Sunday, 16 November 2014

Monday, 10 November 2014

Thursday, 6 November 2014

IF....

Posting this story with multiple pictures has proved too difficult for some reason, sorry.
Most people have seen the film IF which begins with an intense caning scene.  Unfortunately for it it is a boy who is caned, but I have often imagined that caning meeted out to a beautiful schoolgirl.  This story explores that theme.  Enjoy:




The hall was not very large, perhaps twenty feet by thirty,
with a row of chairs lining each wall leaving a clear space in
the middle. Half a dozen prefects stood together in a group
watching her enter, and one of them had a bundle of
professional-looking canes tucked under his arm. Her mind
reeling beneath an intoxicating mix of trepidation and
anticipation, Milena guessed that he must be John Emery, Paul's
co-prefect in charge of correction.
Trying not to look either defiant or frightened, she stared
straight ahead and kept her chin up even though she could not
stop her lower lip from trembling at the prospect of suffering
the cane in front of all these young men.
Paul introduced her all round as if she had merely come to
take tea with them. John Emery looked very much like his
fellow officer, only dark-haired whereas Paul was blond. The
introductions complete, John suggested they begin. 'By the
way, are you wearing panties?' he asked her.
Milena lowered her eyes as she mumbled that she was.
'They will have to come off,' he said. 'The boys aren't
allowed underpants in the gym shorts they wear in correction.'
She laid her purse on a nearby chair, and then reached under
her dress, somehow getting her trembling fingers into the
elastic of her panties. She drew them slowly down her legs,
balancing carefully as she stepped out of them, one foot at a
time, and laid them on the chair as well.
'Right, stand here.' Paul indicated a point on the floor where a
white line, much scuffed, was painted on the boards. 'You have
to keep your toes on this throughout, or you'll earn yourself
extras.' He waited while she placed her sandals where
generations of feet had stamped and writhed in pain. 'Now
bend over and grip your ankles, and don't let go until you're
given permission to do so. I'm sure you know the drill from
your days at school.'
She did, and bending right over, steeled herself to stay down no
matter what. It was a year or so now since she had left school,
but receiving extra strokes over and above one's sentence for
rising prematurely was a lesson that, once learned, a girl did
not easily forget.
Hearing movement behind her, she bit her lip in anticipation,
but a member of the committee abruptly postponed her
torment.
'Look here,' he said, 'we can't have this. That dress is far too
loose. The folds will wrap round the cane and absorb the cut,
especially the lower ones, which are the ones that really count.
She'll have to take them on the bare.'
There was a quiet discussion, which she was not invited to
join, and then hands took hold of the hem of her blue dress and
pulled it up across her back, leaving her buttocks bare. The
cool air in the hall caressed her naked flesh, making her
intensely conscious of the fact that young men were treating
themselves to the appealing sight of her smooth white bottom,
enticingly bare and tightly stretched as a result of her position,
her peach-shaped cheeks and the slenderness of her thighs
accentuated by the taut nylon of her stocking-tops. Nor was
that all they could see; the air felt even cooler on her lightly
haired, plump little vulva, pouting and mysteriously moist
despite her fear. Moreover, the way she was bent forward
pulled open the deep space between her buttocks and revealed
the delicate, lightly browned whorl of her anal dimple, the
exposure of which filled her with an even hotter shame than the
baring of her virgin slot.
'That's better,' Paul said from directly behind her, 'and this
way we will be able to see the effect of the cuts as well. Six of
the very best coming up,' he announced. 'You take the first
three, John, and I'll finish her off.'
This time there was no interruption; she heard footsteps on
the parquet behind her, the sound of a quick step, something
whirred like a wasp in the air above her, and the blow fell.
She bit down hard on her lip, and groaned. Oh, this was
really going to be bad! She had thought Myra could cane, but
this was at least three times worse. For a start, this cane was
whippier than anything her guardian had ever used on her, and
these were men - strong young men. Both principal actors
looked as though they could be the captains of games with their
muscular shoulders, firm forearms and strong wrists. They
were also, in a sense, professionals. But she was forced to
cease this breathless analysis of her caner's skill when the next
stroke landed, just like the first one, excruciatingly low on her
bent hinds, printing a thick angry line just above her highly
sensitive crease. She gasped, and her head strained back as she
fought to overcome the agony surging through her.
Again the thump of trainers behind, and the rod lashed into
her a third time. After an initial shocked intake of breath, she
whimpered from the pain blinding her, and tears she could not
control ran down her cheeks.  Her fingers fluttered
on her ankles as she resisted an overwhelming desire to stand
up straight.
There was a slightly longer pause between strokes then as
Paul took over for John, and then the pattern resumed. If she
had hoped for even the slightest diminution in severity, she was
doomed to be disappointed.
Paul had viewed her baring with interest. It was not the first
time he had seen a female naked below the waist, but never
before under these circumstances, with her bent over and
awaiting correction. Her firm, pale rounds swelled invitingly,
deeply cleft and showing below and behind them the pouting
plumpness of a well grown pudendum, fleshy lips fringed with
soft brown curls.  And between her plump buttocks the pucker of
her anus, all the more on display because Milena had
instinctively taken a wide-legged stance, undoubtedly learned
at school as the one affording the most stability under the
disorientating blaze of strokes from a cane on raw flesh. Now
three thick parallel welts marked her pale rounds, their heat
almost palpable as her burning cheeks writhed slightly despite
her admirable control. Paul was determined that his cuts would
be at least as well defined; John had set him a challenge he was
happy to take up.
He measured his distance with a practiced eye, picking his
mark where John had left a pulsing welt across the girl's
cringing buttocks. It was placed quite low, the tip of the cane
biting in on one end leaving a particularly angry plum-hued
lump. Two steps, and he unleashed his stroke, driving his
shoulder down and, at the last moment, imparting added
velocity with his wrist. The thud of the impact jarred
satisfactorily up his arm, telling him he had struck true,
although just above where he had aimed the blow. Never mind;
he had the range now, he could place his shots where he chose,
and she would not complain he had not done her justice with
this first cut.
She did complain, but only to herself. Pride kept her from
crying out, but her knees quivered as she absorbed the waves of
pain that continued to surge through her seconds after the rod
bit deep into her tender flesh. Then the sound of footsteps
behind her heralded another of the same, and this time when
Paul stepped back he was gratified to see her knees turn in and
rub briefly against each other with a slight rasp of nylon. Yet
she straightened her legs again without being spoken to, and
with two springing strides forward, he delivered the last cut.
The cane sank deep into her soft flesh, and a new burning
weal sprang up to join the others. Now she carried six thick
pulsing welts across her throbbing hinds, evenly spaced in the
lower part of her pert cheeks so that they would be directly
beneath her when she sat down. He watched the involuntary
clenching of her beaten flesh for a moment, admiring his
handiwork and giving her a chance to show what she was made
of. He had to give her credit; those were as tight a six as he had
seen, and she had taken them well - as well, or better, than any
boy. And she was still bent over, awaiting permission to
straighten up as she had been trained to do.
'All right, you can get up now,' he said. 'Go and sit on the
bench outside.'
Red-faced, Milena rose, and her dress fell back down over her
bare and beaten bottom. She walked to the door with as much
dignity as she could muster, endeavouring to control the widelegged,
bent-kneed gait her sore buttocks demanded, her hands
clenched into fists at her sides from the effort she had to make
to move gracefully.
'And keep your hands off your bottom,' one of the other
young men called after her. 'You haven't been dismissed yet,
and no boy would touch himself there until he was home.'
She closed the door behind her, and then sank down onto the
bench, carefully adjusting her throbbing cheeks against the
hard wood. She would have preferred to stand, but they had
told her to sit, and she wasn't about to give them the
satisfaction of faulting her for disobeying orders in an effort to
relieve her pain. So for about five minutes she endured the
discomfort of her aching flesh against the unfeeling timber until
at last she was dismissed, and she could walk on unsteady legs
to the toilets for a good, long cry.



Wednesday, 5 November 2014

Tuesday, 28 October 2014

Friday, 24 October 2014

Friday, 10 October 2014



More on this topic here.