A damned good spanking

I love the way the skimpy knickers are so drum-tight. And you just know they'll be peeled down later...

Headmaster's Introduction

Another of RT Mason's brilliant stories from Janus.


The bright afternoon sunlight was streaming in through the window in a sharply defined shaft in which dust specks could be seen dancing and swirling in a rather fascinating manner. Fascinating, that is, if you had to stand there, five girls in a row, and listen to the Headmaster's rather droning voice. The voice and the swirling specks together had an almost hypnotic effect.

All five of them, 16- and 17-year-olds, were newly starting in this summer term at Westlands School for Girls and so on this first day, as was usual with new arrivals, they had to get Mr Kingston's introductory talk. Normally, at the beginning of the school year with the much larger number of new entrants, the talk was given in the Hall, but with a small number like this – five – the Head's oration could more conveniently be delivered in his study. Having it in the privacy of his room had another advantage – it could be combined with another introduction to school life, but the five girls weren't to know that. Not yet at least.

Mr Kingston did have rather a droning way of talking especially when, as with this Introductory Talk, it was something he had said innum erable times before. One girl, then another, shuffled her feet as they stood there letting his words roll over them, empty sound in the heavy air, while the sun specks danced.

If you thought anything at all it was that he did not look too bad, not too frightening, although of course you probably knew that this school had a reputation for strictness, a no-nonsense attitude. Perhaps what you had heard had just been an exaggeration…

Mr Kingston's words rolled on. Having said it so often before he could do it quite automatically, the platitudes coming out almost of their own accord leaving him free to consider this new five. They had transferred schools for the usual reasons: one needing a boarding school because her parents suddenly had to go abroad; another not getting the right attention at her comprehensive; etc, etc. And of course the other reason: Hilary or Jane or whoever is just not making any progress and we do feel she needs a stricter regime. Well, that was something which Westlands and Mr Kingston, in spite of his mild appearance, certainly could supply.

This particular five were all of them a nice-looking lot, ranging from reasonably good-looking to the blonde at the left end of the row, Monica Taylor, who was really rather stunning. All with nice youthfully nubile shapes too, in their new uniform white blouses and blue pleated skirts with the pink-and-blue Westlands tie. Yes, the second part of his introduction, to be given direct ly after his talk, was really going to be rather pleasant. Not that one would like to admit it was a pleasure, naturally, for really it was very much in the line of duty.

As he continued talking he could see that several of them were looking rather stupified. It was a warm after noon, unusually so for May, and of course he knew that a lot of what he had to say was a bit boring. It had to be said nonetheless. Actually it was now just about finished. Which meant they had come to the part where these five pretty girls would suddenly wake up – if he was not very much mistaken.

'Well that's about it for general school procedures and such matters. And now we come to the matter of discipline. Discipline is of course a very necessary part of any establishment which contains largish numbers of individuals and I must tell you that we here at Westlands School pride ourselves that it is… ahem… you might say one of our strong points. Discipline here naturally very much includes Corporal Punishment.'

He paused, then directed his gaze at that very pretty blonde at the left end of the line.

'Monica, I think. Monica Taylor, isn't it?'

She suddenly focussed deep blue eyes from the evident dream she had been in. 'Uh… Uh, yes Sir?'

'Corporal punishment, Monica. Do you know what that means?'

'Uh… some form of punishment, Sir, I suppose.'

'That is correct, Monica, but hardly very enlightening. Corporal punish ment, Monica, means physical punishment of the body – from corpus, the Latin. Physical chastisement of the subject's person. For instance physical chastisement of Monica Taylor's very attractive person.'

The pretty blonde blushed.

Mr Kingston addressed himself again to all five. Five girls who now all looked somewhat more alert. 'Corporal punishment may be new to some of you but it is, as I say, very much part and parcel of the regime at Westlands. We find it much more effective than such measures as gatings and lines and detentions. And I should tell you that all your parents have signed the form acknowledging this and agreeing to it.

'So you may take it from me that all of you will be getting personal first -hand experience of our CP regime.'

He laughed benignly. 'Unless any of you can be almost superhumanly good, that is. What do you say to that, Monica? Can you be superhumanly good?'

She shuffled her feet, looked at the Head, then down at the carpet. 'I don't suppose so, Sir.'

'No, nor do I, Monica. And nor do I think any of you others can either. Now then!'

His voice had suddenly lost its rather bantering lone. 'What I now propose as the second part of this little introduction to Westlands, having given you my talk which I'm sure some of you possibly found rather boring, is to give you all a little demonstration of CP in use here. So that you will all know exactly what to expect.'

To five rather startled-looking faces he smiled and said, 'You may find this part a bit painful but certain ly not boring!'

He got up from his chair and walked over, through that beam of sunlight which several of them had earlier found so fascinating, to his glass-fronted cupboard. Opening it he took out a cane.

A two-foot long thin whippy rattan cane.

Mr Kingston moved round to stand in front of five now definitely startled-looking girls. He bent the cane into a tight horseshoe, then swished it vigorously through the air causing those dust motes to swirl in all direc tions at once.

'The cane, girls. The principal instrument of punishment at Westlands. Together, of course, with the palm of a master's hand. Now then, what you might call Punishment Number One, and something which you will not be getting very frequently because masters prefer others: Punishment Number One, the cane across the palm of the hand.'

He directed his gaze at the end girl again. 'Monica, I think. Step forward please where everyone can see you and hold out your right hand. Palm upwards at about waist height.'

The pretty blonde turned a bright red. 'But Sir! I… I haven't done anything.'

'I didn't say you had, my dear. I am just giving a demonstration so that you and all the others will know what to expect. Don't worry, you haven't been singled out. All the others will be getting a demonstration as well. Come on now, step forward. You will learn that at Westlands questioning a master is one of the surest ways to incur a punishment.'

She stepped reluctantly forward into the shaft of sunlight: the girl who had quite evidently caught the Head's attention. Short curling blonde hair framed a softly pretty face in which the full mouth was now trembling slightly. She was of medium height with a trim figure, with full firm breasts softly pushing out the front of her crisp white blouse.

'Hand out, please,' the Head re peated. Biting that full lower lip she forced herself to comply.

'Hold it steady!' The voice of the mild-looking Headmaster now had a steely edge to it. 'Good!'

He raised the cane and quite simply brought it slashing down transversely across the palm of her hand. She let out an anguished yelp. There were sharp in-drawings of breath from the other four girls. It must have stung like blue murder! Monica was now hugging her hand and there were obvious tears in her eyes.

'Now the left hand,' said the Head calmly.

'Pl… please… I c… can't!' she stut tered. 'It h… hurts… I…' Suddenly she was actually crying, fat tears running down the pretty cheeks.

The Head's voice, steely again. 'The left hand, Monica. And I don't want to have to ask you again. One thing you all have to learn is that at Westlands a girl obeys a master immediately.'

Still crying, Monica forced herself to reach out her left hand.

'Properly out. And keep it still!'

The cane rose. And again came slashing down. There was another gasping cry from the girl as she imme diately bent almost double, hugging both hands to her.

Mr Kingston's voice, mild again: 'Good! So that is Punishment Number One, girls. As I say you probably won't be getting it very often but it's as well you should know about it. Show your hands to the others, Monica.'

Still sobbing. Monica held out her hands. The others looked, blinked or bit their lips, then turned away. There was a general shocked shuffling of feet. Monica's hands had a bright red stripe across the centre of each palm.

'Right: back in line then, Monica. Now who have we got next? Jill, isn't it. Jill Palmer?'

The next girl did not have the obvious prettiness of Monica but was nonetheless a very pleasant-looking new Fifth Former with shoulder-length brown hair and a nicely full figure. And now with a most unhappy expression on her face.

'Step forward, Jill. Now girls, what we now come to is something which is rather more frequently used. The cane across the backs of the bare thighs. The backs of the thighs are of course one of the more sensitive areas of a girl's body, so caning there is a most effective punishment. We can call this Punishment Number Two, if you like.'

He took hold of Jill's arm and turned her towards his desk. The top was completely clear: a little fore thought on Mr Kingston's part in view of what was to come in this second part of his Introduction. 'Just bend your upper body over the desk, Jill.'

Jill looked rather sick but clearly there wasn't much choice. She got over the desk and Mr Kingston pulled her pleated skirt up round her waist. There, facing the other four, was a full round bottom in tight pale blue nylon knickers plus a pair of nicely rounded thighs.

'Bottom well up!' instructed the Head, taking firm hold of one cheek of the tightly-knickered bottom and pushing it further onto the desk.

'And legs together and nice and straight, please.' Bending slightly, he slid his hand down the thighs to her knees, then over her white school knee-socks, positioning her feet so that her legs were slightly away from the desk with knees straight.

Finally satisfied with this he straightened up. His hand went back to the blue nylon knickers, sensuous ly sliding over the taut surface. 'Good. As you see, girls, Jill still has her knickers on, and that is the normal procedure with a caning to the thighs. Right then!'

Briskly he reached for the cane which had been lying on the corner of his desk. He positioned himself, then patted the cane lightly across the slightly trembling thighs. And then he drew it back, sending the dust motes swirling again, and brought it down with a sharp CRACK! across the centre of the softly rounded limbs.

'Ahh... ooowww!' A yelping cry, an immediate spasmic writhing of bottom and legs, and two hands coming auto matically back in instantaneous res ponse to clutch the afflicted area.

'Hands back!' The Head's voice a sharp bark as he pushed Jill's hands with the end of the cane. As she gripped the top of the desk again the others, horror-struck, saw the angry red stripe across the centre of their colleague's thighs.

'Keep the position!' added the Headmaster. 'I am going to give you two more so that we can all have a good idea of what is involved.'

And he did: two more slashing cuts across the backs of Jill's thighs, each producing a gasping yelp of agony and each leaving its fiery red mark. When she got up she was openly crying – to nobody's surprise. Dab bing at her eyes she went back on trembling legs to her place.

Mr Kingston put down the cane. 'So that's the cane to the thighs, girls. Jill will tell you that it's still stinging quite a bit. Is that correct, Jill?'

Still wiping her eyes she stuttered, 'Y… yes… S… Sir.'

'Good. Now who have we next?' He looked inquiringly at the third girl in line.

'S… S… Susan Mitchell, Sir,' she said numbly. She was a medium blonde with shoulder-length hair and a delicately-featured face. She was about average height and somewhat slimmer than the other two.

'Yes, of course. Step forward then, Susan. We now come to caning of the bottom. At Westlands a girl's skirt is always raised for a bottom caning but, depending on which the master decides is the more suitable, he may leave her knickers on or they may be lowered.'

He took hold of Susan's arm and turned her towards his desk. 'Bend over then Susan: like Jill. You're going to get a little taste of the cane with your knickers on.'

He lifted her skirt to reveal another pair of those skimpy pale blue nylon knickers: this time enclosing a rather slimmer bottom than the one previously on show. Again he firmly gripped one cheek and pushed her further up on the desk. Again he fiddled fussily with her legs.

Then as the others watched, Jill still with tear-filled eyes, the Head took up the cane. Tapping the buttock-tautened knickers he said, 'Three, Susan. Keep nice and still though, or it could be more.'

He raised the cane and slashed it transversely down across the crests of the bottom cheeks to land with a zipp ing sound on the thin taut nylon. Susan let out a howl, bottom and thighs violently jerking, one hand reaching back to clutch desperately at her bum.

Mr Kingston grabbed the hand and placed it firmly back on his desk. Then raised the cane again and zipped it in a second time to the still-writhing rear. Another howl as the writhings were redoubled…

He put down the cane and looked at the others. 'What you have just witnessed is the proper normal pro cedure. However, you will also find that some masters will use a little modification when caning a girl with her knickers on.'

He turned again to the still bent-over Susan and reached both hands onto her bottom. 'They pull the knickers up: thus.'

And he grasped the hems of the pale blue knickers and pulled them firmly up off the cheeks of her bottom and into the dividing crevice. The lower part of Susan's bottom was now bare, showing two red stripes where the cane had landed.

The Head fondled the half-bared cheeks. 'As you can see, with Susan's knickers like this she can be given what is to all intents and purposes a bare-bottom caning. However this will still go in the Punishment Book as Caning With Knickers Retained.'

He took up the cane again. 'I will give Susan her third in this manner. Keep still please, Susan!'

The cane once more violently disturbed the dust specks as it rose and then descended as a flash to judder into the now bared flesh. There was a third agonised howl from the dis tressed recipient. And she also, not surprisingly, was in tears when she stood up.

'Good! Back in line then, Susan. And you can re-adjust your knickers. Now, girls, what we have not dealt with yet is a spanking.'

He put the cane down, then walked across the room to an upright chair which he brought back to place in front of his desk.

'Yes, a spanking.' He completely ignored Susan's whimpering sounds. 'Spankings at Westlands are always given with a girl over a master's lap and on her bare bottom; i.e., with her skirt up and her knickers either lowered or completely off. This is because firstly, the spanking can be more effectively done on the bare bottom and, secondly, there is, with the bottom bare, the added element of embarrassment, even humiliation. Having a master's hand spanking her bare bottom is to many girls a prospect much more unwelcome than the actual pain involved.'

He sat on the chair, then beckoned the fourth girl forward. She was Linda Harrison: short brown hair and hazel eyes, probably the prettiest after Monica Taylor and also with a nice full figure. She was now looking decided ly unhappy as she stood before the Head.

'Well, let's ask Linda, shall we? How do you feel about having a master's hand smacking your bare bottom, Linda? Is it a rather unwelcome prospect?'

Squirming – and blushing – she muttered in the affirmative.

'Yes? Well, that is all to the good. Because we are talking about a punishment, aren't we? So: let's have you over my lap and we'll let you see what it feels like – this rather unwelcome prospect.'

He pulled her over so that her hips were on his lap and her head down near the carpet. The skirt was dragged up to be bunched round her waist, and there was another pair of those light blue nylon knickers, enclosing a nice full bottom.

One of Mr Kingston's arms went round her waist to firmly hold her, while the fingers of his other hand hooked in the waistband of her knickers and snaked them down. He pulled them down to her knees, then slid his hand back up, to the now bare bottom. A preliminary brief fondling and then the hand started to come down hard: Splat!.. Splat!.. Splat!.. on the firm nicely-rounded buttocks.

There were gasping grunts from Linda and also some grunts of exertion from the Head as his hand vigorously rose and fell. He kept it up for quite a few minutes while the soft full bottom got redder and redder. The captive rear was wriggling and there were gasping cries of 'Ohh!' and 'Ooohh!' and 'Please!' and other less recognisable sounds. But Mr Kingston just kept going – until he was ready to stop.

At last Linda was struggling to her feet, and grabbing up her knickers. Not crying, but looking very hot and bothered and – well, decidedly unhappy.

The Head stood up. 'So that just leaves one more of you. And as it turns out five is just the right number for me to conclude my demonstration. Let's see, Alison Green, I think. Yes?'

The last girl muttered Yes. Slightly taller than the others she was a pleasant-looking auburn-headed girl; 17 and going into the Lower Sixth. She looked apprehensively at the Head, then down at her feet.

'Forward please, then! What we now finally have is a proper bare bottom caning. As a little change, Alison, I think for this I'll have you bending over the seat of the chair. Although of course a girl can be bent over a table or desk for a bare bottom caning – or indeed simply made to bend and touch her toes.'

She stood there hesitantly in front of the chair, in the shaft of sunlight which was still streaming in through the window. The Head said, 'Right: take your knickers down, Alison. Slip them down to your knees, and then get yourself over the chair.'

She gave the Head a rather sick look, then slid her hands up to fumble under her skirt. Then, face flushed, she lowered herself over the chair. The Head reached out and briskly pulled up the skirt. There was another full rounded bare bottom with the knickers bunched at mid-thigh. The knickers, though, were not the regulation plain pale blue but were light pink panties with a floral design.

'What is this!' exclaimed Mr Kingston. 'Why are you not wearing regulation knickers, Alison?'

The voice from the lowered head said, 'I… I thought it was all right… Sir.'

'Well it is not all right! At Westlands everyone is required to wear the proper attire at all times and that certainly includes school knickers. Other clothing may only be worn when you have a Pass to go out of school; and then of course you must first come to me or Matron to confirm that what you are wearing is accept able. These flimsy, sexy little panties are definitely not allowed. You had better take them off. Right now! Come on: off with them!' For the first time, he seemed genuinely angry.

She was not allowed to get up, though, and so her hands reached back and rather awkwardly she pulled the knickers further on down, then slid them off over her brown strap-over shoes. Mr Kingston reached down and placed the offending garment on his desk. Then he took up the cane.

A preliminary patting of the bare upthrust bottom and then he proceeded to lash the cane four times into the fullest out-curve of the rounded cheeks, each stroke sharply jolting the soft creamy flesh. There was an agonized yelp each time it landed, a frenzied wriggling of bottom and legs – which without the restraining presence of knickers round her thighs tended to part rather revealingly. It was clear for all to see that Alison's auburn locks were the genuine article, being matched with even redder hair in a more private region.

When it was finished and she had struggled to her feet she was also, like the other three who had had the cane, openly in tears. Her bottom hurt like sheer hell.

Alison rejoined the others and once more they were all in line. The Head perched on the front edge of his desk and surveyed them with a benign expression. Five pretty girls in a row. Five girls who were no longer happily dreaming away but were very much wide-awake – and were now under no delusions regarding Westlands School for Girls. It was a strict no-nonsense school with, in spite of that mild appearance, a strict no-nonsense Headmaster.

He smiled. 'So now we know, girls, don't we? If we get into trouble we know the range of options. None of them I suppose exactly pleasant but then that is the object of punishment, is it not? Good! So you may go now…'

They all turned, with relief, to door.

'Except, ah, Alison and Monica.'

Three quickly exited. The door closed. Two girls unhappily remaining.

'Just a word with you, Alison, about your knickers. Leave them here and come back and collect them after the end of lessons at 4.30. We will then have a private little chat about the need to follow school regulations. That's all: you may go now.'

The door closed. Leaving now just the very pretty blonde with the Head. He looked at her with sharply appraising eyes.

'Yes, Monica. Such a pretty girl! And with a lovely young figure too!'

He moved in close to her and, in a bit of a daze, she felt herself being turned around so that her back was towards him. And then his hands slid out and around, under her arms, and simply took hold of her quite full breasts in their crisp white blouse and the light bra underneath.

She gasped. The hands lightly squeezed. Mr Kingston's mild voice. 'Yes, quite a lovely girl.'

Still holding her he continued, 'But that can be something of a problem, I'm afraid, Monica. You see I'm quite sure various members of my staff are bound to find you very attractive as well, and that is where your problem will arise. It is unfair, I know, but human nature being what it is, I'm afraid they will be rather after you. You will, I'm afraid, be getting much more than your fair share of punishment. And it certainly won't be the cane across the hand which I gave you earlier. No, it will be your bottom they will want to get at: it will be knickers down and spanking and caning of your bare bottom. Probably on any trumped-up excuse.'

He gave her rounded breasts a final squeeze, then removed his hands. He moved round to face her. Monica looked queasy. His openly feeling her breasts like that, but mostly what he had said: it was like some kind of nightmare.

But he was talking again – still in that mild manner. 'Anyway, with that in mind I think it only fair to give you now a caning to your bottom. So that you will at least have some prepara tion for it. Otherwise you might find it quite simply unbearable.'

His hands were reaching for the waistband of her skirt. 'As we're alone I might as well take your skirt right off. And your knickers as well.'

The zip of her skirt was down and then the skirt was sliding down to the floor. His hands were at her tight blue knickers, pulling them down; then as in a dream she was stepping out of them.

The Head's eyes greedy as the girl stood before him, nude below the waist except for the white knee-socks and brown strap-over shoes. Pale smoothly rounded curves with, at their centre, a smallish bush of brown curls. She saw the direction of his gaze and one hand slid over to self-consciously cover it.

Mr Kingston shook his head. 'Yes, my dear. I'm afraid with you being such an attractive young thing that really there will be no stopping them.'

She looked even sicker and the pretty blue eyes were now rather watery-looking. The Head shook his head again.

'No, it's not at all a nice prospect. You'll simply get no let-up. However I could… I just possibly could… do what I've done once or twice before with a very pretty girl. Which is to put her off-limits to the rest of the staff. Of course I can only do it very rarely as otherwise it would destroy the whole basis of discipline at Westlands…'

She said numbly, 'Please, Sir…'

'Yes, then of course you would have only me dealing with you. And really I wouldn't need to cane you more than… mmmm… shall we say two or three times a week at the most. Whereas if I let all the staff loose on you, well…'

He shook his head sadly as if words failed him.

'Well, what do you think, Monica?'

She had started to cry – at the awful prospect which Mr Kingston had presented. The alternative, having him deal with her, couldn't be as bad.

'Yes Sir. I… I…'

'You'd like to do that?'

'Yes Sir.'

His hand slid round to stroke the bare bottom. 'Well I think in your case, Monica, it can be arranged. I will send round a note to the effect that at your parents' special request you are to be sent to me for any punishments. Yes, that's what we'll do.'

The hand at her buttocks finished its fondling and gave the springy flesh a little slap. 'Good. Now then Monica, with that sorted out let's have you over the seat of the chair, shall we. For that little caning.'

He fussily positioned her, getting her just right, and then gave her four nice crisp stingers on the undercurve of her rump. Not desperately hard but enough to send the pretty bum, evidently unused to such assaults, into agonized writhings. The writhings were accompanied by appro priate sounds of distress from the pretty bum's owner.

She was still crying when, having put the cane down, he helped her to her feet. Because it really had stung, dreadfully, just as earlier it had when she'd got it on her hands. And it all seemed so unfair because she hadn't done anything. Trying to control her tears she struggled into knickers and skirt. At least she wasn't going to be getting it from the other masters. Only the Head.

She glanced at him, then looked away. He was looking at her rather like a cat with a nice bowl of cream. He smiled that benign smile. 'So now we know where we stand, Monica, don't we?'

She said, 'I… I think so, Sir,' although she wasn't sure that she did. And she felt even less sure when his hand reached out to briefly fondle first one then the other of her rounded breasts.

'Yes,' said Mr Kingston, 'we're going to get on very well, I'm sure. Just as long as you do as you're told, Monica. Now I think you'd better run along to your classes. But come and see me tonight when you've got your pyjamas on and are ready for bed. I expect I can find a nice cup of cocoa and we can have another cozy chat.'

She went out and the Headmaster closed the door. The sun was still sending its bright shaft of light diag onally across the room. What a lovely afternoon. A lovely stimulating after noon that was also full of rich promise. He went to look out of the window, on his way casually picking up the pair of pink knickers from his desk. Outside the lawn was an impeccable sward of bright green turf, the blue cedar majestic in the background. Yes, life could be very rewarding.

He glanced down at the knickers in his hand, then turned to look at the clock. The owner of the knickers, Alison Green, should be back in half an hour. Yes, red-haired Alison, with that lovely creamy white skin so frequently found in redheads. Mr Kingston went over to his desk and took up his cane, thoughtfully flexing it.

A Classic Caning

This photo - from Janus in the early 90's - could have been taken to illustrate the Cold Cruel World - I love the way the knickers are drum-tight over the firm buttocks. You know they'll come down in the end but there's a lovely piquancy in this classic office setting.

The Cold Cruel World

This is a wonderful psychological thriller written by RT Mason and published in Janus in 1982. I've made minor changes to suit my tastes but the crux of this story lies in the building of tension and the inevitability that poor Alison is going to get a severe, and frankly not well-deserved, trashing at the hands of this wily monster. Nice flashback too. The original was illustrated with these wonderful Hardcastle drawings which add a special magic (although he fails to show the lowered knickers in the caning drawing which is annoying!).

The Cold Cruel World

The infernal jangling of the alarm abruptly shocked her from sleep. That diabolical, inhuman, nerve-jangling that she always hated. But today it was ten times worse.
Before, in all those years of marriage it had been for Mark: Alison could at least put her head under the bedclothes and ignore it for half an hour longer. Now today it was for her. Mark wasn’t here; Alison was alone in the double bed. The nerve-wracking racket meant that today she, Alison Clements, had to get up and face the cold, unfriendly world.
They had finally decided that the only answer was a separation, at least a temporary one, because things had been going simply from bad to worse. Constant arguments, frequently about virtually nothing, or alternatively horrible, stony silences. Mark had suggested it and Alison in turn said she thought it was a good idea.
Groaning, Alison forced herself to get out of bed. She naturally had to get a job now if she was going to survive. Mark was giving her an allowance but not a lot and anyway she wouldn’t want it, would she? Alison had her pride and if she wasn’t being a wife for him she wouldn’t want to be kept.
There were tears in Alison’s eyes as she looked in the bathroom mirror.
It was an appealing heart-shaped face, delicate and not too self-assured looking at the best of times. The tears and the fact that she as yet had no make-up made it look distinctly waif-like. A poor little babe-in-the-woods. Alison wiped away too fat tears and blew her nose. She wasn’t a babe, next year she would be 30. And today she was going off on the first day of her new job. An independent young woman, fancy-free. That’s that she was supposed to be; but it didn’t match her feelings in any way. Alison felt a desperate urge to get on the phone and tell Mark to come back. She didn’t want to be independent and she would never argue or quarrel again.
But Alison knew she couldn’t do that, she couldn’t give up before she had even started. And she’d been lucky to get this job. She splashed cold water on her face to get herself properly awake. She couldn’t give up.
Alison slipped off the shortie nightie and got in the shower. Now that she was up she didn’t feel so bad and the warm water spraying her slim, shapely form felt marvellous. That job, though, was scary; new people, a whole new frightening world, with everyone eyeing her, watching her mistakes. In particular her new boss – what would he be like?
Cut it out, she told herself. Once the first day was over she’s be laughing at herself for being so frightened. Before she knew it it would be part of her life – and probably very enjoyable. Getting out and meeting new people was just what she needed.
Alison put on what she had already chosen. Her smart gray linen suit with the white buttons on the jacket. Underneath she’d put on her favourite set of pale pink bra and lacy knickers to make herself feel good. Smart but not showy, a suitable outfit for a sensible but modern young woman. And 29 was still young. You still had all the world in front of you and at the same time the maturity to go with it. Alison told herself this but that unfortunate hesitant side of her said that the only real experience she had was of marriage. Of shopping and housekeeping. Office life could be so frightening.
Stop it, Alison, she said. She was being stupid again. She put on some make-up, not a lot, she didn’t want to look tarty just nice and attractive.
A crowded train and then a crowded tube. And on the tube, packed little sardines, a hand on her bottom that Alison felt sure was deliberate, but there wasn’t much you could do. The world wasn’t really a very friendly place.
The building when she found it didn’t look too inviting either. The wall-plate in the dingy foyer listed Rudgefield Engineering as being on the fifth floor. Alison felt an awful urge to go out and catch the train back home. But she couldn’t do that. Glancing at her watch she saw it was five past nine. The letter had asked her to start at nine. Oh well...
* * * *
Frank Kirkham, up on the fifth floor, had been in his office since 8.15. He enjoyed getting up early, a habit he had acquired in the army. In the army, naturally, everyone had to get up early whereas in business that was not the case. But at least you’d think that 9 O’clock was not impossible. He gave his watch another impatient glance. Where was this new bint?
‘Bint’ was of course the army term for members of the female sex and it did not imply any great admiration for them. The philosophy of the barrack room was that women were useful in only two places, in bed and in the kitchen, and if they didn’t perform satisfactorily in those areas you took the belt to their arses. Frank Kirkham looked at his watch again. Five past nine. What this new bint undoubtedly needed was Frank Kirkham’s belt across her naked arse as soon as she stepped inside the door.
He had in any case viewed her coming with some foreboding. His previous secretary had decided to retire and personnel were sending this Clements bint. Twenty-nine and ‘a pretty young thing’ according to that stupid woman on the phone.
Frank Kirkham knew what he’d like to do to a 29 year-old pretty young thing who couldn’t even make a 9 O’clock start on her first day. Bend her over his desk with her little knickers down and lay into her bare arse with his supple belt. Or that cane.
This stimulating reverie was interrupted by at last a hesitant knock on the door. He got to his feet glancing at his watch. 9.08.
‘Come in’ he barked.
Alison entered – a gloomy masculine sort of office with dark gray walls and an equally dull, non-descript carpet. Standing behind the central desk was a frightening-looking man, late fortyish. Heavy set, his craggy face wearing a decidedly unfriendly expression.
‘Uh...Mr Kirkham? She stammered ‘I’m Alison Clements’
‘Have you got a watch? He growled.
Alison mumbled ‘Yes’. ‘Perhaps then you don’t know how to tell the time?’ he queried sarcastically. ‘For your information it’s ten past nine’.
She flushed scarlet. ‘I’m sorry...The train..’
‘There are plenty of trains, young woman. I can get in at 8.15 so that’s no excuse. One thing I insist on is punctuality. Not the only thing but certainly one of them’.
Alison stood in front of him trembling, her hands nervously twisting the straps of her handbag. This was simply dreadful. This bully with the hard grating voice and the contemptuous gaze was going to be her boss. He was clearly going to be worse than anything she had ever imagined.
At last Mr Kirkham grudgingly invited her to sit down. Clearly she should have come for a personal interview; then she could have had a chance to say ‘no thanks’, and she would have done. But stupidly Alison hadn’t. Alison could feel herself sweating.
Across that big desk Mr Kirkham was going through her file. Why the patchy job record, his grating voice wanted to know. What had she been doing? And why did she suddenly want a job now – if getting in at ten past nine did mean that she wanted it?
Alison found herself stuttering out the facts – that she and her husband had separated, temporarily at least. As soon as she said it Alison knew it was not a good idea. Anything this awful man knew might be used...
Why had they separated, he asked, eyes glinting.
‘We...we kept arguing’, Alison whispered. Although clearly it was none of his business.
‘Arguing? Your husband must be a bloody fool; you don’t argue with a woman. You tell her what to do and if she doesn’t like it you give her something to think about’.
The bull-like head was thrust out across the desk at Alison ‘A touch of the stick, Mrs Clements, that’s what you modern young women need. A sharp stick across your backsides. Or a man’s belt. That’s the answer to arguments.’
Alison found herself studying her handbag with great interest. It was unbelievable.
‘Look at me, Mrs Clements. I hope you’re not planning any arguments with me?’
Briefly Alison met his eyes and then looked away. The incredible thought of what he was suggesting flared hotly in her mind.
‘Answer me, please’
Frantically Alison shook her head. Mr Kirkham persisted, evidently spurred on by her cowed, submissive reaction.
‘Didn’t your husband ever take the belt to you?’
‘Please...’ she whispered, blinking rapidly. Much more of this and Alison would be openly in tears. That was probably just what he would love.
This frightening man was suddenly on his feet and striding over to a bookcase full of catalogues and things. ‘Let me show you something,’ he said as he reached in behind the books.
When he turned Mr Kirkham held in his hand a long thin straight stick. A bamboo cane. ‘Do you know what this is?’ he demanded.
Alison felt too weak, too terrified to speak.
‘I got this in Egypt; when I was in the army. They may be wogs but they know how to deal with their women. This cane is the kind they use on their wives’ backsides.
Frank Kirkham gave the cane a horrifying swish through the air as he went gloatingly on. ‘I was given a demonstration by this Egyptian fellow. He took us round to his place one evening. He had a pretty little wife, in western clothes, and he’d found out she’d disobeyed him so he gave her a caning in front of us. Me and two fellow soldiers. He bent her over a chair, yanked up her dress and pulled down her knickers. And then just let her have it good and hard across her bare bottom. Six of the best.’
Mr Kirkham’s cane whistled again through the air and he was almost licking his lips. ‘A cane exactly like this one, Mrs Clements’.
The tears were welling in Alison’s eyes. How could she have got involved with this monster? A vivid picture of what he had described floated in her mind. Mr Kirkham and his mates greedily watching as that Egyptian man caned his humiliated wife. What if Mr Kirkham...
He put the cane down and produced a sardonic grin. ‘So now we know, don’t we, Mrs Clements. Now we know we must keep very much up to the mark. No sloppy work or typing errors. Everything filed properly away. No complaints of any sort. And above all, we get in before 9 O’clock’.
Alison sat with bowed head. ‘Look at me’ he barked. She gave a quick, darting look and then turned her head away – but not before Frank Kirkham had seen real tears welling from the big grey eyes.
He experienced a surge of excitement. He didn’t want a silly young bint in his office but if he was landed with one – well, there was something to be said for one he could scare the living daylights out of. And also...He glanced at his cane. Frank Kirkham had been daydreaming before when he thought of using it. A potential recipient might well complain to husband or boyfriend but not this Clements bint...this frightened little mouse.
‘Right; now we’re clear on that I’d better show you what you’ll be doing. It’s reasonably straightforward and I’m not a difficult man to get on with’.
Frank Kirkham could say that and somehow believe it; he was not difficult, it was other people, especially young bints. He showed this frightened mouse what had to be done. It was general secretarial work. As he showed her around, Alison’s new boss had his sharp eyes open. She had a nice shape on her in that snugly fitted suit. A full, firm arse emphasised by a slim waist. Probably with her skirt and knickers off she would look very like that Egyptian bloke’s wife’s arse, in a different shade, of course. He could see the outline of her knickers right there under the skirt. Brief and tight.
* * * * *
Alison phoned Mark that evening. She made herself wait until she had had something to eat. She didn’t want to appear too desperate. Not that Alison felt like eating, not with the horrifying prospect of going back to that dreadful office tomorrow, and the atrocious Mr Kirkham who quite simply made her freeze with fright.
Mark asked about the job and, doing her best to keep her voice even, Alison said it was quite interesting. What else could she say? She tried not to think of Mr Kirkham’s cane. The cane or a man’s belt, Mr Kirkham had said, in that first stunning meeting. And she could quite imagine him doing it. That harsh, grating voice ordering her to take her skirt off. And then take down her knickers. It was quite impossible but she could imagine it all right. What would she do if he took it into his head to do that? Because he literally scared the living daylights out of her.
‘Quite interesting...’ she told Mark.
What Alison wanted to do was tell him, Mr Kirkham, that she didn’t want the job. She knew he could insist on a month’s notice that was in the agreement she had signed, but...perhaps she could offer to pay something. Quite frankly she didn’t even want to go back there in the morning; Alison didn’t want to ever see him again. Not that Mr Kirkham had done anything, after that first devastating blast, but Alison knew that at the slightest excuse...
The two letters she had typed she had read through about a hundred times and even then had been afraid to take them in to him. Afraid that there might be one spelling mistake that she hadn’t noticed. And then...that cane that he had put back in the bookcase...Who could tell with a man like that?
When the alarm once more jarred her awake the next morning Alison’s automatic thought was that it was for Mark. And then...it all came flooding horrendously back. She had to be there before nine. It was alright because, by tearing around Alison managed to catch a slightly earlier train.
It was 8.55 when, after a nervous knock, Alison entered the office, for her second day. Frank Kirkham was, of course, already behind his desk.. She was on time, he noted, which meant that he had put the fear of God into her. Or more likely the fear of his supple cane. In a way he was sorry she was on time because he would enjoy having another go at her. She was scared of him, a scared little mouse, and a scared little mouse without a husband. If he put the screws on she would fold up, have no defence.
Like that Egyptian bint. A scared look round at those three eager-eyed visitors and then back at her husband who was ranting away and then simply submitting. Lifting the pale yellow dress and meekly sliding down those little white knickers underneath.
Kirkham’s eyes followed Alison as she went into her little room. The same tight-skirted suit as yesterday. Tight over trimly rounded buttocks Again, he could just make out the hemlines of her panties. Were they also white like the Egyptian bints? Quite probably. White seemed a suitable colour for a frightened little mouse. Or maybe something slightly sexier with a little floral pattern or polka dots? Yes, he quite regretted the fact that his new bint was on time. But still...
As Alison opened the door to her office Mr Kirkham’s voice grated out behind her.
‘Glad to see you’re on time, young lady. I daresay the thought of that cane made you hustle yourself?’
Scarlet-faced, Alison sat down. It was true but by spelling it out like that her dreadful boss had brought it out of the shadowy realms of possibility to become a clearly stated fact between them. What she should do was immediately challenge it: Say even if she did happen to be late there was no way she would accept such an outrageous suggestion. But Alison was too scared to speak.
By not speaking she knew that she was tacitly accepting that horrendous possibility. That if she did anything that her boss thought was wrong she was giving him the right to physically punish her. To take down her knickers, expose her bare bottom and....
Somehow she got through the day, keeping in her depressing little room, a quiet little mouse, while Mr Kirkham got on with his business of phoning people and seeing clients. At lunchtime he said ‘strictly one hour, Mrs Clements’ He didn’t say ‘or else’ but his hard stare seemed to say it. Or else, Mrs Clements, I shall have you bent over my desk and I shall very much enjoy thrashing the daylights out of that tight little arse of yours...
The afternoon was a repeat of the morning. Some typing and looking things up in catalogues. All the time Alison in a panic that something would be wrong and then...She was still thinking about saying she wanted to leave, trying to summon up the courage. When it’s time to go I’ll say it, she told herself. I can’t stand it here; i’d almost rather be destitute. And at 5 O’clock Alison almost felt she could find the nerve. But then Mr Kirkham got in first.
‘So, you’ve never had the cane?’ he inquired.
It simply took the wind out of her sails – what little wind there was. She looked at him like a dummy.
‘Not at school? No sensible headmistress putting the cane across the palm of your hand? Or across that bottom?’
No answer came.
‘Not even the strap or the tawse? Didn’t your father take his belt to you? Not even a good hard spanking with your knickers down over your mother’s knee? Good God, girl, no wonder you have no self-discipline’.
Colouring like a beetroot, Alison shook her head. Any thought of what she had been planning to say just disappeared.
Mr Kirkham pursed his lips. ‘It’s never too late’.
Going down in the lift Alison told herself: He’s just waiting for an opportunity, I know he is. Any excuse. Her pert little bottom trembled inside her briefs at what now seemed somehow inevitable.
Kirkham’s opportunity came the very next morning. Alison caught the earlier train than usual but ten minutes before its destination it ground to a halt. There was a 20 minute delay. She was feeling almost hysterical by the time she got in. The tube seemed to wait an hour before every stop. Alison didn’t dare look at her watch as she ran along the street as best she could in her high heels.
She did look at her watch as the lift made its leisurely ascent to the fifth floor. It was 9.12. She felt sick in her stomach.
Alison had her explanation ready but the words seemed to stick in her mouth; she was struck dumb with fright. Not that Mr Kirkham would take any notice of explanations.
He was standing behind his desk as he had on that very first morning, his face set and hard. But was there now a look of gloating anticipation as well?
He said, ‘You’ve heard all I’ve had to say about punctuality, Mrs Clements. Yet here you are, a quarter of an hour late on two of your first three mornings.’
Alison could feel herself shaking with terror.
‘I think you’re trying it on, Mrs Clements. I think you think I’m bluffing. Well, I shall show you that I am not. I’m going to give you a taste of that cane. You deserve no less.’
Alison heard herself whisper ‘You can’t’ It seemed like someone else’s voice. And anyway she knew that he could. And would.
‘You’re not arguing with me are you? In that case I’ll give you something else to think about as well. I’ll warm up that cheeky arse of yours with a good hand spanking first.’
The cold force of Mr Kirkham’s voice made Alison shiver. No, she wasn’t going to argue. Plead perhaps...
‘Please....’ More like a squeak form a mouse than the remonstration of a mature woman.
Mr Kirkham handed her a shiny key. ‘Get in your room and lock the door. Then take your skirt off. And take your knickers down. Then stand at your desk until I come. I’ve warned you what I’d do and you’ve chosen to deliberately disobey my warning. Now you’ll see - and feel - what the consequences are.
Alison stood there wondering if she could refuse. He couldn’t really....
‘Get in there!’
And Alison found herself walking, stumbling...
‘And if you’re not how I want you when I come in....’
She put down her handbag and looked helplessly round. It was impossible but there was no way she could stand up to him. Tears brimming in her eyes. Tears of hopeless impotence. Alison’s shaking hands went to the zip of her skirt. She was shaking all over.
Frank Kirkham was trembling too, with strenuous excitement. He had sensed him dominance over this young bint at the outset but you could never be certain. He had been pretty sure with this frightened mouse, though. He walked over to lock his other door and took out the cane. Eyes gleaming he slammed it down across the top of the desk with a fearsome CRACK!
Alison in the outer room almost jumped out of her skin. She had taken her skirt off. She was standing there in stockings, suspenders and with her knickers still up. She was wringing her hands in mental agony.

Kirkham went to glance through the half-open door. Christ! He felt a furious urge just to stride straight in there, but he restrained himself. Let her sweat a bit. Let her stand there half-naked and stew. He went back to his desk, head full of what he had seen. The little mouse standing there submissively at her desk. Her back towards him, her skirt off and her pale blue knickers tight around the curvy cheeks of her fine little arse.
‘Get those knickers down like I said’ He roared and Alison leapt to obey the order – her fingers inserted into the waistband as she then peeled them down to the tops of her thighs. Her ripe, pale rump now softly gleaming.
His mind went back to the Egyptian bint and the times he hadn’t mentioned to Alison Clements.
Because the next day the three of them had got on to Ahmed, with an offer of money. If they could go back...and use the cane themselves. It was an offer he wasn’t able to refuse. They had gone twice. She hadn’t really objected though she had made plenty of noise each time the cane landed. The cane now in Frank Kirkham’s hand was the cane he had used on her. That was twelve years ago. He had always kept it in his office and always dreamed of using it again. But circumstances had never been quite right until now. Now with this Clements bint. A pretty little thing...
Frank Kirkham looked at his watch. He would give her ten minutes then he would give her what she deserved.
Alison stood shivering. She had expected him to come straight in, cane in hand. She blinked away the tears. It was quite unbearably humiliating, standing there at the side of the desk with her skirt off and her knickers down. In her suit jacket and suspender belt and nylons – and her little blue knickers humiliatingly lowered round her thighs. This was the worst nightmare of them all. She started quietly sobbing.
It seemed to go on forever. Alison’s mind playing tricks, making her think her legs were going to give way and she would collapse on the floor. Why am I doing this, she asked herself, why don’t I just refuse? Put my clothes back on and sit down. What then? But Alison knew she wouldn’t.
At last....
‘Right, let’s deal with you then. You’re getting a spanking for being slow and then six strokes. It’s six for unpunctuality’
The harsh voice, the hypnotically intimidating presence. He made it sound as though this was a punishment laid down in some staff handbook. As if he had no option and it was perfectly normal.
‘Over my knee, young woman’
She hobbled over, constrained by her panties round her legs and bent over his trouser covered knees. Her buttocks were perfect peaches – nicely framed by the lowered knickers and stocking-tops. His left hand fell hard on her right cheek with a crisp spank. It was to be the first of many as she squirmed and squealed never having had so much as a finger laid on her. After a good few minutes of raining down some fearful swats, Kirkham was rewarded by the bright pink glow of the freshly-spanked bottom. By the way the arse coloured so nicely it was obvious that the bint had not been lying when she had said she’d not been chastised before.
‘Right, that’s warmed you up. Now clear one side of the desk and lay yourself over it.’
Alison wanted to scream. She was already smarting with pain and she desperately wanted to hide her naked bottom from Mr Kirkham’s steely gaze. Her hands came protectively behind her. She wanted to rub the pain away. Then she yelped as the cane struck sharply across her palms.
‘Cut that out and do as I say. At once’
Alison did it: hands clumsily responding, stinging like mad, pushing things aside, and clearing a space. So that she could lie down and be caned. Thrashed like a naughty schoolgirl in another era. She was crying again, tears falling on the desk. Kirkham told her to grip the other side.
‘And keep still...stick your bottom up and out higher. Higher, you disobedient girl’.
Alison now sobbing, with sheer fright. Her soft, defenceless bottom exposed, thrust up over the edge of the desk, obscenely raised for punishment. This couldn’t be happening....
CRACK!
A red haze before her closed eyes. And the pain...it felt as if she had been cut in two. She’d thought the spanking had hurt but it was as nothing to having a pliant rod lashed into her bare backside. Alison held on for dear life as the pain welled, pulsated through her. It was killing, utterly ferocious. She hung on as with a second fiendish CRACK! The thin bamboo that was used in Egypt for caning wives sliced in again.
Alison heard herself shriek. Six he had said. No. She couldn’t....Four more like that was not...
CRACK!....
She stood up and put her hands to her wretched backside. She needed to rub.
‘How dare you? I told you to stay down you wanton hussy. I can see I’m going to have to beat some decent behaviour. That’s two extra for disobedience. Now bend down and bottom up. Now’.
Mr Kirkham sounded genuinely angry and the thought of more extra strokes further terrified the poor Alison. Slowly she bent back over the desk and pushed her backside as high as she could.
CRACK! Down came the cane five more times. Her boss may not have used the cane for twelve years but he thrashed like a well-practised headmaster. The lines were clearly visible and he managed to place the sixth just where the buttocks met the thigh-back – a devastatingly tender spot which produced an particularly loud yelp from the weeping Mrs Clements.
‘Now, just the two extras’. With vicious accuracy, Kirkham placed the final two lashes at a diagonal from the previous six bring each and every stroke back to life in exquisite pain.
* * * *
When the final agonising stroke had been delivered, Frank Kirkham sharply told his tardy secretary to pull her knickers up, get dressed and get down to work. What could she do? She couldn’t tell her husband. It was as if by the mere act of conversing he would be able to see those eight very red stripes still very much in evidence on Alison’s previously untouched bottom.
Alison was feeling numb. When she got home she wasn’t really tired but she did want to go to bed. She found herself wondering if perhaps her train would be late again in the morning. If it was...well, there was nothing she could do about it. Mr Kirkham would presumably just cane her for lateness. Those were his rules. It hurt terribly and was horribly humiliating but....
Mr Kirkham was going to thrash her again anyway, whether Alison’s train was late or not. He had told her he also had an old school tawse, with two tails. He’d fixed her with those fierce eyes in that hard face that she guessed was contemptuous of women.
He had said she wasn’t filing things away properly. And he thought he had better deal with her in the morning. He’d told her to wear white knickers and had specified that they be ‘brief and dainty’. Alison had given him a quick darting look and then turned away. Mr Kirkham’s hand had spanked her smartly across the bottom as she went out. Reliving the unbearable stinging yet again.
As she went to sleep the stripes still glowing on her backside constantly reminded her of the humiliation and pain she had received at her boss’s evil hands. She trembled at the thought of what would happen tomorrow.
.

Nicola again.....

But this one is even better as the cane bites, the head jerks back, hair flies and the leg involuntarily kicks up. That is going to sting. Stunning.

Naughty Nicola

Here's a lovely image of Ms Redway from Janus in the mid-eighties.

Shoplifter Caned

This is another of Mike From London's excellent stories. Lovely flashback, well-deserved, condign, punishment and some nicely observed detail.


I own a small bookshop in Ilford and, as I am generally serving alone in the shop, there is quite a problem with shoplifting. To prevent this I have a system of mirrors so that I can see what is going on in the shop while I am in the backroom.
About a fortnight ago a young lady about twenty years old came into the shop and started looking at the books. I asked her if she was looking for anything in particular but she said she was just browsing. As she was the only customer and I had to go through some orders I left her looking at the books and went through into the back. After a minute or two I glanced up and was surprised to see her slipping a hardback book into her bag. I came out and asked her if she had found anything she wanted, but she brazenly said she hadn't and started to walk out.
I stepped into her way and grabbed hold of her bag. I said 'Oh no you don't! You haven't paid for that book in there!'
I opened the bag and took out the book. At first she said that she had brought it with her, but when it was opened it still had my shop's marker inside it. I told her that I was going to telephone the police as I always prosecuted shoplifters.
I was surprised at the response. I had expected the 'couldn't care less' attitude I had come across on most similar occasions but instead she was very distressed and obviously near tears (though I suppose she may have put this on to gain my sympathy).
I told her that what she had done was against the law and that she was a criminal and that the law must take its course. She begged me not to phone the police; she was training to be a solicitor and her parents had spent hundreds of pounds on her to get a degree and pass the Law Society Examinations. If I reported her it would all be wasted as she would not be allowed to qualify as a solicitor if she had just been convicted of shoplifting.
I said that was her fault and she should have thought of that first, but she kept on imploring me. She said that she knew that she had done wrong but that her whole life and future career would be ruined if she had to go to court, and that she would not be able to face her parents.
It was only then that I thought of the obvious. Several years ago when my daughter, Pru, had been a mischievous schoolgirl I had occasionally used a few quick whacks from a regulation school cane on her when he was exceptionally naughty. I was almost sure it was still upstairs. Looking at this girl admitting she had done wrong and begging me not to go to the police reminded me irresistibly of Pru aged fifteen begging me not to give her her first ever caning. Prior to that it had always just been a hand-spanking over her tight knickers.
I said to this girl, 'Well, you admit that you attempted to steal the book which was a crime, so you must be punished. I will only agree not to go to the police if you agree to take your punishment from me.'
She asked hesitantly what I meant, but I think she guessed by then. I told her that I thought I still had a school punishment cane upstairs and that the choice was hers; so far as I was concerned I would phone the police that minute. She asked what her punishment would be if she agreed.
I said that there were two elements to a caning - pain and humiliation. If anyone deserved a sound caning she did and I would give her six strokes on her covered bottom and a final four strokes on her bared backside. I knew that this would add greatly to the punishment. Pru had always hated lifting her skirt up but it was always the moment when I peeled her knickers down and forced her to present her already wealed bottom to receive yet more strokes that broke her resolve. It would obviously be very much more humiliating for a twenty year old young woman to have to show her naked caned bottom to a strange man.
When I explained my proposals to the girl she didn't speak for a while and then she started to cry. She said she couldn't make up her mind. She didn't want me to go to the police, but she couldn't stand the idea of taking her clothes off in front of a stranger. I said that my only interest was that she got the punishment that she deserved one way or another. I suggested that she go off and walk around a bit to make her mind up and come back at six o'clock in the evening. I would keep her handbag as a safeguard and I told her that if she wasn't back by then I would telephone the police.
I took a good look at her. She was a very attractive young lady, about twenty as I said, around 5'4" tall and slimly built. She had long, light blonde hair and was wearing a blue cotton top with the words from a Coca-Cola advert written across it. It was quite tight and showed off her breasts very well - she didn't seem to be wearing a bra. She also had on a figure-hugging pair of navy trousers and a pair of chunky sandals. I could see the clear outline of the hem of tight briefs showing through the seat of the trousers.
I told her not to change her clothes in any way or even to think of putting on another pair of panties if she decided to be punished by me. If she did she would get the entire punishment on the bare.
After she left I checked in the handbag to get some information in the intervals between serving customers. I soon saw that she had been telling the truth about training to be a solicitor and she had an orange card saying Law Society Student's Card. I saw that her name was Jane Peterson and also noted her address. The shop closed at 5.30 and I went upstairs to find the cane. It didn't take me long and I practised a few experimental whacks and left the cane lying on my bed.
I had suggested 6.00 as both shops next to me would be closed by then and no-one lived above them. Should Jane elect for a caning there would be nobody to hear if she yelled out during the punishment.
Just before 6.00 the bell rang and I opened the door. Jane was there with a determined look on her face. She said that she had decided that it would have to be the caning and that she wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. I asked her if she wanted to go to the toilet but she said no. So I led her to my bedroom and then left her for a few minutes, telling her to wait. I did this as I knew that waiting would make the punishment worse. When I came back Jane was holding the cane, obviously trying to imagine what its effect on her bottom would be. At last it was time for me to show her.
I told her to stand by the bed, about two feet away, and bend down, placing her hands on the bed. The tight blue trousers stretched themselves over Jane's lower curves, displaying her bottom cheeks to perfection. I could see the shape of her knickers through the thin material. I told her to stand up again and take town her trousers. Slowly she undid the fastening and fly zip and peeled them off her bottom, pulling them down to her knees. Following instructions she bent down again, her tiny white-and-blue checked knickers stretched taut over her fine round cheeks. I swung the cane lightly on to her bottom and away again to check that I had enough room for a free swing. Then I said 'Right. This is your last chance - shall I phone the police?'
She said in a choked voice, obviously between gritted teeth: 'No!' So I said that as the idea was that no-one should know what she had done, or that she'd been caned it was up to her not to shout out as otherwise people might come in to ask what was going on. I told her I would give her an extra stroke for each time she cried out loudly. Actually, of course, there was no chance of anyone hearing but Jane couldn't know that and it would not be a very satisfactory punishment if she yelled and shrieked and struggled at every stroke - after all she had, literally, asked for it.
I kept her waiting for the first stroke and swished the cane in the air a few times so as to take her by surprise, watching that pert bottom flinch expectantly each time. Then I lifted the cane as high as possible and brought it down with all the strength of my right arm, putting all my weight - 12 stone 4 pounds - behind it. It landed exactly half way up the target area and there was a very satisfactory Whack!
Jane gave a convulsive leap upwards and her hands went to her bottom. She could not restrain a high-pitched note of pain, but cut it off short. I admired her courage as she immediately bent down again ready for the next stroke. I counted 'One!'.
Once again I took my time over the next stroke, relishing the sight of Jane's delectable rear. Then I whipped the cane down again, landing it slightly lower, just where the knickers revealed the bare flesh of her thigh-tops. It was as hard as the first one but she took it well, apart from some involuntary squirmings. I said 'Two!' and slashed down the next stroke almost simultaneously. It had the desired effect and took her by surprise; she yelled out blue murder. So I didn't count that one and gave her another in as near as possible the same place.
She jumped and I heard the gasp of her sharp intake of breath, but she restrained her yell. So the punishment was half over so far as the over-knickers caning was concerned. I took stock of the situation. Jane had begun to cry and she was breathing heavily, her breasts wobbling through her tee-shirt, she was still in position but couldn't help moving all the time. Her long fair hair was all over the place and right over her eyes.
I released stroke four which landed just on the lower curves of her buttocks - again her hands went to her panties and away. The next stroke landed in the same place and Jane yelled loudly again. So I didn't count that one and whacked another one in, just as hard, in the same place.
Stroke six was an experiment. I aimed it just to the left buttock so that the tip of the cane dug in hard halfway across her briefs. She was by now sobbing continuously, but it did not evoke a yell.
I told her to get up and she did - slowly and unsteadily. She put her hands to her bottom, stretching out her long, delicate fingers to cover the whole devastated area and tenderly caress it. The knickers were almost transparent and the marks showed clearly through them When she seemed in command of herself I told her to pull them down.
At first she started to protest and refused, but when I insisted and told her it had been her choice she started to insert her fingers in the waistband. All resistance was gone. With her back to me she very carefully and slowly began to draw her briefs down. I didn't blame her for being slow about it. It clearly hurt like hell sliding the tiny garment over her swollen and wealed buttocks This was a careful operation and she was constantly squealing to herself. When they reached her ankles I told her to bend down again and she did so hesitantly, trying to keep her shaky legs as close together as she could.
Seeing the well-punished naked flesh I had an irresistible need to spank it and my left hand fell firmly on her right cheek. It was hot to the touch. Her outraged yell simply made me give equal treatment to the other side. ‘No more than you deserve you bad, bad girl’ I admonished.
The remaining cane strokes I aimed low. I hit as hard as I could, and she certainly felt them, as she showed by jerking violently each time the cane collided with her naked, now unprotected, flesh.
I stood for almost a minute looking at the pattern of weals on her fine backside and then suddenly let loose with the hardest stroke I could muster, aiming it diagonally so as to cross the biggest, most raised weals. This time her yell was frighteningly loud even though I knew no-one could hear. So I said 'That's another one then!' and waited for her to position herself again. When she did so I just tapped her bottom lightly with the cane and said 'ten!’ She didn't deserve any more; she'd been really quite brave given the pain and humiliation I had dealt out.
I told her she could stand up now and as she did so I saw the vivid weal from that last punishing stroke - no wonder she'd screamed. I told Jane to get dressed and said that it might be an idea for her to put her trousers back on without the knickers, and this is what she did. I also suggested that she washed her face and tidied her hair and then come downstairs, where I would be waiting.
When she finally reappeared I said that she had taken her punishment well and that so far as I was concerned it was all forgotten. I offered her a cup of tea and suggested she stayed indoors for a while till the worst of the pain went and only then went back to her flat. Otherwise her flat-mates would probably guess more or less what had happened. Surprisingly enough she accepted and I quite enjoyed sitting down to my tea watching her drinking hers, standing up and still crying quietly.
Afterwards we went into the sitting room and I switched on the telly. We watched until after News at Ten and by then she had stopped crying and dried her tears. During the news she made an attempt to sit down. Very carefully she lowered herself onto a chair. But as soon as her trousers made contact with the seat she jumped up again with a stifled 'Owww!’ She hopped from one foot to the other and then turned to me and said with a tight smile 'I don't really feel like sitting down at the moment. I'd rather stand!'
After the news Jane made up her face and managed to control her expression so that no-one would guess what she had been through. She still walked stiffly, though, and could not help an occasional grimace of pain. She told me that if her flat-mates noticed anything she would tell them that she had banged her leg and bruised it badly. I handed her back her handbag and she put her knickers in it. Finally, just before 11.00, she left, and I wished her luck in her profession.
This was the last I saw of Jane until yesterday when she walked back into my shop again. This time she was wearing a printed summer frock. There were other customers, but when they had been served and had gone she walked over to the counter. I was rather surprised but pleased to see her. I asked her how she was.
She knew what I meant and said that she was still sore and bruised. She told me that it still hurt to sit down and that she had had to take two days off work.Shyly she lifted up her skirt to reveal a pair of tiny plain white panties – the flesh was clearly red underneath. It had been a severe thrashing. She said, though, that she knew that she'd deserved it and that she'd come back to say that she was very sorry and would not ever do anything like it again.
I told her that she was a brave girl but that she had probably needed a good spanking. She replied, 'Well, if so, I certainly got one!' and ruefully rubbed her bottom. She told me that she had not worn trousers or jeans all that fortnight as they rubbed so painfully but had worn loose skirts and dresses all the while.
In the end she got out her purse and gave me £4.95. She finally bought the book it had all been about! And then Jane went out again and I watched her bottom wiggle through her frock and thought about the marks that I alone knew were on it.
So far no-one else has tried to shoplift but I think now that I'll offer anyone I catch the same choice. The cane has probably been a more effective punishment for Jane than a fine would have been, and somehow I’ve a feeling it won’t be the last time I give that delightful bottom its just desserts.