jenny remembering the dreadful humiliation of taking her knickers down and being so soundly thrashed and Chris with the guilty memory of using Jenny's caning for his own selfish pleasure.
Finally for want of something better to say Chris stated the obvious. 'It . .. it must have hurt’
Jenny bit her lip; then after a pause managed an almost inaudible, 'You get used to it’.
Her words produced again that guilty surge of excitement for Chris.
Those canings that Jenny got, that every girl and which he had never wanted to know about before. Now although it would still be like a knife in him, he did want to know. It was too fascinating a subject to let drop.
With his heart pounding he asked, 'How...how often do you...get it?'
Jenny didn't want to talk about it but Chris persisted. He just had to know now. Flushing, as they walked she told him first bits and pieces, then more and more: the details.
About school where all the senior masters could cane you: six masters plus the Principal. And how in the final year, to ensure that you were properly disciplined by the time you left school, the caning was twice as bad. So whether you had done anything or not you had a weekly appointment with the Principal and very often after a little chat the cane or tawse would come out.
And of course the other times. Like Mr Mannings last night. Like that man on the bus...
By the time he had got all this out of her they were on the Common and had reached that fateful spot where they had been caught. Their bikes were still there in the bushes. And it was there that Jenny told Chris the final bit.
That Mr Mannings hadn't finished with her. After he had dropped Chris off last night he had told her she had to go round to his house again this afternoon. She glanced up at Chris, then down again. 'I haven't any choice of course. Otherwise...'
It was another vicious twist of the knife - but one which sent Chris's heart pounding like a train. This on top of all she had just told him .. . it was just too much.
He pulled Jenny to him, putting his arms round her. He felt sick that she was presumably going to get another dose like last night.
Afterwards Chris's behaviour was a bit strange: after never wanting to know about caning he suddenly wanted to be told all the details. She could sense that it excited him ... in a way just like all those older men who so clearly enjoyed doing it.
She pulled him down on the blanket again and then simply said it 'That turned you on last night. didn't it? Watching me get that caning.'
A hot-faced Chris vigorously denied it, but Jenny didn't believe him.
'Anyway you won't be there to watch this afternoon. At least I won't have that humiliation.'

* * *
That was evident. Chris wouldn't be able to watch, but what was going to happen again in Mr Mannings' lounge that afternoon was like a powerful magnet holding him in its grip. After the episode in the bushes they had cycled back into town where Jenny had to meet her mother for shopping.
But Chris left to his own devices, could think of nothing else. His mind, regardless of the realities and with a will of its own, immediately started telling him that maybe he could see. He could sneak into the house or maybe get in the garden and look in the window. It was crazy, he knew. In 1994 you could be sent away for five years or more for illegal house entry. As for getting in the garden, well, that was crazy too. Although he had noticed that Mr Mannings' lounge faced onto a rather overgrown plot full of trees and shrubs. Where you could possibly hide. But then Mrs Mannings would probably be out there and anyway how would you get in unobserved?
Yes, it was crazy, but after lunch, almost as if he had no control over himself, Chris found he was walking in the direction of Mr Mannings' house.
Jenny was due there at 15:00. He reached the street still hardly believing he was doing this, it was like being in a dream. He recognised the house, then walked on. It was 14:45.
Several houses further on there was a cutting leading through to the back on Mr Mannings' side of the street. He went down it, and there at the foot of the gardens was a lane running along parallel to the street. With his heart thumping Chris walked back along the lane in the direction of Mr Mannings' house. There were gates opening onto the lane. It meant that perhaps there was a chance. He came to the gate with Mr Mannings' number: 27. It was not locked. He looked cautiously in but there was no one to be seen in the garden.
The gate was not in view of the house and he slipped inside...If he was discovered he would just have to say he thought he had left something yesterday - his pen? - and had come back to check. Though that would hardly explain his lurking in the garden. It was very overgrown, Mr Mannings was evidently not a gardener (perhaps all his energies were taken up with girls' bottoms?) and Chris was able to get close to the house while keeping out of sight.
Crouching behind a large bush (it looked like a lilac) he had a good view inside. It was all as before, that vividly remembered setting from last night. The stool which Jenny had been made to kneel on now moved back to its place by the wall. The room was empty. Chris looked at his watch. 15:02. He had a sudden thought that perhaps Mr Mannings might use another room this time: a bedroom perhaps. But then the door opened.
It was Jenny, in her school uniform of course, followed by Mr Mannings. And then another man. A reasonably ordinary-looking middle-aged man, not unlike Mr Mannings. Mr Mannings had evidently brought a friend to join in the fun.
Mr Mannings closed the door, then said something to Jenny. Standing in the centre of the room she meekly took off her blazer. Mr Mannings moved round behind her and his hands came round under her arms, cupping her breasts. He was obviously discussing Jenny's breasts with his friend because he then removed his hands and the other man took hold of them. They were laughing to each other, with Jenny just standing there looking a bit sick. And then the man let go of her and both men sat on the sofa and it was evident that Jenny had been told to take some more of her clothes off.
Standing in front of them her hands went to the waist of her school skirt. It was unfastened and she stepped out of it. There were just her white knickers underneath and after a moment's hesitation Jenny took them down and off. She was bare below the waist apart from nylons and suspender belt. Then Mr Mannings pointed to his friend and Jenny came forward and got herself down across the man's lap. Chris, watching, felt faint and dizzy with excitement. Holding the girl firmly with his left arm the man simply started spanking that ripe bare bottom. His hand rising and falling in a regular rhythm, the firm flesh quivering at each impact and Jenny's rump rapidly becoming a bright hot pink. This went on for some time. Then something was said and she got up and, a bit trembly, moved over to get across Mr Mannings' lap. The spanking was resumed. For Chris the excitement was now so intense it almost made him feel ill. After a while the spanking by Mr Mannings came to an end and Jenny, red-faced and red-bottomed, was stood on her feet. Would they now? Yes they would. Mr Mannings, as yesterday, went to that corner cupboard and came back but this time he brought a twin-tailed tawse. It was to be the same position: the stool in the centre of the room and Jenny kneeling on it, head and hands down on the carpet. Perhaps Mr Mannings always used this position when beating girls.
He and his friend admired the presented buttocks, patting and fondling them, apparently commenting on their shape and dimensions. Then Mr Mannings got into his position.
And the strap was rising and falling ...rising and falling ... Chris, in his hiding place, his blood pounding, was part of what was happening. He felt himself carried away, riding the intense excitement of what he was doing.
The supple tawse was handed over to the second man. Jenny, gasping, taking deep breaths in an effort to cope with the pain, wondered desperately how many more she was going to get. She thought fleetingly of Chris. That young man, now feeling a bit sick with himself. was at that moment creeping back out of Mr Mannings' garden.
He met Jenny again 40 minutes later, as if by chance but in fact knowing the route she would take back home and waiting for her. They walked in silence to Jenny's house: as earlier that day neither knew quite what to say.
Finally when they were almost there Chris asked her about her visit.
'What d'you think!' blurted Jenny.
'He thrashed the daylights out of me, that's what. And not just him: he brought a friend along to have a go as well!'
Chris made sounds of shock and commiseration, though obviously he knew what had happened. His blood began to stir again at the memory.
When they got to Jenny's house her parents were in so Chris suggested they go up to her room. She gave him a questioning look: a look which he understood well enough. It would not exactly be private because The Eye would be watching.
The Eye was installed in the bedroom of every girl from the age of 16 just until she got married. It was a video camera which automatically switched on when the room was entered, relaying its picture back to the local Education Ministry Office. It was all part of the surveillance system: helping to ensure that a girl had no secrets from the State.
Thus a girl always had to undress for bed standing in front of The Eye, down to the nude, before putting on her pyjamas or nightdress. At the same time it ensured that she was in bed by the correct time (21:30 for 16-year-olds ranging up to 22:30 for those over 19).
Needless to say there was no possibility of any misbehaving, any covert indulgence in sex, with the unblinking Eye recording everything. There was the tell-tale click as Jenny and Chris entered, then the low hum as The Eye began its work.
They went to sit at Jenny's desk; sitting there and talking at least did not transgress any rules. But they spoke in lowered tones because no one really knew whether The Eye picked up sound or not.
'At least he seems to be finished with me’ whispered Jenny. 'But God, they really laid it on.'
Chris felt that guilty excitement mounting again. 'Let me see where they beat you.'
Jenny went slightly pink. 'You've got to be joking!' Revealing her bottom to her boyfriend would undoubtedly come under the heading of improper behaviour.
Chris looked up at The Eye, then back at Jenny. He really wanted to see those red stripes. 'Let .. let's go in the bathroom' he whispered. 'You can show me in there.' There was no Eye in the bathroom.
Jenny said No, but in the face of Chris's persistence reluctantly agreed.
They got up and walked circumspectly out past The Eye. They went in the bathroom, locking the door after them.
'Look, I’d rather not’ protested Jenny.
But Chris was not going to be put off now. He made her bend over the edge of the bath and excitedly grabbed her skirt up, then yanked down her knickers.
There were the criss-crossing red stripes all right still clearly showing and covering the whole of Jenny's ripe rear. They certainly looked hot and sore. His blood pounding again, Chris greedily pulled her knickers on down and off over her shoes.
'Hey!' she gasped. But it was obvious what he wanted and he was in a desperate state. This whole business of Jenny's tawseing had become overwhelmingly
exciting to Chris. He could scarcely control himself as he pulled Jenny close.
She struggled at first but then began to return Chris's embrace. They were alone, weren't they, with the bathroom door locked? And the horrid Eye was safely on the other side of the wall as well as being switched off. Gradually Jenny's ardour began to match Chris's. But this whole business did seem to be getting to him and she was going to have to have a serious talk with Chris. He was just going to have to learn to accept certain things.

* * *
The serious talk with Chris was not to be needed, though. The next morning the Allison household had two visitors.
Two Inspectors of the Education Ministry wishing to talk to Jenny. White-faced she was confronted with the accusation of what had happened in the bathroom.
She started to stammer. One of the Officials bleakly told her it was all on video tape. She was to pack a suitcase.
She would be taken immediately to a Reform Centre. Jenny's mother started weeping as the two men marched Jenny up to her room. Yes, there was an Eye in the bathroom, hidden in the light fitting. Perhaps, in 1994, the possibility should at least have been considered, but neither Jenny nor Chris had thought of that. In her room Jenny was told to pack her things: change of uniform, underwear, toilet items. For the very serious offence which had been committed it would be a long stay at the Reform Centre - up to a year. But first of all before she was taken off. a little something else. A preliminary taste of what she would be getting rather frequently at the Centre. Jenny was told to strip down to her underwear. One of the Inspectors took a vicious-looking crook-handled rattan cane from his case.
Jenny was bent down over her bed. The other inspector inserted his fingers in the waistband of her tight black lacy knickers and slowly peeled them off her mounds leaving them stretched tight between her thighs.
The Eye watched impassively as the cane rose and fell; whistling through the air, cracking down onto already striped buttocks. It was all recorded but then there was nothing happening which would cause any questions back at the Education Office.
When Chris came round for Jenny an hour later he was told by her tearful mother that she had just been taken away.

Return to School

This is one of my favourite themes (see July 2010)because it inevitably involves naughty girls who still deserve punishement even after their schooldays are over. Sally Middleton has a bottom made for the cane and it is clear that the deputy-head is not in the least averse to abusing his position. The story ends with a clear implication that young Sally hasn't seen - or felt - the last of him...

It seemed distinctly eerie going through the school gates again - a strange disquieting feeling. Mainly it was the silence of course, no other girls running about and shouting and this was hardly surprising because it was out of term time - the end of July and a week after school had broken up. A hot and sunny afternoon and as she looked across the deserted quadrangle the memories came flooding back: some of them pleasant ones naturally - of her classmates and friends - but mostly the unpleasant ones - the spankings, and more especially the canings. The cane and St. Monica's: the two were inseparable, for St. M's was a school dedicated to the belief that middle-class girls developed into proper young ladies only as a result of strict discipline. And at St. Monica's that meant first and foremost the cane.... energetically applied to youthful rear-quarters.

And thinking of the cane she couldn't help feeling a tingle of apprehension. She tried to dismiss it for really it was silly: she was now 21 and it had been nearly three years since she had been a pupil here and at the mercy of Mr. James and his staff. Sally Middleton, she told herself, calm down: and behave like an adult and not a schoolgirl. She unconsciously pulled back her high firm breasts out against the thin material of her blouse. Keith, at the wheel of the car and wondering where it was best to park, happened to look across at that moment and mopped his brow. He was hot enough without her doing that.

Fiancé Keith had been feeling more than a little frustrated ever since their stop for a picnic lunch on the drive down. He had been hoping Sally would agree to a bit of slap and tickle after lunch - well, they were getting married in six months time and had been doing it for several months now. Doing it when he could persuade her, that is, but on this occasion all his efforts at persuasion got him nowhere: she simply wasn't having any. The truth was, although she would not have admitted it even to herself, Sally was more than a bit nervous about the coming meeting. With Mr. Grant, the Deputy Head.

It had been the Head, Mr. James, whom she had been trying to contact when she had phoned. Well, when you needed a reference you naturally went to your Headmaster, but he had been unavailable. It was close to the end of term and she was told, to her surprise, that he in fact was due to leave the school and was very busy. And she had been put through to Mr. Grant. She would definitely much rather not have spoken to Mr. Grant and indeed she could recall telling herself when she left school that he was one master she quite definitely would be happy never to speak to or see again.

He had always been the worst - worst with the cane that is, always knickers down and then lashing it into your bare bottom so that even in the Sixth Form you were almost immediately reduced to tears and abject pleadings for him to stop. And that had been exactly what he had done on her very last morning at school, catching Sally and two or three other school-leavers rather prematurely laughing and joking in the corridor and singling her out to be taken to his room. To be bent over that horrid chair and have her skimpy pink knickers taken down for one final dose of the medicine which he so loved to mete out to a pretty teenager. It had been an all-too-fitting finish to her school career: the caning and then having to stand tearfully before him while his hand went up her skirt 'checking' that her knickers were correctly back in place, but actually of course fondling her through the knickers and then delivering a couple of painful spanks with his open palm. As he did it she had the one consoling thought that at least it was for the very last time and she would never have to see him or speak to him again. Not ever.

But then a year later suddenly there was his voice on the phone and she was automatically saying 'Oh Please Sir, sorry to bother you Sir.' And when he had asked what it was she wanted she had said 'Pl..please Sir....' and then found herself asking him for the reference she had intended to get from Mr. James. Having said it she immediately hoped he would say no, but he didn't. What he said was that of course he couldn't just write a reference when he knew nothing about what she'd done during the past few years. He would really need to see her again and have a talk first and then he was sure he could oblige. As it happened he was staying on at St. Monica's for a couple of weeks after the end of term and so it would be convenient if she came down there. And with an empty feeling in her stomach Sally found herself automatically agreeing, automatically also falling back into the role of the obedient pupil as she said 'Yes Sir. Thank-you Sir.'

The truth was that if it were not for the fact that she really needed a reference she would definitely have ducked out of meeting him again - sent a note: thank-you very much but I find now it's not really necessary. But she was desperately keen to get this really good job with the Company Keith worked for - a job that was so much better than the rather menial one she had had for more than six months now. And of course really there was nothing Mr. Grant could do to her now she was no longer a pupil. Well there wasn't was there?

Yes she really needed that reference, for the year since leaving St. Monica's had sadly failed to live up to what it had promised. Because that marvellous-sounding job - Personal Secretary to Mr. Larkin, one of the senior partners in the Law Firm of Merridrew and Larkin - well, if you had said it sounded too good to be true you would have been exactly right. What it was in fact was simply a continuation of the worst aspects of school, with Mr. Larkin finding an excuse virtually every day to take her knickers down, either over his lap or over the arm of that big leather armchair in his office. And at times using that awful riding crop which if anything was worse than a cane. And if that wasn't enough there were also those favoured clients whom you had to take documents round to and who had to be allowed the same privilege - taking your knickers down, that is, and spanking your bottom. Yes it had really been no different from St. Monica's and often quite a lot more painful and humiliating..

Eventually, after a particularly touch client had given her twelve strokes of the crop of her bare bottom she felt she could take no more and she had given in her notice. Mr. Larkin had been very angry and said he would speak to St. Monica's about being so badly let down; but she didn't suppose he actually did, and anyway she didn't care, she wouldn't have worked there any more if they paid her £1000 a week.

After that she had been unemployed for a bit and then the job she still had now - nothing more than glorified tea-girl really, with a firm of exporters. The pay was miserable and so were the prospects but at least she didn't get her knickers taken down all the time. And of course early in this period she had met Keith and that had more than made up for the limitations of her job. Now, though, the chance of this other post had come up and if she could manage to get it, because she would need to keep working after they were married. And with a good reference there was no reason at all why she shouldn't....

'It all seems very deserted,' said Keith, having parked the car over in the corner of the quad in the only available patch of shade. 'Are you sure he's here?'

Oh, Sally was sure he would be here alright. 2.30 sharp he had said and it was now just 2.20. Timed just right, she thought, and then felt another surge of fear, remembering of course the very last time she was here - that final day of school when Mr. Grant had managed to seize one more opportunity to get her knickers down. She just wished she were somewhere - anywhere - else; but such thoughts were pointless and anyway it would soon be over. 'Right. I'd better go in then. Mustn't be late!' Mustn't give him any excuse to be awkward. 'Hey! Stop....!'

She kissed him briefly and then checked her lipstick in the car mirror. Not too much make-up on. Mr. Grant might not approve.... She realised she was thinking just like a frightened St. Monica's schoolgirl again. Well she couldn't help it, it was this place - being here again. Once again her thoughts went back to that last day at school. Mr. Grant taking her into his room and locking the door.

'Right Miss, over the chair please. Then we'll have those panties down and see if we can't find a suitable antidote for unruly behaviour.'

She forced a smile at Keith as she tried to obliterate the memory from her mind. It was time to go in....

Keith watched her tall shapely figure walk away across the hot and empty quad, smart black heels going clip-clop on the tarmac. The short blonde hair, the crisp blouse, the demure calf-length skirt swaying rhythmically with the movement underneath of those thighs, that bottom, which he now knew so well. He could just trace the outline of her sexy little knickers He watched until she disappeared into the building opposite. Hopefully she wouldn't be long.... then they could drive back to that place in the woods.... where earlier he hadn't been able to get what he wanted. His thoughts ran on.... They would get the blanket out again....

To take his mind off such thoughts (and indeed to ease the tightness in his trousers which a growing erection had produced) he got out of the car for a look around. It seemed a fairly ordinary place - a typical school, nothing remarkable. Funny that Sally had never said hardly anything at all about it - not like some girls who were always going on about what they'd done at school. This Grant: he wondered what he was like.... The typical harmless old duffer, he supposed....

-o-O-o-

A harmless old duffer? Well yes he was, as long as you weren't a pretty girl who had to stand flinching in front of him - just as you'd had to all those times before: now with your pretty blonde head shining in the shaft of light streaming in through his window and your pretty knees trembling under your skirt. And your pretty tits trembling too and as you see the direction of his eyes, greedy behind the spectacles, you wish frantically that the tits were just a bit smaller and didn't stick out so much or at least you had not worn the rather tight thin blouse with just the light bra underneath which you knew showed the shape of your nipples.

Because really you should have remembered that Mr. Grant had always liked girls' tits - in addition to their bottoms of course. But back at home you foolishly hadn't thought: as you foolishly hadn't realized that once in here, in his room, nothing would have changed and you would again be the defenceless rabbit mesmerised by the weasel's cold stare. For the clammy mesmeric fear had reached out and gripped you the moment you stepped inside that room which was hot and stuffy with the sun beating in through the closed window and altogether you felt a little faint.

The weasel moved. The spectacles glinted, reflecting, as he got up from behind his desk and walked round it to you. And spoke: 'A reference is it? Hmm... I should have thought that these two were reference enough.' And the bony hand reached out and felt the weight of each breast in turn. 'Mmm. Yes. They seem somewhat bigger than when you were last here. If I remember correctly.'

His fingers moved to fondle her nipples and she felt a little sick standing immobile in the stuffy room as his voice, that so-familiar voice from her schooldays, continued: 'Mmm... Perhaps we should have a better look. Don't you think? A proper check....' And the fingers went to the little buttons of her blouse.... and as if they had a perfect right began unbuttoning the top one.... and then the next.... methodically, unhurriedly. 'Yes, a little check.'

What he was doing was quite outrageous and she should slap his hand away and tell him thank-you she could do without the reference and walk smartly out. There must be someone else who could give one. But she knew she was powerless to do this. Being here in his room, with his frightening, dominating presence, as she had been all those times at school, it was as if she had never left and there was just no way she could do anything except meekly submit.... to whatever he wanted. She felt beads of perspiration above her lip and had a sudden consciousness of her knickers, tight and brief under her skirt. Really much too brief. And she knew as her blouse was unfastened that they - the brief knickers - would be coming down. Knew it just as much as if he had already told her, for wasn't that what happened last time - and what always happened? There would be some excuse and she would be bent over the seat of his chair: her bare bottom flinching in anticipation....

Yes she could see it all, just as it had been all those times before and there was really nothing to do about it except say 'Yes Sir.' and 'No Sir.' and... She felt a little light-headed and steadied herself with her hand on his desk as he finished unbuttoning the blouse and pulled it free from the waistband of her skirt. Perhaps he would just....? But no: his hands round her back to her bra strap, unfastening it, then pulling the bra up to release her breasts. The sudden shock of his hands on her bare tits.... squeezing.... the fingers playing, fondling... causing her nipples to harden and stick out.... like they did when Keith.... But this was Mr. Gram.... loathsome hands actually on her bare boobs. It was quite awful.... but there was nothing she could do to stop him. She could only stand still.... feeling sick....

Finally he finished with them and she could do her bra and blouse up again; wondering vaguely as she did so whether he would now cane her right away or make her wait a while for it, as he sometimes used to. It seemed hotter than ever in the room and she thought of Keith outside, where it was hot but not stifling like this. Keith out there in another world....

But Mr. Grant, who didn't seem bothered by the heat, was now seated at his desk again and telling her to come and stand at his side. She had had to do that before of course and, yes, right away his hand came up her skirt to grip the back of the nearest nyloned knee. He wanted to knew about what she'd been doing in the last years and as she haltingly started to describe her jobs so the hand moved up.... to the tops of her nylons.... and the full warm thighs above. Where Keith's hand had just recently been but unlike Keith's you couldn't push this hand away and say 'Stop it.' Not Mr. Grant's. The hand explored her thighs.... and then her bottom in the decidedly skimpy nylon briefs....

His voice suddenly interrupting her as she tried to make what she did at Binney's sound more than just tea-girl: 'Have you had it very recently Miss?'

'Wh..What Sir?'

The hand pinched her bottom. 'What do you think I'm referring to? Sexual intercourse? Though I suppose you've had that alright. But what I am talking about is the cane. Have you had the cane recently?'

'N... No Sir. Not... not since I've been at Binney's Sir.'

'Really. You mean to say that Mr. Binney doesn't keep a cane in his office for girls whose work is not quite up to scratch?'

'No Sir.'

'And don't you think he should? For Miss Sally Middleton, at least?'

Sally swallowed nervously. The direction of his remarks was all too obvious.

'Sir I... I do my job properly Sir...'

'Do you indeed? Well in my experience a girl is never doing anything completely properly and always benefits from regular correction. And your employers are most misguided if they think otherwise. Yes Miss - faults and shortcomings, including serious ones, are not difficult to find in young women of your age. His hand pinched her bottom again through the brief panties. 'For instance at this moment these knickers you are wearing are most unsuitable. Much too brief. Do you know that Miss?'

'Well I... Yes Sir.'

'Yes, well do you know what I am going to do then? Before I write out your reference? I am going to take them down and give you a little reminder of what apparently you have been missing. You know what I am talking about of course? I am talking about the cane. On your bare bottom. And then perhaps when next you think of putting on such unsuitably scanty garments you will at least think twice.'

This was it. Sally, redfaced, head lowered, bit her lip. She had known that it would inevitably come to this. Mr. Grant's hand was withdrawn from her skirt. He got up and went to his cupboard.... the cupboard which she knew from long and painful experience contained his canes.

'Right, Miss. Over the chair if you please. The usual position. And then we'll give that bottom a little taste of what it's been missing.'

Automatically she did as she was told - well, didn't you always with Mr. Grant do as you were told? - lowering herself over the seat of the chair, her head down and her bottom up. Up and in position for that hateful whippy cane now lying on his desk.

She felt her skirt abruptly pulled up, round her waist, to reveal of course the offending knickers - semi-transparent navy-blue nylon and very brief, leaving a good deal of soft pale rump quite bare. Quite definitely they were not St. Monica's approved wear and Mr. Grant made sounds of disapproval ('Really these are quite unacceptable!') as he peeled them down, to her nylon tops at mid-thigh. Sally cringed - terribly conscious of her bottom now completely bare.... unconstrained... defenceless... The defencelessness sharply emphasised as Mr. Grant's hand came down hard in a gratuitous spank across both buttocks.... 'Keep it still Miss.'

Yes the moment of truth had arrived and there was nothing to do now except grit your teeth in anticipation of the first stinging cut. Her buttocks automatically clenched as for a moment she forgot that that was against the rules. 'Stop that!' His hand slapping her bottom again. 'Keep the cheeks relaxed.' His hand fondling.... 'And get it up a bit more.' Yes that seemed to be.... just about right....

Thwack! 'Oooooh!' The first one as always even worse than you imagined it would be. The sheer pain of it slashing into the bare flesh, abruptly dispelling any trace of that half dream-like feeling that had enveloped you ever since entering his room; for you just could not be anything but wide awake after that.

And barely time to grit your teeth again before.... Thwack! 'Ooooohh!' the cane searing down for a second stroke. Grit your teeth and try to keep your legs straight and your bottom still or he would simply add more to the six you'd been promised. Grit your teeth and grip the legs of the chair as tightly as you could....

Thwack! 'Oooohhh!' Oh please Jesus! You are dimly aware that you are crying.... Thwack! 'Oh! Please! Please no more...' Thwack!......... Thwack!

It was finally over, the six red stripes on her bottom the evidence. Her sobbing now the only sound in that brightly sunlit room.

Then Mr. Grant's voice telling her she could get up. Painfully she did so; and pulled her knickers back up again, up over a desperately stinging rear. At least it was over and she had paid Mr. Grant's price. He would now write her reference and she would be able to go. She turned a flushed and tear-stained face towards him as he started to speak again....

-o-O-o-

Outside Keith stood leaning on his car - with growing impatience. It seemed an age since she'd gone - this chap must be writing reams and reams. Once again he gazed around: at the empty quad, the building opposite with its windows like blank vacant eyes. The place certainly appeared quite deserted, apart from a couple of pigeons wheeling around, though Sally and presumably this schoolmaster were in there somewhere....

Not being familiar with St. Monica's of course he didn't know the lay-out, didn't know that Mr. Grant's room was in fact in one of the wings at the rear. And then also it was on the first floor so that you couldn't anyway look in - unless you were one of those pigeons. Couldn't look in and see.... Sally.... over that chair.... her bare bottom.... and the cane. No there was no way of seeing this, or of observing anything else round that side of the building. The Sick Room was there of course, again on the first floor....

Keith heaved another big sigh: looked once more at his watch. Wherever had she got to? Perhaps the old duffer was giving her tea, that was why they were so long ....

Finally, at last, Sally appeared at the entrance where she had gone in and looking at his watch Keith saw it was 3.40 - over an hour! She stepped out into the sunlight and commenced to walk, somewhat stumblingly, across the tarmac.

Back in the car she seemed tense, distracted, and what with that rather uncertain way she had been walking Keith wondered if she was alright. Perhaps the heat? Or maybe this Grant had refused to write the reference? No, she was O.K. she said and she had the reference. What took so long then? Were they having tea or something?

'Yes,' she said, 'Yes we had some tea.' It was a lie of course: a little white lie but what else could she say? The truth? She winced at the thought, at the utter horror of Keith ever knowing....

The last thing she wanted to do now was to stop at that place - in the woods, but Keith insisted and of course he'd been planning on it but she really couldn’t face it had suddenly she blurted out what had happened. Keith naturally was furious. ‘You let him cane you? How could you? Let me see’ Quickly Keith grabbed poor Sally and pulled her over his knees. He pulled up her skirt and saw her reddened bottom. ‘I’m going to punish you for this’ He said ‘How dare you bare your bottom for some old teacher. It’s disgraceful’ , and with that he grabbed the waistband of her knickers, pulled them off her bottom for the second time in just an hour and began a painful hand-spanking which brought the poor, reddened globes back to life. Eventually he tired of his enviable task but not before he had told the poor gilr that henceforth she should expect similar – or more painful – treatment if ever she transgressed again.

-o-O-o-

Back at school the place looked as deserted as ever and indeed now had only the one solitary occupant. He - Mr. Grant, Deputy Head - was looking out from his window at the lawn and noting how parched the grass was getting. He had better tell the gardener to do some watering when he came in the morning. He turned away, and happening to notice that his cane was still on his desk went to return it to the cupboard. He was always a most precise, tidy man.

He swished the cane through the air with some satisfaction. It had been a most rewarding afternoon. Well, it was not every day that an extremely attractive ex-pupil returned and you just happened to have something she wanted quite so badly..... mmmm... Rewarding in the extreme. And having once sampled it he had every intention of trying it again.

It was true that he didn't have Miss Sally Middleton's address. But that was a minor problem for he could easily get it from her mother. Yes: in fact he might even.... try Mrs. Middleton's number right now. He went to his bookcase for the old list of parents' addresses and phone numbers. Yes, here it was....

It was all very pleasant and civilized. A cordial chat with a charming lady - who like most mothers of St. Monica's pupils had no inkling of certain aspects of the school's regime, and certainly no inkling of what Mr. Grant could be like when he had a defenceless girl alone in his office. Yes, a cordial chat at the end of which he was writing down an address on his memo pad. A London address: Finchley.

'She shares a flat with her friend Charlotte Greene,' said Mrs. Middleton, 'until she gets married at least.' And Mr. Grant was given some gratuitous details of the wedding plans, to which he listened with polite interest before thanking the lady.

'Shall I tell her you called?' she inquired.

'Oh I shouldn't do that,' said Mr. Grant. 'I might drop in to see her and I'd like it to be a surprise.'

'Oh how nice. Yes, alright: I won't say a word then.'