The Riding Shop

Sheila sighed heavily as she closed the cash register drawer. It had been a long week at the shop -- 12-hour shifts for the past five days – but she desperately needed to keep this job. She received a reasonable salary and the overtime pay was helping her climb out of credit card debt. She also liked her boss, Mrs. Carlisle, who had been gradually giving her more responsibility for managing the equestrian shop.

One Saturday afternoon, Mrs. Carlisle had even closed the shop early and invited Sheila to her farm to go horseback riding. Sheila rode Ebony, a jet-black mare with a gentle nature and a graceful gait. Mrs. Carlisle, however, commanded Star, a spirited chestnut Thoroughbred whose name came from the star-shaped white mark on his forehead. The two women had raced across the countryside, feeling as free and wild as the wind. Sheila urged her horse to keep pace with Mrs. Carlisle's, but she was no match for the powerful steed that the older woman rode. Sheila admired the sight of Mrs. Carlisle -- her auburn tresses flowing freely in the breeze and her lithe body rising and falling in rhythm with her horse's galloping pace. Mrs. Carlisle was 20 years older than Sheila, but she possessed boundless energy and a youthful countenance that belied her age.

After that afternoon, Sheila felt a special bond with her employer. She developed enormous respect for the woman who controlled a powerful Thoroughbred with the same style and grace as she displayed in the presence of difficult customers or her pesky ex-husband. Sheila was impressed when Mrs. Carlisle verbally chastised a supplier who tried to sell her inferior goods, and was awed when her employer physically apprehended a teenage shoplifter as he tried to slip out the door.

Sheila glanced at her watch. In another 15 minutes, she could close the shop and go home. At that moment, a customer walked in the door, glanced about the store and then headed toward the counter. The tall, slender woman was dressed in white jodhpurs, a dark turtleneck and a wool blazer. She wore black riding boots and matching gloves. Her long, black hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her face was as tan as leather. She looked at Sheila curiously as she approached.

"Where is Mrs. Carlisle?"

"She's in the back," answered Sheila. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Perhaps, you can," said the young woman pleasantly. "I had placed an order for a new bridle two weeks ago and it was supposed to arrive today. I'm leaving tomorrow for a horse show in Virginia, and the bridle's for the horse I'm riding in the jumper competition."

Sheila pulled out the shipment book from underneath the counter. "What's your name?"

"Rachel York." As Sheila paged through the order forms, she sensed Rachel leaning closer toward her. She felt herself becoming more flustered as she flipped through the last of the order forms without seeing the one for the new bridle. When Sheila looked up, Rachel's face was only a few inches from hers.

"I'm also looking for a new riding crop," said the woman as she stared coolly into Sheila's widening brown eyes.

Sheila suddenly felt lightheaded and had to lean against the counter for support. She nervously brushed a wisp of blonde hair from her face and hoped that the sudden flush in her cheeks was not apparent. At that moment, Mrs. Carlisle emerged from the back office and seemed genuinely delighted to see Rachel. They hugged and chatted briefly about the upcoming show while Sheila continued looking for the shipment order. Finally, Mrs. Carlisle noticed Sheila's distress.

"Ms. York's order isn't in there. I keep a personal record in my office of custom supplies for loyal customers like Ms. York." Sheila breathed a noticeable sigh of relief and quickly closed the shipment book.

"Ms. York and I will be in my office. Please join us there after you close the shop."

Sheila hung the 'Closed' sign in the window, locked the front door and then brought the day's receipts and cash drawer intake back to Mrs. Carlisle's office. Both women were waiting for her there. Mrs. Carlisle locked the money and receipts in the safe and then asked Rachel and Sheila to follow her. Sheila assumed they were going to the stock room to find Rachel's bridle, but instead Mrs. Carlisle motioned for them to follow her to a room across the hall. Sheila had never been in the room because the door was always locked, and Mrs. Carlisle had told her she stored personal belongings there.

Mrs. Carlisle unlocked the door and guided Sheila into the unlit room as Rachel followed. When she turned on the light, Sheila first thought she was in another stock room. A dozen riding crops were mounted on a wooden rack on the wall directly in front of her. Brushes and other grooming supplies were stored on shelves alongside bridles and blinders. And there were whips hanging from the wall -- everything from leather quirts and short, horsehair whips to buggy whips and a menacing-looking bull whip. None of this surprised Sheila except that the harnesses looked too small for horses.

However, her heart leapt into her throat when she saw the paddles. Paddles of different lengths and thicknesses, some made of leather, others of wood, hanging from hooks in perfectly straight rows along the wall. They were even organized according to colour - some black, some brown, one was fire-engine red and another a cool, turquoise blue.

As Sheila willed her gaze away from the paddles, her eyes fell upon the object in the
middle of the room. It looked like a pommel horse, but it was about the height of a coffee table and covered in a rich, brown suede. Two padded handles protruded from the sides. A narrow cushioned shelf, about three feet long, was mounted on either side of the "horse," behind the handles. Sheila could not stop staring at it until Mrs. Carlisle placed a hand on her shoulder and turned her gently toward her.

"I hired you because I thought you possessed special talents. Now it's time to display those talents." Sheila looked at her employer in bewilderment, but Mrs. Carlisle simply ordered her to remove her clothes.

"I'm your boss now," she said sternly. "Do as I say."

Sheila turned to Rachel, who was now standing by the mounted crops and tapping one impatiently in her hand. Her expression turned foreboding as she spoke.

"Sheila, I understand that you lost your last job because you did not follow your supervisor's instructions. You don't want to disappoint two different employers in one month." Rachel's rebuke filled her with shame as she nervously unbuttoned her Oxford shirt and slipped it off her shoulders. She knew the two women could see her erect nipples pressing against the cotton fabric of her bra. When she bent over to remove her shoes and socks, she could hear Rachel tapping the crop against her boot. Sheila felt her stomach turning into a knot as tight as the braided leather in Rachel's hand.

After Sheila had undressed, Mrs. Carlisle ordered her to "mount the horse." When she hesitated, the older woman gently pushed her toward the middle of the room.

"Kneel down, grab the handles and then rest your knees on the cushions," she instructed. Sheila obeyed, positioning herself on all fours across the horse, her nipples brushing against the rough fabric and her thighs squeezing tightly against its sides. She heard Rachel's footsteps as she walked toward her, then felt electricity dance across her skin as Rachel laid a gloved hand on her bare bottom. Mrs. Carlisle stepped in front of Sheila and lifted up her chin.

"Because Ms. York is one of my most valued customers, I allow her to try out the merchandise before she purchases it." Rachel began to slowly caress Sheila's right cheek, causing the kneeling woman to inhale in quick, uneven breaths.

"Today, she's in the market for a new crop," Mrs. Carlisle explained dispassionately while Rachel teased Sheila's swollen lips with the tip of the crop. Sheila shivered and moaned as the whip made its slow passage back and forth between her anus and clitoris.

"Since Ms. York has a big competition next week, it's important that she has the best equipment. Don't you agree, Sheila?" Rachel tapped the crop gently against the inside of Sheila's left thigh, as if prompting her to answer. Sheila nodded and Mrs. Carlisle dropped her hand from the young woman's chin.

"I'm glad that you understand," she said pleasantly, "and that you're so willing to be of assistance to my favourite customer."

The crop lashed against Sheila's bottom with unexpected intensity, causing her to cry out in astonishment and pain. The whip hissed again through the air, landing a little lower than the first strike and searing a stripe of fire across Sheila's skin. She gritted her teeth in preparation for the next blow, breathing harshly through her nostrils like an excited horse. As the crop connected with her right thigh, she heard the snap of leather against skin and felt pain explode down the back of her leg. Again a tormented moan escaped her lips.

After Rachel had delivered several quick strokes, she paused to admire her handiwork. Five thin red lines clearly marked the pale skin. Sheila felt like she had been struck by lightening, momentarily transformed by a powerful burst of heat and energy. Rachel, however, seemed disinterested in Sheila's physical or mental state at that moment. She tapped the whip methodically against her palm, as if measuring its weight and flexibility, then said dryly, "I think this one is too light. My horse, Hitchcock, won't even notice it on his flank."

Without a word, Mrs. Carlisle strode briskly across the room and chose another crop from the rack. "Try this one, my dear," she said as she handed the new crop to Rachel. "The leather is braided more tightly and it's a little thicker than the other one."

"Thank you," answered Rachel cheerfully.

Although Sheila was not bound, she did not release the handles nor rise from her position. She knew she was going to be thrashed again, but she only wanted to please these two women who humbled her with their grace and power. Rachel began to whip her again, the blows delivering both anguish and arousal as they fell in an even rhythm across her buttocks and thighs. Sheila moaned and cried as the torrent of pain rained down on her exposed bottom. She wiggled her hips and arched her back in a futile effort to protect the sorest parts of her backside from the relentless punishment. Rachel toyed with Sheila, striking her in the same spot over and over, then delivering a series of rapid strokes all over her buttocks and thighs that left Sheila breathless and sobbing. Rachel paused to let the woman recompose herself, then finished the cropping with a dozen strokes that came in agonizingly slow intervals.

"I think this is the one," Rachel said breathlessly to Mrs. Carlisle, who had watched the entire scene from a prime vantage point right behind Rachel.

"Excellent, Ms. York. I'll have Sheila bring both the crop and the bridle out to your car. If you perform as well in the show next week as you have this evening, I'm sure the judges will award you first place." Rachel accepted the compliment with a smile and a gracious thank you.

Fire raged across Sheila's bottom and the backs of her legs. A thin sheen of perspiration covered her body. Her shoulders and hands were tired and achy from holding up her body weight, and her tear-streaked face felt swollen and hot. The conversation between the two women floated hazily through Sheila's consciousness.

"Get up, my dear," Mrs. Carlisle ordered. "You have performed your duties well this evening." Sheila rose slowly from the bench, then gently rubbed her swollen buttocks.

Rachel smiled at her with smug satisfaction. "Yes, you have performed quite well, but it's time now for me to take my leave."

Mrs. Carlisle turned to Sheila. "Get Ms. York's new bridle from the rack in my office."

Sheila glanced about the room for her clothes, but Mrs. Carlisle noticed her wandering gaze. "Go now, girl, before I turn you over my knee and use one of those paddles on you."

Rachel chuckled. "I'd enjoy watching that." Sheila blushed as she scurried out the door and across the hall to Mrs. Carlisle's office. She could hear the two women talking to each other and suspected she was the topic of their conversation. As the heat and soreness of her buttocks subsided, the ache between her legs intensified. She reached down and touched her wetness. "Yes, working here does have its advantages," she thought wryly.

When Sheila returned to the room with the bridle, Rachel and Mrs. Carlisle were still chatting casually. Rachel turned to Sheila as she entered. "Mrs. Carlisle tells me you're quite an equestrian. Perhaps, you and I could go riding together one afternoon."

Sheila blushed and stammered her reply, "Yes, . . . yes. . .I think I'd … um like that very much."

"Then I'd like to see your riding form this evening," answered Rachel devilishly. Sheila looked at her puzzled. "Get back on the horse." Sheila's face registered shock and fear at the thought of another whipping. "No, I'm not going to whip you again. I'm going to ride you."

Sheila hung the bridle on a hook near the door, then obediently remounted the suede horse. She could hear Rachel removing her boots then sliding out of her tight-fitting riding pants. Rachel straddled Sheila's hips so that she faced the opposite direction of her "mount." Her fingertips traced the fading red marks on Sheila's well-whipped bottom, causing the punished woman to wince when she touched a particularly sore spot.

Rachel's fingers worked their way across the woman's buttocks and down to her moist crevice. Sheila groaned softly as Rachel parted her swollen pussy lips. Mrs. Carlisle knelt down behind Sheila and began to run her index finger slowly up and down the folds of Sheila's labia. Mrs. Carlisle kissed Rachel passionately on the lips as she massaged Sheila's hard, little kernel of pleasure. Sheila began swaying her hips, trying to press against the elusive fingers bringing her so much delight.

Rachel released from Mrs. Carlisle and murmured. "That's it, baby. Rock those hips. I wanna go for a ride." Sheila arched her back and ground her hips against the suede fabric. The sensation of being pinned down by Rachel's weight while being teased by Mrs. Carlisle's masterful fingers was maddening. Sheila began to moan audibly. She lifted her hips and abdomen off the horse, shifting her weight from side to side, while Mrs. Carlisle ran her fingers up and down her slit. When Mrs. Carlisle suddenly thrust three fingers inside her, Sheila bucked like a rodeo bronco.

Rachel squealed with delight. "That's it girl!"

Mrs. Carlisle continued thrusting into Sheila, who rocked her hips wildly and moaned uncontrollably. She felt Sheila's hands on her sore buttocks, holding onto her for balance as she bucked and gyrated. Rachel was rubbing herself against Sheila's tailbone, bringing herself closer to climax with each frenetic movement. Mrs. Carlisle's fingers left Sheila's warm cavern and began to lavish attention on her swollen clitoris.

Sheila groaned as she felt the orgasm building inside her. The deft strokes across her pleasure spot were driving her closer and closer to the brink. She felt the dizzying heat rage through her body, increase in intensity and then strike her clitoris like a bolt of lightening.

She cried out as she came. The orgasm exploding inside her vagina at the same time that Rachel reached her climax. The two women panted and sighed as the waves of pleasure crashed over them. Mrs. Carlisle was so aroused by the sight of Sheila and Rachel coming simultaneously that she slipped her free hand under her skirt to pleasure herself. Her orgasm came so swiftly and powerfully that her entire body quivered.

When Sheila felt Mrs. Carlisle's fingers trembling inside of her, she came a second time. The three women sighed and moaned as the last contractions subsided
within them.

Slowly, Mrs. Carlisle slipped her fingers out of Sheila. Then Rachel rose unsteadily from her position and patted Sheila on the bottom. "Nice form, my dear."

Mrs. Carlisle smiled as she also rose to her feet. "I'm glad you were so pleased with my new employee. When you return from Virginia, perhaps we could go for a ride together again. I believe that Sheila has already expressed her interest in another ride with you."

Sheila nodded her head, now realizing the invitation that Rachel had extended earlier. "Yes, I'd like that very much."

How a young teacher found spanking

This extract is from 'Painful Pleasures’, published by Delectus Books a volume first published in France in 1931 and claims to be a genuine letter from a French female teacher and sent to a flagellant newspaper column.

'Without telling you at the start to what degree I am a flagellant, and to what category I belong, I am going to show you first, if you will permit me, the origin of the taste that I acquired for the whip, nor will I try to explore, before I go on, the motives or the circumstances which have determined this orientation. I shall begin, rather, by telling you that I was raised in a great deal of care by my parents and that never in my family was there any attempt to pervert me, unless I should admit that a predilection for the whip is a perversion - and that to me has never been demonstrated. Nor have I ever had any doubtful acquaintances, either at the elementary schools or in the upper courses, up to the taking of my bachelor's degree. Moreover I had never been whipped at school for the reason that such punishment was forbidden.

After my 11th year I was never whipped by my mother, and even before that only on very rare occasions, for my mother was by no stretch of the imagination a flagellant. My father, besides, never put a hand to me, and I never had amongst my relatives, either aunts or acquaintances who were in the habit of correcting their children thus, nor even any woman friend of my family at whose house I might have had the opportunity of witnessing corrections of this type administered to either boys or girls. Up to my fourteenth year the only spanking I saw was given to tiny children and those were few and far between. Even so they were scarcely spankings in the true sense of the word. They consisted usually of some light slapping, applied very gently. I had often heard mothers, governesses or nurses threaten little girls or boys in a public square or park with a spanking, but never had I seen any administered to children over 6 or 7 years old in any case.

However a little later in the park I came to hear mothers talk of it to older children. The first time it was a boy about 12 years old and the second time, some days later; it was to a young girl also about 12 years old, when I was about the same age. It made on me a certain impression. It struck in me a certain astonishing sensation, and it is from that day that my interest arose in chastisement.

Mother and I were in the habit of taking a walk every Thursday, when the weather was nice, in a nearby park; often, with father, we would return again on Sundays. Sometimes we had lunch there or we brought it along and ate it on the grass. During vacation we would go to the park almost every day. Papa would eat at his office and mother and I would take along food for us.

I mentioned above that, when I was 12 years old, I heard a girl of the same age threatened with a 'good whipping' and I experienced a certain frisson. That arose perhaps from gazing at the personality and physique of the girl who was taller and better developed than I was. If I knew her age it is only because her mother mentioned it when she was talking with Mama on a shared bench, otherwise I would have guessed her age as fourteen.

Playing with the child later, I did not dare talk to her of the threat I had heard a few minutes earlier and which left me in a disturbed state. But my curiosity which had brusquely awakened was prodding me towards questioning her on this subject, and I felt sure I could not restrain myself if I were to remain for any time in her company. Taller than myself by a head, and very well proportioned, she seemed quite the young lady beside me and, over the next few days, I pictured her correction in my mind and I was greatly troubled by bizarre and new emotions. In my imagination, I saw the girl denuded for her punishment, this tall plump and fair haired girl with her firm and well turned legs showing under her short skirt, and her thighs half disclosed enabling me to determine for myself how gorgeously her flesh must spread out further up when it was exposed to the maternal hand.

I thought more and more about it, especially, I believe, because of the expression employed by her mother, and each time I found myself in the presence of a big and well developed girl the idea came to me that she, perhaps, might have to submit to corporal correction. The girls hips indicated by their fullness that they were worthy of it, and I suspected that even that fullness did them scant justice, thanks to the adjusted skirts they wore and which were fashion at the time.

This had become an obsession which remained with me for two years. Then, once again in the park - I was about 14 at this time - I found myself separated from mother while following some children of my own age and whose acquaintance I was to make, and with whom I played various games. Romping about, I suddenly found myself alone, but in a thicket ahead of me I perceived three older girls playing at a game much less innocent than mine.

On their knees in the grass, two of them held a third who was lying flat on her stomach. They had lifted her skirt and both of them took turns slapping her over her bloomers. These bloomers fitted tightly around the hips of their friend who, like the others, must have been about 20 years old. All three were smartly dressed and apparently belonged to the comfortable middle class, but that they were young girls from good families was apparent.

During the week, in July, the park is little frequented. They believed themselves quite alone and amused themselves freely, but at my sudden arrival they stopped, surprised for the moment. Seeing me alone, however, and scarcely troubling themselves at the sight of a child, the two who were administering the spanking promptly returned to their sport, without the slightest annoyance, and started all over again to smack their comrade in the most beautiful fashion.

The place was deserted that morning as it usually is at this time of the year. No doubt they must have thought, seeing me bare-headed, and not accompanied my mother, that I must have left her some distance away. They continued - perhaps excited still more by my presence - and one of them had the idea, on seeing me glued to the spot by an ardent curiosity which completely betrayed me, of adding further piquancy to their entertainment. In a trice, without any hesitation, she pulled down her friend's bloomers and showed me, in full view, the naked full buttocks of her friend.

It was the first time in my life I had seen the absolutely naked buttocks of a fully grown young woman. The other two girls who were holding their friend down on the ground seemed to experience the same joy in seeing her thus exposed, and both seemed to invite me to join them. They stared in turn at the gorgeous twin beauties they had uncovered and at myself, who to them, appeared to betray so lively an interest. They seemed to read in my eyes the pleasure I took in contemplating that which they were exhibiting to me, and which they offered so generously to my charmed gaze. The expressions on their faces, which I have never forgotten, indicated that they took pleasure in the emotion my appearance manifested, at once astonished and shocked.

The exposed posterior before me was a beautiful sight and the memory of it I have unforgettably conserved. The very white skin, the perfect form of the hemispheres, has been fixed in my memory forever, and I wish I knew how to draw or paint so that I might reproduce such a sensual and thrilling sight.

The young girl who was being whipped turned herself toward me. She was a lovely brunette with passionate eyes that I likewise can never forget.

The girl, who had lowered the bloomers of the girl on the ground, had by now completely exposed the admirable contours by pulling the girl's chemise as high as possible. Then she took, between her soft hands, as much of the beautiful flesh as she could hold, and the expression which animated her testified to her sovereign pleasure. Under the soft but firm grip, the posterior muscles quivered, doubtless for my benefit, so that I might see the joy they were expressing and it was then that the punisher, still kneading the lovely flesh, spoke to me saying:

'You'd like to have this done to you, wouldn't you! You're jealous aren't you! You'd like your little bottom spanked just like this and this and this! Why don't you come here and.....'

I could not listen to any more. I fled from the thicket, ran toward the roadway and, finding my two comrades who had been looking for me, I returned to their game without whispering a word of what I had seen. I pretended I had lost them in my pursuit and they attributed my panting to the exertions of my search for them and suspected nothing else.

On my return to the house I found myself still trembling at the thought of what I had witnessed in the thicket. The beautiful naked bottom was still before my eyes, opened now I realised forever, to a world which until that moment was unknown. A world of ideas, desire, excitement and sensation. At the same time it confirmed for me the knowledge of a secret that had been lying dormant for two long years.

A humiliating public spanking

This extract is from 'The Institute' by Maria Del Rey, published by Nexus Books and is quite a remarkably stirring public spanking. The story is of a Government run school for female offenders to which a young girl, Lucy, has been sent as a spy by a newspaper. To her shock, on her first day in class, she witnesses exactly what a strict regime really means after some property has been stolen:-

"This morning I instructed the prefects to conduct a search of your rooms," Mistress Shirer announced. She silenced the eager buzz of expectation by jumping down from the desk, the crack of her heels a sharp report around the room. She stood, arms folded across her chest and long lithe legs placed apart, then stared at the girls.

"The thief among you will step forward now to receive her punishment.'

Lucy looked around the room. She felt relief that stealing still took place, for it was the first sign of outward normality she had encountered in the Institute. She recognised the girl immediately. Lucy had been in the same situation herself on a number of occasions and was not fooled by the girl who was looking around earnestly as if searching for the culprit. Lucy caught her eye and smiled at her, letting her know that she knew and didn't care if the girl was a thief. But the girl ignored Lucy, sneaking glances instead in the direction of Mistress Shirer.

"You will be punished whether you own up or not," Mistress Shirer told the girls. "But if you don't own up, you will regret angering me!" She waited, deliberately, letting the tension build up. Receiving no response she walked down the central isle with a slow elegant stride, a hint of menace flowing around her. The girls eyed her with a mixture of fear and fascination.

"You girls are destined for punishment," she continued slowly, prolonging the tension.

Lucy was gripped by a sudden, irrational fear that Mistress Shirer was talking about her and a dense wave of panic began to rise within.

"No matter how hard you try," she paused by Lucy, "you return again and again to your old modes of behaviour."

Lucy held her breath, but relaxed when Mistress Shirer took another couple of steps and stopped at the last row of desks. All the girls at the front were craning round in excitement, relieved that they had escaped. Lucy shared the feeling of light headed relief.

"Stand up girl!" Mistress Shirer ordered the girl sitting in front of her.

"Please Mistress-" the girl began to explain, her small round face collapsing. Tears welled in her bright blue eyes and her pretty little mouth trembled.

Mistress Shirer slapped the girl's face, and the retort echoed through the silent room. The girl clutched at her reddened cheek, eyes wide with dreadful anticipation of what was to follow. She looked at Mistress Shirer imploringly but the Mistress grabbed her by the hair and pulled her out of her seat.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry-" the girl whined. She managed to free herself from the Mistress' grip and fell to the floor and began grovelling on hands and knees.

Lucy was horrified. She turned and looked at the other girls but they were watching with excitement. Many were smiling gleefully, enjoying the sight of the girl degrading herself.

Mistress Shirer pulled the girl up by the hair, clutching a tight handful of the long brown locks. She strode purposefully back to the front of the class, pulling the sobbing girl behind her.

"This filthy little bitch is a thief," she proclaimed, standing the girl up to face her classmates, " and like all bad girls she has to be punished again and again!"

"Please, I'm sorry-" the girl whimpered, squirming nervously.

"Unbutton your shirt!" Mistress Shirer commanded brutally.

The girl started to undo the buttons but her hands were shaking and unable to grip the buttons properly. Mistress Shirer pulled the shirt open impatiently, ripping the buttons off. The girl tried to shrink back, attempting to hide her naked breasts but Mistress Shirer tugged the girl's hair to make her stand properly. The girl winced and stuck her chest out, displaying the fullness of her firm breasts to all the other girls.

"Cup your breasts," Mistress Shirer commanded and the girl obeyed, cupping her large breasts and raising them up, accentuating the swell of her flesh. The girl's face was blushing deep red with shame, her eyes fixed firmly on the ground.

The first blow startled Lucy, who had become lost in the contemplation of the beautiful raised breasts bathed in the bright sunlight that streamed through the windows. Mistress Shirer began to lay hard sharp slaps on the naked ripe fruit held out to her, the loud slap of flesh on flesh beating out a rhythm of painful punishment. The soft white breast skin was flawed with a deep crimson tan, the impression of Mistress Shirer's fingers clearly marked for all to see. The girl closed her eyes and bit deeply into her lip. Her chest was burning and stinging, the regular strokes on her breasts painfully sharp.

Mistress Shirer varied her strokes, ensuring that each breast was spanked in turn, and also spreading the strokes over each breast so that the girl's flesh was an even colour throughout. She paid attention to the nipples, landing several blows directly on each, so that the nipples stood out sharply and glowed a deeper colour than the surrounding flesh.

"Thank you Mistress," the girl whispered when the breast spanking was finished. Her chest was patterned with deep red finger marks on a carpet of smooth pink tan. Her chest seemed to be aflame, the smarting concentrated in the tight sensitive buds of the nipples, sending confused messages to the rest of her body.

"Let the girls see how you are marked," Mistress Shirer ordered.

The girl uncupped the two punished breasts and put her hands on her head, elbows parallel to her shoulders so that her breasts were displayed to the best advantage. The flesh on the underside was still milky white, but it merged gradually with the scarlet finger marked flesh where Mistress Shirer's expert hand had chastised her. The dark reddish brown nipples were hard little buttons, provocatively erect, aching for relief from the smarting ache that covered them.

The punished girl kept her eyes averted but held herself up, pressing her breasts higher. She glanced up at the other girls, trying to look defiant, but the blushes of shame were clear to see.

"Now bend over the punishment desk," Mistress Shirer ordered the girl. Disconsolately, the girl turned away from the class and bent across the Mistress' desk. She pressed herself low on its surface so that her breasts were squashed flat, finding temporary solace in the coolness of the desk top.

Mistress Shirer unbuttoned the skirt and it fell around the girl's ankles. Slowly, she pulled the white cotton panties down past the girl's knees. "Part your legs!" she ordered and the girl obeyed.

The other girls craned forward in their seats, enjoying the view of the young naked backside so temptingly exhibited. The tight round arse cheeks were pleasingly parted, just a hint of the puckered arsehole within. A mat of curly brown hair indicated the entrance to her sex. The girl turned her head back and her eyes welled with sorrowful tears, humiliated by her exposure before the entire class.

Mistress Shirer walked slowly round the desk, revelling in the sight of the girl so gloriously exposed. From a deep drawer in the desk Mistress Shirer withdrew a long, supple, cane and she tested its mettle by swishing it through the air several times. The girl looked up beseechingly, terrified by the sight and sound of the wicked cane being played through the air.

"This is how I punish naughty girls," Mistress Shirer told the class, using one hand to position the unfortunate girl, pressing her down into the desk so that her arse cheeks were raised temptingly higher.

The first stroke whistled through the air and landed with a sharp crack across the bare bottom. The girl cried out, the stroke biting deeply into her flesh as a sharp spasm of pain seemed to run through her. A deep red line was etched across the globes of her arse, a livid reward for her bad behaviour. Mistress Shirer paused deliberately before striking the next note of this painful litany.

The girls watched in awed silence, hearts pounding and minds racing. Lucy's head was spinning for she was at once repelled by the painful public humiliation yet fiercely attracted to it. Stroke followed stroke and the punished girl's bottom soon bore a patchwork of red lines deeply burned into her flesh.

Lucy turned away, checking her own behaviour against that of the other girls around her. The small Indian girl had pulled up her skirt and parted her legs wide, her neighbour now rubbing her hand slowly between the dusky uncovered thighs. Careful not to attract Mistress Shirer's attention, the Indian girl raised her bottom slightly. She pulled her knickers part way down and guided the other girl's hand into place. When she saw Lucy watching, she smiled. With her free hand she gently lifted her skirt so that Lucy could see the dark folds of the moist pussy being expertly fingered. The shock on Lucy's face was evident, and the Indian girl beamed in delight, turning slightly to give Lucy a better view.

Lucy blushed. She was aroused intensely by the two girls masturbating, but turned back to the equally arousing sight of the girl over the punishment desk.

The girl's arse was obviously on fire, the pain unbearable. Her breathing came in short gasps yet the muted sobbing was replaced by the unwanted, sexually charged, release of soft wordless moans. She lifted her arse higher still, trying to meet the downward stroke of the cane halfway. Her pussy was alive with pleasure, her tight bud a molten burning centre of desire.

Suddenly she collapsed into an almighty screaming climax and lost control as the last of the heavy strokes found her reddened arse. She seemed to wince, gasped audibly and then let out a fierce clear jet of urine. She was too exhausted, too overwhelmed to do anything. She let the piss stream out until the flow slowed to a trickle that dribbled down her thighs and soaked her skirt and panties.

Mistress Shirer had stepped back and not been soiled by the girl's piss. Her smile revealed her delight that the girl had so lost control as to abase herself completely and utterly.

"Jenny can be left to clear up her own mess," she said calmly, "the rest of the class is dismissed."

The punishment of a proud young lady

This extract is from a novel called 'Sweet Dreams' and is a classic Richard Manton plot of a rich adventurer who, doing a favour for a friend who must travel abroad, reluctantly leaves his home in Paris to live in an English country home as mentor and guardian of two beautiful and headstrong teenage sisters, Sharon, the elder, and Victoria. Needless to say both these young ladies are in need of strict discipline and our hero and narrator, oh so sadly of course, feels the need to attend to their bare bottoms. The first to suffer, after disobeying an instruction, is the 18 year old Sharon who has just returned from horse riding to find her guardian waiting for her. Read on:

Presently I was alone with Sharon. She stood before me in her singlet and jeans, the veil of brown hair freshly combed and settled on her shoulders, the careless fringe of it on her forehead and the sweep of it framing the firm pale oval of her face. She stood there with arms folded, her expression suggesting that, though she would not resist me, she would do nothing to assist in her own punishment. A girl of eighteen has at least that much pride.

I turned to the cupboard, taking out the slim black riding crop. She stared at it, still unable to comprehend the degree of torment the crop may inflict upon her. At the centre of the room was a heavy oblong table of dark wood.

"Go over and stand facing the table, Sharon," I said quietly.

She turned and walked slowly across, still with her arms folded as if to show her indifference. I promised myself that she would show little indifference or self-possession in half an hour's time!

"Lie forward over the table, Sharon. Bend forward over it."

She did as she was told, still without a word, lying forward along it.

"Give me your hands."

She reached them out in front of her, above her head as she lay still. I slipped a strap around her wrists and drew it tight. Then I ran a length of stout cord around the strap, drew her arms out at full stretch and tied the cord firmly to the nearest table legs. Sharon turned her face aside and shook her dark brown hair into place, her cheek resting on the table.

I pulled the singlet hem free of the waist of her jeans. Now that I had Sharon bending fully over, the rear view of her riding jeans was of two quite plumpy swelling young bottom cheeks with the outline of her panties clearly ridged. I undid the clasp at her waist and eased the denim down, making her step out of her jeans when they had fallen to her ankles. She now lay there displaying briefs of white elasticated cotton.

"Now your knickers, Sharon," I said "You must be properly undressed for this."

I pulled her knickers down and admired the view. Sharon's bottom gained its seductive fullness from the slight pale sheen of adolescent puppy fat. I ran my hand gently over it and gave her a light cheek smack, causing Sharon's soft pale arse flesh to jump and quiver.

"Never had the crop before, Sharon?"

She bit her lip and said nothing.

"Answer when you're spoken to!"

There was a pause and then the answer came almost as a gasp.

"No!"

I gave her bottom another light smack.

"You shall have your first taste of the stable crop then."

Though her face was hidden, her body now betrayed Sharon's panic. Her knees were pressed together and she was trying to compress her rear cleavage. I stood over her, put one arm around her waist, and closely inspected her young backside and the rear opening of her thighs.

"Relax your bottom, Sharon. I must have a good look at you first."

And so I did, admiring the rear aspect of her young sex at the junction of her trembling thighs. She tried to tighten again presently, when I pressed her cheeks hard apart and considered the little vortex before me. I straightened up, gave her another light slap on the bottom and walked across to the desk where the slim black crop was lying. I picked up the crop and a leather belt. The latter went tightly around Sharon's waist, for I intended her to remain very firmly lying over the table.

I cut the air with a crop and the sound of it made her jump with fright, Sharon's bare buttocks tightening instinctively.

I spent a little while taking my aim, touching the cold leather of the crop one way and another across Sharon's bare and flinching rear cheeks. My resolve had begun to harden and I very much determined to make this a long and fruitful session. I raised the long slim crop and brought it down hard with a flick of the wrist, catching Sharon's squirming young backside expertly aslant its cheeks. The room rang with the smack of leather on the soft flesh of Sharon's bottom. Sharon gasped and then her gasp rose to a cry as if the anguish increased for a moment after the impact. The silky twist of her brown hair slithered clear as she tried to twist her face round to implore me. The whip cracked keenly, making her young bottom cheeks quiver again and again.

Sharon bent one knee up quickly and desperately, as if that might ease the lingering smart of the whip, something I was later to see Victoria do. I caught her again with a cut that touched the searing red of the first stripe and Sharon yelled wildly. Her silky hair was spilling in confusion and, when I walked around to the front, I saw her brown eyes filled with tears of dismay. Sharon had never dreamt that she could be hurt like this in response to her conduct. Her legs were squirming and wriggling. The whip smacked low across her bottom cheeks and Sharon uttered a wild and wordless soprano squeal.

The pale swell of Sharon's bottom cheeks jumped and quivered under the force of each impact. She performed arse contortions that a professional belly dancer might have envied. The slim black crop whipped and whipped again across her young backside until Sharon made the walls ring after every cut. She kicked out with her bare legs this way and that, receiving six measured cuts across the backs of them to discourage such conduct. Her knees seemed to give way at this point. Had she merely been bending to touch her toes, Sharon would have collapsed on the floor. How wise I had been to secure her, bending over the table, so that she would have to take what was given her, whether her legs would support her or not.

I do not know if she was sorry for all her previous misconduct but she looked extremely sorry for herself! From its deep blushes and crimson streaking, Sharon's eighteen year old bottom looked as if she had been made to sit all day in a vase de nuit filled with a boiling brew of sharpest thorn twigs.

I stood back and gave her six more for luck, such that in her desperation she pushed herself up from her knees and balanced by her shins on the edge of the chair. Then, with some reluctance, I laid down the implement. I freed her and she burst out into a sobbing, heaving lament. I untied her and allowed her to stand up. Like a little girl who has just had a smacked bottom, she wanted only to be out of her chastiser's presence and safe in her own room.

"Have you had enough, Sharon?" I demanded.

She would not answer me, her head bowed, her face scalding with tears, and her brown hair hanging down.

"No answer, Sharon? What did I tell you about answering me? I assume you want some more then! I can call in the stable boys to put you over that table again and hold you while you're getting it! Would you like that, Sharon?"

She shook her head vigorously but would neither look at me nor speak.

"Have you learnt your lesson, Sharon?"

Still nothing. Before I could repeat the question or warn her again of the penalty for dumb insolence, Sharon snatched up her briefs and jeans. Without pausing to put them on, she uttered a desperate sob, ran from the room, and made the house echo to her weeping and running footsteps on the stairs.

Despite such discourtesy, I did not follow up on my threat. She had been punished enough. Sharon spent an hour in the bathroom before throwing herself painfully onto her bed, and sobbing herself to sleep.

A Stepmother proves her authority

Today's spanking story is an extract from 'Confessions and Experiences' by the notorious Edith Cadivec.  In this extract she talks of how, in her early years, a stern Stepmother established her iron will:

My father's sister, Aunt Regina, the widow of a district judge who had died early, came over to the house after my mother died, as she had done so often before, in order to see that everything was all right. The household was greatly neglected, the wardrobe of the children was in a bad way, and our upbringing left much to be desired. This time Aunty remained with us for several months, more for her brother's sake than for her motherless nieces. She found us not at all properly brought up and soon found she could not cope with the task of running her brother's household permanently, thus soon returned to the loneliness and peace of her widow's residence. This was certainly the reason why father chose to marry for a second time, only one year after my mother's death.

My stepmother was a lady of thirty five. When father took her home she had just become the widow of a seventy-eight-year-old doctor, to whom she had been married for four years. Formerly she had been the governess of many children in socially prominent families.

Outwardly she was pleasant without actually being pretty. Practical, materialistic, and clever as she was, she had married father only for reasons of security. She was a model housewife, a good cook, a foe of dust and of stockings with holes and tyrannised the whole house with her inveterate love of order. She shook me out of my daydreaming and urged me to take up needlework. Gabrielle had to help with the housework and knit stockings. We were no longer allowed to be idle and go play.

We sisters quickly discovered that our stepmother was a lady of great energy and sternness who always knew how to make her will prevail. She demanded prompt obedience, good behaviour and an iron industriousness from us. When she was angry and bored through us with her looks, her cold steel-green eyes could look at us with a sternness that made hot and cold shivers run down our spines. Our freedom was limited and now we had to come home punctually, on the minute.

Despite her zeal in child rearing, our stepmother did not show the slightest affection for us children. But she was ostentatiously affectionate with father. He was happy at her side, wholly hen pecked.

A few months after the entrance of our stepmother into our lives, it happened that Gabrielle, now thirteen, did not come home punctually at one o' clock for the midday meal. It was served and eaten as usual and when she did finally come home, around one thirty, she was served afterward and had to eat alone. My stepmother darted angry glances but did not utter a word as long as father was present. Gabrielle excused herself to father, explaining that she was late because she had accompanied a school friend home, and believed that her explanation had settled the matter.

When father had left the house, our stepmother came into the room where Gabrielle and I were busy with our homework. She went directly up to my sister and, flushing red, angrily demanded, "At what time are you supposed to be home?"

"At one o' clock," answered Gabrielle calmly.

"And at what time did you get home today?"

"At one thirty because I walked my friend home."

"Yes indeed! But you know I have insisted again and again that you be home at one o' clock on the dot. Now come with me!"

She grabbed the resisting Gabrielle by the arm and dragged her to the bedroom next to the room in which we had been sitting. It was clear to both of us that something terrible was now about to happen. I stared into space, stiff, as if paralysed in every joint. My heart was in my mouth and the air was laden with an oppressive mystery that took my breath away. Gabrielle began to cry, plead and promise that she would never do it again. But stepmother did not listen and silently dragged Gabrielle along with her. After they disappeared into the bedroom, she locked the door.

The surmise that a thrashing was in the offing became a certainty. An oppressive stillness prevailed all around me, so that I could hear every sound coming from the bedroom. I heard the sound of a chair being pulled out and then I heard my stepmother.

"Now, little girl, my patience with you is at an end! If you will not hear what I say you must be made to feel my anger. Now you will taste the birch on your naked bottom. Maybe that will have some effect!"

Immediately the bedroom resounded with urgent pleas and implorations for forgiveness. Gabrielle's promises to mend her ways were desperate, her weeping grew louder and louder, her screaming ever more heart rending. A convulsion went through my body and I trembled like an aspen leaf.

Gabrielle, in a shocked fear ridden tone, whimpered and squealed "No-no- you can't unbutton my drawers! I'll be good-good and punctual-I won't do it again. Don't take down my drawers-no-no!"

A piercing shriek ensued, confirming that her pleas were in vain and that Gabrielle's bare bottom had received the first blow with the birch, and marked the first time that our stepmother had given a birching in our house. Indeed it was the first time ever that Gabrielle had received a taste of the rod - but it was not to be the last!

I listened in state of frantic, tense excitement to the whistle of the birch as it came swishing down, blow after blow, on my sister's bared bottom. So many were the blows that descended on Gabrielle's bottom that it seemed the birching would never end. I will never forget that day - my soul inflamed and my blood raged as in a fever.

A whole new epoch was ushered in by this event. From then on, our stepmother thought of no other punishment for us children than the birch, and always on the fully bared bottom. Since that day hardly a week went by without my sister or me being summoned into the bedroom for a whipping.

Gabrielle, who was older, always had to unbutton her own drawers whereas my stepmother pulled mine down. When I received the rod for the first time, I could hardly endure it. The blows, which had the effect of molten lead on a naked bottom, singed my flesh like an infernal fire.

We were never birched when father was at home, but we lived in constant fear of inviting a punishment. One day Gabrielle complained about our stepmother to father because she, now a big girl of almost fourteen, had been birched. She did not want to put up with this anymore. But father merely answered "You must have surely deserved it, my child!"

That day, when father left the house, our stepmother summoned Gabrielle to the bedroom and birched her once again, this time so soundly that she never again complained to father. Hereafter she meekly submitted to her punishments.

I always waited for such events with taut nerves. I observed my stepmother's features searchingly and tried to read in them the riddle of her inner being. Never did her eyes beam more brightly, never did the smile around the corners of her mouth play more happily than when she could belabour the bare bottoms of her step daughters with the birch. She would beat with a slow deliberation and the strange sensations I felt filled me with awe.

Later, when I recognised the nature of my own being, when my eyes and mind had been opened to the sweet pleasures of the rod, the image of my stepmother often cropped up in my mind. Then I would see her glowing cheeks, her flashing eyes, and I understood the zeal with which she sought excuses for calling two grown girls into her bedroom for punishment. No doubt it was my stepmother's greatest enjoyment.

In the evening, of course, I was bent on finding out whether traces of the birching were still discernible on my sister's bottom. At bedtime I made her lift her nightgown and, with horror, I saw a number of clear, reddish streaks. Especially noticeable were the yellow-blue spots on her right buttock which was precisely where the points of the birch had landed.

It was understandable that such a sight should excite me and fill me with quaking fear. Which of us would be next to have her naked bottom birched so soundly. Numberless times I too was stretched over a chair like Gabrielle and received the birch on my bare buttocks. In the beginning both my sister and I found it puzzling when stepmother came into the room, motioned with her forefinger, and called out "Edith, come here!"

Little by little, however, we understood what it signified: the birch rod, the rear flap of the drawers pulled down to bare the bottom. She laid such careful emphasis on the word 'naked' when rebuking the culprit and one felt like crawling into a hole in shame.

At the time it seemed that a complete transformation had taken place in my soul. Until then I had been but a small schoolgirl. My thoughts were divided between homework, my playmates, my sister and my home. Now, since the introduction of birching and a strict regime, a new and exciting element had been added to my education, a feeling my sister never grasped in the same way.

As the years went by, only I was consumed by the erotic power of a birching! Why? This question has often occupied my thoughts. Is it an accident or did I possess this tendency from birth? Or was it placed in my soul from the ovum onwards and merely waited only for this domestic impetus to break out with elemental force? If only I knew!

More of the very spankable Kasia

She's just so damn gorgeous/cute/spankable!

After School Special

M/f, written by JCLeonhardt, who based this on a events he witnessed as a boy:

I went to an all-boys school for my junior high years. Adjacent to the building on the south end was its counterpart, the all-girls academy, which I would always pass walking on my way home. Many times, I would try to peek into the first-floor windows to catch a glimpse of the girls, but, as luck would have it, the blinds were almost always closed. In the off chance they were open, the classrooms were sure to be empty. That all changed one spring afternoon as I was strolling home from school. As I passed the first-floor windows of the building on my usual route, I noticed that one of the blinds were open. Of course, I expected to see an empty classroom once again, but I was compelled out of habit to check regardless.

As I snuck a peek through the window, I was surprised to see a young blond girl about my age - around thirteen or fourteen - sitting in one of the front row desks, staring straight ahead, nearly motionless. I was wondering what she was doing there at this hour, as school was over and she was the sole girl in the room. I noticed that the window was also slightly ajar, and as such, I could make out the voice of a man coming from somewhere in the room. Craning my head further towards the front of the class where the blackboard was, I could see an older man, greying, late forties or early fifties, standing and talking to the girl. I could only assume he was the teacher. As I listened closely, I could make out what he was saying to her.

“As you know, Miss O’Rourke, this is, quite frankly, a very serious matter.”

I watched as the girl said nothing, continuing to stare ahead.

“We here at the academy take cheating as a very grave offence. I don’t think I have to remind you of that.”

The man turned toward the oak-panel teacher’s desk and sauntered up to it, stopped, picked up a piece of paper from the stack sitting there, paused momentarily as if perusing its content, then paced back to the girl’s desk.

“Ms. Malone was quite adamant that I take a look at this test paper you handed in. She found it very troubling. When I looked at it, along with Heather Jenson’s paper, I found it troubling as well. Each answer on your paper nearly identical to those on Miss Jenson’s.”

So, he wasn’t her teacher, I thought. Maybe he was the headmaster. Yes, that was probably right. And the girl was in some serious trouble, from the sound of it.

“There is no doubt in my mind you two ladies copied off of each other.”

The girl, sitting silent this whole time, finally spoke up, in a voice filled with desperate protest.

“No! It isn’t true! I didn’t copy anything from anyone! I would never cheat, I swear!” The girl was nearly in tears at this point.

The headmaster, on the other hand, was as implacable as before.

“I believe the evidence speaks for itself, Miss O’Rourke. You are only compounding the trouble you’re in by trying to lie your way out of it.”

“But I’m not lying, I promise!” The desperation in the girl’s voice had grown considerably.

“Unfortunately, I do not believe you. I highly doubt any faculty member at this school would. And, as headmaster of the academy, it is my duty to ensure that code of conduct violations do not go unpunished. That is why you are serving this detention.”

There was a momentary pause as the headmaster seemed to be collecting his thoughts. Then he spoke.

“Stand up, Miss O’Rourke, and walk over to the desk.”

The girl, visibly frightened, obediently did as she was told.

“Bring the chair”, the headmaster said plainly, pointing to an old-fashioned wooden seat situated in the corner of the room. Once again, the girl did as she was ordered.

I had no idea what was going to happen, and my stomach tingled with some strange mix of bewilderment and fascination.

The girl put the chair down in front of the large oak-panel desk.

After another brief pause, the headmaster said, “Remove your skirt, Miss O’Rourke.”

The girl hesitated for what seemed like a minute (but it was probably much less) before the headmaster repeated, “Remove your skirt.”

The girl hesitantly unfastened the button to her plaid school-uniform skirt and slid it down her waist, past her thighs, eventually letting it drop to the floor. She picked it up and draped it over the back of the wooden chair. The girl was now standing in her white cotton panties. I noticed that part of her right buttock was exposed, falling out of the seat of her underwear.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Being from an all-boys school, I had very few opportunities to see girls during the day, let alone have the pleasure of seeing one in her panties. I still had no idea what was happening, though. It was becoming like a surreal dream I did not want to wake up from.

“Bend over the desk” the headmaster said in his matter-of-fact tone. The girl did as she was told.

He moved over to the girl’s arched body, positioning himself next to her rear end. He placed his left hand over the small of her back and raised his right hand high in the air. It came down with a sudden hard smack on the back of the girl’s bottom. The soles of her feet lifted off the ground and came back down in response to the smack. She let out a small yelp and whimper. The headmaster pushed the palm of his hand more forcibly across the girl’s back and slapped her bottom again, this time swifter and harder. He continued with a succession of quick, hard smacks on the girl’s rear, switching from one cheek to the other every so often, the girl’s cries growing louder and more apparent with each one.

I had never seen anyone receive a spanking in my life before. To be sure, I had certainly heard of it happening, but I had never actually witnessed one occurring before my very eyes, in person. It was, admittedly, quite a sexually exciting experience watching an attractive young girl getting spanked on her cute bottom.

A few more minutes passed, and the headmaster got in the last succession of slaps on the girl’s behind. He stopped suddenly, and I wondered whether that was it for the girl’s punishment. Therefore, I was surprised when the headmaster said, “remain in that position” and walked behind the girl. He grabbed her panties by the waistband, sliding his thumbs inside the seat and pulled them upwards, wedging her underwear deep inside her bum cheeks, making it look almost like a thong. I could see from the girl’s facial expressions that she was most uncomfortable having her underpants forced into her behind like that, and I squirmed a bit at the sight myself.

He then walked over to the front of his desk and opened the top drawer. He removed a standard, 12-inch wooden ruler from the drawer and closed it, walking back to where he had stood before.

“Straddle the chair”, he said, and the girl grabbed the back of the wooden seat and stood over it, legs akimbo. She bent forward at the headmaster’s command and I could see the waistband of her panties tighten as she did so, her underwear disappearing even further into the crack of her nether regions.

The headmaster gave the girl’s waistband a few tugs for good measure, ensuring it was securely in place, lifted up the ruler and came down with a succession of solid swats on the girl’s cheeks. He took the liberty of spanking one cheek four of five times, before promptly alternating to the other and laying some sound spanks on that one. As badly as I felt for the girl, I couldn’t help but be fascinated by the sound of the ruler making contact with her backside, the targeted cheek jiggling in response. The girl’s cries were constant now, as I watched her exposed buttocks turn from pale white to a bright crimson hue in a matter of minutes. Several times, she reached behind with her hand in a vain attempt to massage the afflicted areas, but each time the headmaster sharply warned her to keep her hands planted firmly on the chair’s backrest.

I watched as a few more swats were administered to any non-spanked areas of her behind, then heard the headmaster tell the girl to ‘turn around and face him’. She slowly - and painfully, I imagine - did as she was told turned toward the headmaster, her knees wobbling somewhat as she did. He then told her to straddle the chair with her hands holding the backrest in reverse. As she squatted over the chair, I noticed that her panties had wedged quite considerably in the front as well, giving the headmaster (and myself, of course!) a peek at her naughty bits. I don’t have to tell you that this excited me to no end, of course, but the headmaster seemed undaunted by the sight and informed the girl that she was to squat down even lower over the chair.

As stimulated as I was by this sight, I wondered what the purpose was of ordering the girl into this awkward position, since her posterior was well out of spanking range now. I soon received my answer as the headmaster began spanking the inside of the girl’s thighs, working the unforgiving wooden ruler up and down in a series of quick, but effective, smacks. Even at that tender young age, I remember myself admiring the commitment and thoroughness of the headmaster’s disciplinary technique. The boys at my school never received more than a few short swats with a hickory stick on the back of our school pants as punishment for our misdeeds, and, while it certainly did sting quite a bit, it paled drastically in comparison with the treatment this particular young lady was receiving. I recall thinking how much I would dread getting into trouble at that school!

When the girl’s thighs were sufficiently red with ruler marks, the headmaster told the girl to stand upright and turn to face the blackboard yet again. ‘Was the punishment going to continue?’ I wondered, as I readjusted my position on the ledge and gazed ahead with a mixture of nervousness tinged with bewilderment.

He then told the girl to bend over the teacher’s desk yet again as she had before, with her buttocks accentuated towards the headmaster. He placed the ruler on the desk and grabbed the waistband of the girl’s underwear like he had previously. I thought he was going to wedge her panties upwards again for maximum discomfort, so naturally I was shocked when he began sliding them down the girl’s rear, past her thighs. He halted halfway through this motion, his head leaning down where he was nearly eye-level with the girl’s backside, as if examining her underpants. I thought maybe the girl had accidentally soiled herself during the ordeal and the headmaster was just now noticing it in her undergarments, but after a moment he continued to slide the panties down the girl’s legs, twisting them down to her ankles. I heard him say, “step out of your underpants” and she begrudgingly did as she was told, sliding one foot out then the other, then handing them to the headmaster who placed them on the chair with her plaid skirt. She then bent over the desk again, mindful to keep her legs closed as tightly as possible to avoid showing the headmaster more than what was absolutely necessary.

The blood rushed to my head and I could feel my mind swimming at the sight of the girl, standing naked from the waist down except for her white knee socks and shoes, displaying a full moon to the headmaster and - unknowingly - to me. In my short life, I had never even imagined I would ever bear witness to an event such as this, and I could barely contain my emotions as I studied the girl’s already well spanked bottom, admiring fully for the first time the plumpness of the very tops of the cheeks and the round curving just above the thighs.

The headmaster picked the ruler back up and gave the girl’s bottom a few mild practice pats before coming down with several hard spanks at the very tops of her buttocks. There was a considerably fuller sound to the smacks than before - possibly due to the removal of the panties, each spank echoing with a very satisfying ‘slap, slap’ sound that complemented the sheer redness of the girl’s rear. The cries and yelps of pain that were merely effusive at first had turned to screams of desperate anguish, and although the girl’s face was mostly hidden from my view at the window, I could see tears streaming down the left side of her face. The jiggling that was prevalent before was even more pronounced this time, and I was nearly mesmerized by the bouncing of the girl’s rosy red bare buttocks as the ruler came down. He even worked his way down past the tops of the thighs to the hamstrings, where the ruler left its incendiary mark in a workmanlike pattern of two-inch lines.

It was becoming quite apparent that the girl was having increased difficulty keeping her legs together, due to the burning of her inner and rear thighs, and as a result would occasionally treat the headmaster and myself to a full view of her exposed naughty bits. I figured that her tender buttocks and thighs were in such agony by now that she wasn’t even considering what she was inadvertently displaying for her audience. The headmaster took this opportunity to use the ruler on some of the heretofore un-spanked areas of her behind, including the now bare split between her bum cheeks, while remembering not to neglect the spots that had been prominently worked over. This was as sound and as thorough a spanking as anyone could ever hope to see, and I was having the great fortune of seeing it firsthand.

Around fifteen minutes had passed from the start of the spanking to its eventual denouement, but to me, it had felt like a lifetime. When it was over, the headmaster told the girl to stand up and put her panties back on, but not her skirt. He then ordered her to take the chair and march over to the far wall of the classroom and face the corner. He added that she was to sit backwards on the chair, straddling it in a similar manner as before - hands grasping the backrest, of course - while she waited in the corner. She did exactly that and, even though she was facing the opposite direction from my point of view, I could clearly see the pain and discomfort in her body as her clothed bottom twitched and squirmed on the hard wooden seat while she tried in futility to ignore the fire in her behind. During this time, the headmaster sat calmly at the oak-panel desk, casually browsing through some school files, every so often reminding the girl to keep her hands on the chair and not to fuss with her backside, unless she desired another spanking. The entire ordeal lasted until the third after school bell had sounded.

I kept what I witnessed that day to myself, not even telling the other boys at my school, even though it probably would have made me the class hero. This was one of those special memories that you don’t usually share with others, as it tends to lose its special value that only the bearer truly understands. I would often wonder, sometime later, if that girl’s classmate - the one she had cheated off of - had suffered the same fate, but I never found out. In fact, no matter how many times I walked past those first floor windows during my junior years, I never saw anything like it ever again.

A bottom desperately in need of a good spanking

Here's Teen Kasia, an incredibly beautiful Polish girl, who could definitely do with being put over my knee and given a good spanking.  She's extremely adorable.

 Unfortunately she's a vanilla model, so no spanking shots.  One can only imagine...

She should definitely be punished for these filthy acts:

Anne gets it in the woods

The sequal to the previous story:

Anne desperately needed a spanking.  This was obvious from her attitude and behaviour.  The last spanking had been towards the end of her sophomore year in college.  John had tanned Anne's bare behind with the oak paddle in his study the evening before she left for college.

John had given Anne a fully paid Scholarship for her final two years of college.  John hadn't seen much of Anne during the first semester she was away, although she did send an occasional note telling him how well things were going.  Anne was unaware that John had been getting accurate reports from a friend at U-Mass.  Anne was on the verge of expulsion because of juvenile behaviour and poor academic performance. She had been on academic probation all semester.  Anne was coming home for a visit but it certainly wasn't going to be quite the visit she had in mind.

John had left a message for Anne requesting that she go directly to his house upon her arrival.  As usual she didn't follow John's instructions, choosing instead to the pond for a swim first.  After her swim she pulled on her faded, torn blue jeans and an old gray sleeveless sweatshirt over swimsuit. Finally heading up the path towards John's house where she knew he would be waiting impatiently.

Anne walked up to John's door and knocked hesitantly.  Moments later John opened the door, obviously upset.  "You're late young-lady” John said in a very terse voice.  "Come inside Anne, we have a lot to discuss." John said.  She walked into the house, very subdued, she had an idea what she could expect since she had done so poorly at school after John had invested so much in her education.  Anne found out quickly just how right she was as she sat with John in his study.  John stood up and began pacing the floor as she became more nervous.  John turned suddenly and began speaking in a slightly raised voice.  'I've spent a fortune investing in your education and not only do you not appreciate it, you just fool around and don't take your courses seriously.' Then to make matters worse you lie to me about how you're doing at school.  Then when I order you to come over, you disobey me.  "You're really going to get it know young-lady, this will be a more severe and embarrassing punishment than you have ever gotten from me." 

John exclaimed.  Anne was quivering and almost in tears, she knew that she deserved everything she was going to get, and she wanted it too.

"Come with me Anne!"  John fumed. 

"W...Who...Where are you taking me, sir?"  Anne asked, almost in a whisper. 

"To a special clearing in the orchard, where we won't be disturbed!"  John responded.  John led Anne into the orchard to a small clearing with a sturdy wooden bench in the centre.

Anne knew what to expect, and she did not have long to worry about her fate.  John led her to the front of the bench and sat down on the bench with Anne facing him.  Without a word John untied the rope belt holding Anne's old jeans up, unzipped them and pulled them down to her ankles in one swift motion.  Realizing that Anne was wearing a one piece swimsuit, a blatant attempt to lessen the pain of her spanking. 

"Anne slip your arms out of the shoulder straps of that suit so I can pull it down this very instant."  John ordered.  Not wanting to make the spanking any worse for herself, she instantly obeyed.  She stood trembling as John made quick work of bringing her swimsuit down to join her jeans around her ankles.

With Anne naked from the waist down, John began to lecture Anne about her terrible behaviour.  "I won't accept this from you any longer."  John said. 

"But...but...but."  Anne started to reply. 

"Not another word from you Anne, put your hands down at your side, and turn around."  John ordered.  John reached under the bench and produced a large old fashioned wooden hairbrush. John set the brush down beside him.  "Get over my knees this instant!!!"  'John ordered.'

Anne could feel the flooding her eyes as she slowly lowered herself over John's lap for what she knew would be a very hard spanking.  Once Anne was in position her feet barely reached the ground.  John briefly caressed Anne's full firm buttocks for a few moments enjoying the cool trembling flesh that he was about to severely punish.  John decided that they had both waited long enough for the spanking.  John grasped Anne's left hip with his left hand, picked up the brush with his right hand.  Anne clenched her buttocks tight when she felt John reach for the hairbrush.  "Relax your bottom right now, Anne.  It will only be worse for you if you don't," warned John.  Slowly and with a great deal of effort Anne did as she complied.  John brought the brush down hard on the centre of her right cheek and then again on the left.  Anne gasped sharply as the first two blows landed on her tender bottom.  John kept the steady rain of swats coming down on her butt.  "John please, my bottom hurts real badly” Anne cried.

After the tenth swat of the brush Anne was sobbing softly and squirming shamelessly exposing her light brown rosebud and her swollen, wet vulva.

SWAT!  SWAT!  SWAT!  SWAT! SWAT!  SWAT!  SWAT!  SWAT!

By the twenty-fifth slap Anne was beginning to cry real tears and was struggling fiercely and she moved her hands down to try to cover her sore buttocks.  John was not happy about this and he let her know by giving her two sharp swats to the back of each thigh.  "OUCH, NO!!!" 

"Not on my legs sir, please I won't do that again."  "That's good Anne, but you're going to get ten extra swats with the brush, and you're going to have to count each one and ask for the next one.  I will let you know when the extra ten are going to come." 

SWAT!  SWAT!  SWAT!   SWAT!

After the fiftieth slap landed Anne was crying like a baby, gasping for air, and her bottom was a deep crimson.  Anne's legs were kicking so hard to relieve the pain that she had kicked off her sandals, jeans, & swimsuit.

"Now Anne you have the extra ten strokes from the brush for trying to cover your behind. Are you ready?"  John asked.  "Yes, sir, I'm sorry please giving me the first one."  Anne choked out.

SWAT!!

"OUCH!  "One, please give me the second."  Anne sobbed.

SWAT!!

"OUCH!  "Two, please give me the third."  She cried.

SWAT!!

"OUCH!  "Three, please give me the fourth."  Anne choked out.

SWAT!!

"OUCH!  "Four, please give me the fifth."  She whined.

SWAT!!

"OUCH!  OUCH!  "Five, please give me the sixth."  Anne whimpered.

SWAT!!

"OUCH!  "Six, please give me the seventh."  She responded.

SWAT!!

"Oh please, John!  Seven, please give me the eighth." Anne wailed.

SWAT!!

"OUCH!"  Anne could feel herself beginning to come.  "Eight, please give me the ninth."  She asked slowly.

SWAT!!

"Nine, please give me the tenth."  Anne almost hollered.

SWAT!!

The tenth stroke was the hardest so far.  "Ten, thank you John."  Anne blubbered.

John allowed Anne to get up off his lap.  She danced around wildly her full breasts swaying deliciously under her sweatshirt as she vigorously rubbed her tender bottom.  After a few moments as the pain began to slowly subside, she found herself doing something she had never done before.  Anne knelt between John's spread thighs as he unzipped his jeans and reached into his shorts freeing his long, thick erection and swollen testicles.  Anne gave the magnificent erection a long slow tongue bath before taking its entire length down her throat.  Anne's blonde head bobbed slowly up and down as she caressed John's balls and teased her clitoris.   John rewarded Anne's oral and manual attentions by filling her mouth to overflowing with hot sticky semen.  The semen that she couldn't swallow dripped down coating her chin and breasts.  She slowly let John's shrinking organ slip from her mouth, but not before licking the final drops of his semen from the tip of his penis.

Anne licked her lips and asked "may I stand up, sir?

"Yes you may, but remember you still have the second part of your spanking coming?"  John said. 

Anne lowered her eyes and sobbed "Yes, sir, I know I deserve, what ever I get."

Without saying another word John roughly removed her sweat shirt leaving her quite naked.  John could not help notice that Anne's breasts had grown fuller and appeared very sensitive since he had last seen them. 

For the second part of your punishment you are going to get a taste of the apple switch, and you are going to cut and strip your own switch.  "Go cut a switch and don't cut a flimsy switch if you know what's good for you."  John instructed as he handed her his pocket knife.  Anne could barely make her legs work as she slowly walked off nude towards the trees to cut the switch that would further punish her already blistered tail.  Anne found a branch that she thought John would approve of and cut it off.  Slowly walking back to John stripping the bark and buds of the switch as she went.  On the walk back Anne was acutely aware of the way her buttocks and breasts were jiggling.  Once she had returned and had the switch stripped clean she handed it to John, taking the switch from Anne he waved it through the air causing her to flinch violently.

"Spread your legs to shoulder width and bend over."  John commanded.  Anne complied with great reluctance.  She knew deep down that she deserved this switching, but it was going to hurt something awful.  Anne knew she was vulnerable in this position. Her skin stretched so tight on her well-spanked buttocks intensified the sting.

John took up a position beside and behind her and slowly rubbed the switch across her trembling bottom as he spoke.  "You're going to get six strokes with the switch, that is if you don't move.  'If you move, any stroke you had gotten up to that point will not count towards the six that you are going to get.'

Anne squirmed in position as John rubbed his thumb slowly across her opening and clitoris.  Then he placed his left hand on her right breast and raised the switch high in the air with his right hand and brought the switch down hard across the centre of both cheeks.  The second stroke landed an inch above the first.  Anne howled in agony.  The third stroke landed an inch below the first.  It was a struggle but Anne held her position.  The fourth landed at the base her buttocks where her thighs began.  This stroke caused Anne to jump, meaning her switching had to start all over again.

Anne took the first four strokes of her second dose with a large amount of yelling but she held her position.  John stroked her welted and bruised bottom letting her regain her composure.  The fifth and sixth strokes crossed her tender bottom at an angle.  Anne was sobbing her heart out and gasping for air as the final stroke landed and she dropped to the ground.

John lifted onto her hands and knees and knelt behind her fondling her breasts with one hand and fondling her clitoris with the other.  John pulled out his throbbing erection, rolling a condom down the shaft.  He lubricated the swollen tip of his cock along her vulva, before penetrating Anne's virgin ass-hole.  Anne gasped as she felt John's penis penetrate deeper and deeper into her anus, at first it hurt but that rapidly changed to an incredibly deep lust.  "Fuck me harder, deeper, fuck my tight butt."

John did just that, screwing Anne's ass with slow firm strokes while she stroked rapidly on her clit. Anne's pussy began contracting as he pumped his load deep into her bottom driving her over the edge to a shattering orgasm.

Anne would never admit it but she knew that she might not be doing to well next semester either.