Sunday, 11 June 2017

Chapter 21

The wardens disappear off to notify the Governess that the women prisoners are ready to receive their long awaited punishment. They return with the Governess’s niece, Jackie Frayn, carrying a solid looking contraption between them. The flogging horse. Often talked about, rarely seen, no woman who has ridden this steed is likely to forget the experience.

Even at this stage Anna can't really believe this is happening to her. Surely she's suffered enough already. But no, the wardens are advancing on Catherine Rowe who is unceremoniously lifted up between them and carried over to the horse, pyjama trousers trailing from her ankles. She struggles feebly as her wrists are fastened by the leather straps attached to the front legs and her ankles similarly secured. The short lecture delivered before preparing to set to with the cane is lost on Catherine: she's already started sobbing and can hear only her own tears, perhaps hoping that her abject contrition may yet give her a last minute deliverance.

Catherine feels the cane tapping on her bottom as Miss Jackie measures her swing: then comes the faint whistle of the descending blow. The sound of the contact is drowned by Catherine's screech and renewed sobbing. Each stroke follows the same pattern: the pause to let the wave of pain from the last stroke peak; the initial light touch setting the target for the next; the taps as the swing is measured; then the hiss and scalding pain, aching and burning together.

Miss Jackie takes not the slightest notice of the howling and wriggling of the wretched Catherine. She has a job to do, to give out the customary twelve and deliver the maximum pain in the process. Cold efficiency is the order of the day, punish and deter. Naturally it's expected that the recipient of the caning will be deterred from future misbehaviour, but Jackie Frayn intends that each of the women prisoners will be a visible example, carrying the marks back to their classmates as a public warning. So now she concentrates on raising a dozen glaring welts, twelve parallel proclamations of punishment in deep bruising purple for her classmates to stare at in changing rooms and dormitories for days to come.

To Catherine it seems an eternity on the horse, though it's no more than three minutes. Her backside is a screaming mass of pain, the twelve welts neatly spread from top to bottom. She longs to touch it: try and soothe it, apply cool water, but no, she's bent face down over her bed, hand clasped on the back of her neck while the attention switches to Anna.

"The rest of you, get up and turn around!"

Melanie and Anna raise themselves from the bent over postures they have held since their tastes of the hairbrush. One of the wardens hauls Anna over the horse by her ear and by some insistent tugging persuades her to get astride it. Her wrists and ankles are quickly secured and she's ready to receive her quota. Strapped down to the horse, all Anna can hear is tapping of heels on the stone floor: but Miss Jackie squats down so she's eye to eye.

"All ready are you now, Dobson? And when you've received what you most certainly deserve, then there'll be a little something extra from me to look forward to." She moves back to get a good view, but stays where Anna can still see her, relaxed, waiting for the show to commence.

And then Miss Jackie sets to work in the same fashion, targeting and marking: just another backside to be inscribed with the maximum of pain. Anna holds out for three before she begins to cry, but not loudly enough to drown out Miss Jackie's mocking comments: "But that's only three, Anna. I thought you were so grown up, but here you are blubbing like a baby.."

The tears continue to flow freely through the next nine strokes while Anna acquires her same twelve fiery welts. Being taller than Catherine, with the restraints unadjusted, she can raise herself slightly off the horse, like a jockey standing in the stirrups, but all that achieves is to expose a little more of the tender flesh below the curve of the buttock. Miss Jackie is not slow to take advantage, raising a purple welt right in the buttock crease across the tops of Anna's legs. If Anna could thrash wildly, she would: each movement of her swollen buttocks sends another stab of pain through this latest bruise. She is reaching a crescendo of pain, boosted by a final cut of the cane in almost the same place, which has her screaming all the louder.

When the sobbing Anna is released to join Catherine bent face down over a bed rail, Jackie Frayn points the cane at Melanie Perkins: they've been down this road together before and Melanie can expect no leniency this time around. "Come here you, and get yourself over the horse."

Melanie grits her teeth and shuffles forward for her turn, kicking one foot free of her pyjama trousers so she can mount the horse.

Face down on the worn leather she can smell the rank odour of the sweat and fear of the terrified embrace of every girl who's been strapped down there - but Melanie has her extensive experience of being caned to draw upon. Even as the wardens are tightening the buckles around her wrists and ankles she's disconnecting, forcing herself to lie relaxed and limp, concentrating on the sound of her own breath. She tries to resist every temptation to take any notice of what is being done to her: the straps don't chafe, she can't feel the cane sizing up its target; she doesn't see the wardens grinning at her.

Her concentration sees her through the first four strokes with little more than a grunt under the impact of each landing. Even when she's wearing her twelve livid stripes she's uttered little more than a hiss between clenched teeth. In the next few seconds she fights to keep her mind clear of any anticipation of the feel of the first diagonal cut she knows is coming.

Despite her best efforts she jumps and jerks against her restraints as the ugly red line erupts across her existing aching bruises. The second cross cut draws a low groan out of her and she's breaking out in a cold sweat with the effort of staying in control. As Miss Jackie prepares to finish marking Melanie with a full strike on each buttock Melanie prepares to let go, with yelling and crying; she knows she's not going to get away with less than the twenty, but she also knows it would be most unwise to give them any idea that she's holding on to any shred of resistance.

Time now, though, for respectful contrition, as Miss Jackie inspects the swollen mass of bruises criss-crossing Melanie's bottom. Melanie has a suspicion that Miss Jackie's fingers linger a little longer and a little lower than is strictly necessary but she remains a model of tearful compliance until she is at last unstrapped and released to bend back over her bed rail.

Friday, 17 March 2017

Chapter 20

Upstairs on the top floor of Blackfriars Grange, three young women report to the Matron’s office as instructed. Each is attired in the bizarre, humiliating schoolgirl uniform to which she had now become accustomed. And understandably, each of them looks pale and nervous.

One of them, 29-year-old Melanie Perkins, knocks and enters, followed by Catherine Green, aged 24, and Anna Dobson. Inside the room the Matron is waiting, accompanied by a hard-faced nurse in her mid-thirties with straw-coloured hair, piled up high and held by a blue ribbon.

“What are you doing up here? Who sent you?” Matron demands sharply.

“Miss Jackie told us to report for Detention,” replies Melanie.

“Right, you had better go with Nurse and get yourselves ready then,” says Matron. “Off you go.”

The three women follow the nurse in her starched white overall along a corridor and into a small side dormitory where they are instructed to undress and hand in their clothes under the watchful eye of another much younger ‘nurse’. Their clothes are taken away and they are sent naked into the showers. The dormitory is in an old part of the building where the ancient plumbing delivers a torrent of freezing water. One by one the women are showered. Anna watches the other two shiver in the downpour, waiting to be pushed into the icy deluge, while they stand shivering and dripping, longing to dry off. When all are showered they are given small hand towels of coarse grey cotton. Just about adequate for the job, but not exactly a joy to use.

Then it's time to get changed for bed. Thick cotton pyjamas in broad blue and white stripes. The trousers have long tie tapes that thread through the jackets, and the nurse clips the ends with little plastic seals. Once the pyjamas are on they stay on until the seals are snipped through. There are cotton bonnets to match the pyjamas, the chin ties again secured with seals, but they aren’t sealed up yet – they’ll be coming off again later. In silence, the women pull on their pyjamas and tie up their bonnets under the watchful eye of the nurse. Even the coarse cotton feels better than remaining shivering and naked. Then on with their ill-fitting slippers and they’re ready, dressed for bed at 3.30 in the afternoon…

"Right, girls, it's time for tea. March out!"

The marching is more of a shuffling stumble, their slippers slipping and threatening to fall off, but they manage only a few paces with swinging arms before the loose-fitting pyjama trousers begin to slip free of their fastenings. The nurse finds this hugely amusing as she watches the women grabbing at their pyjama bottoms, trying to maintain a shred of dignity. Catherine manages to trip over her fallen trousers and go flying before they even get out of the dormitory. This amuses the nurse even more and so they continue on their way, shuffling and stumbling up the corridor until they are permitted to hold up their trousers to descend the stairs towards the kitchen.

Hoots of laughter greet them as the women prisoners arrive and shuffle towards their table in the middle of the kitchen, grasping the loose waistbands of their pyjama trousers to keep them from falling down. The maids have a good laugh at the three women standing in their pyjamas and bonnets, waiting miserably for permission to be seated.

When they are seated, they chew their way through the unappetising fare. One of the wardens comes over with another large jug of milk and makes them finish their first glass so that she can refill them. The cheap margarine tastes sour but they have to force it down: no waste is permitted. When the women have finished their meagre meal, there's no time to lose. They are escorted back to the dormitory. The women prisoners stand up and shuffle over to the top table, still holding up their trousers, chivvied along by another warden who fixes them with a cold look.

All the women feel a rising apprehension, although with Anna, whatever is rising is practically running down her legs. Only Melanie, with her previous experience, knows exactly what is coming next and why Matron and her nurses are there. The knowledge does not comfort her.

Matron's tone is brisk and sharp. "Bend over the end of your beds and hold on."
As they bend forward and brace themselves, one of the nurses comes round and pulls their pyjama trousers down to their ankles, pulling them free from one leg. Their pyjama jackets are pulled up and clear.

Anna cries out in shock as a lubricated, rubber gloved finger is inserted in her rectum and moved around, thoroughly greasing her rear passage. The nurse moves on down the row with a fresh slippery finger for each woman. Melanie has been there before, and Catherine is too scared to move, but struggles as the nurse attempts to prepare her. Those struggles are to no avail: the other nurse holds her down while fresh lubricant is smeared on and the finger rammed home and turned around. Then, for good measure and to teach her the value of co-operation a second finger is pushed slowly and painfully in.

With the three targets prepared Matron can now get to work with her equipment. A large enema nozzle is pushed into Anna's waiting passage and she feels the internal stretching as the retention cuff is inflated. The nurse holds her wrists as the warm water begins the flow and distend her. Anna begins to groan and struggle as the flows goes on and on and the bloated, cramping feeling in her grows.

At last the container is empty but there is no relief: the tube is clamped off and she is instructed to remain where she is, bent over the end of the bed with the tubes dangling from her backside. Matron and the nurse move on to Melanie who submits in silence to being tubed and filled and lies there gripping the bed tightly and clenching her buttocks as Matron moves on to Catherine who cries and wriggles but is easily connected up and given her enema.

Only when all three have been filled up are they allowed to rise from their bent over positions, but the pressure of the water in their distended innards increases as they stand upright and soon they are groaning and wriggling with the cramping in their bowels.

"Right, girls, you may sit on your chamber pots."

Laid out on the floor in front of them are three white china chamber pots. The pyjama-clad women squat down awkwardly.

"Place your hands on your heads and remain there until I say you can stand."

There they are, all in a row in their pink striped pyjamas and bonnets, squatting bare bottomed on their chamber pots, hands on heads as they strain in their desire to empty their bladders.

One of the nurses is approaching with a large china basin. "Which one first, Matron?"

"Do we have any volunteers?" Matron asks dryly. "Who would like to be first to have their mouth soaped? No-one? Well I think we'll start with little Miss Uncooperative here." She points at Catherine.

The nurse kneels down in front of Catherine squatting on her potty and takes a bar of clear, slick glycerine soap from the warm water in the basin, with which she thoroughly soaps up a small flannel. "Open wide, Missy, I'm going to give you a good cleaning out."

Catherine recoils from the soapy cloth in front of her face, but the other nurse is behind her, holding her head.

"You can struggle if you want to, but you're still going to have your mouth washed out and it'll just be that much longer before you can rinse it away."

Realising defeat is inevitable Catherine opens her mouth to the sickening taste of the soap. The nurse is grinning as she scrubs around Catherine's mouth, holding her jaw. "That's better, but I'll have to give you an extra good soaping now, just to teach you the value of co-operation." And she keeps on scrubbing the cloth round until Catherine is drooling foam from her open mouth.

"Keep your mouth open.." The nurse turns back to the basin to fish out a bar of soap, which she inserts into Catherine's mouth. "Now close your mouth: I want to see your lips wrapped around it."

With Catherine thoroughly soaped the nurse turns her attention to Anna, who is groaning from the cramping of her enema. "Your turn now, little girl." The nurse is no more than four or five years older than Anna and finds the routine amusing.

"Have you been a bad girl then, sent to bed early with the naughty girls?” The nurse is diligently spreading the soapy foam around Anna's mouth. "I would have thought you were much too big to be sitting on a potty having your mouth washed out, but here you are."

Anna's bar of soap is held at the ready. "Here's a nice bar of soap for you to suck on, little baby." And there is a second detention girl with a bar of soap sticking out of her mouth.

That leaves only Melanie, already snivelling. No sympathy for her wretchedness though. The nurse tucks Melanie's head under her arm and applies the soap cloth deep into her mouth so the snivelling turns into a spluttering cough. The bar of soap threatens to fly out of her mouth once it has been pushed in, so the nurse presses her jaw closed, making her bite into it.

Matron calls out to the waiting wardens that she will be finished shortly so that they may prepare to administer the punishment that the women prisoners have been dreading....

The wardens find the sight of the women prisoners on their chamber pots, pyjama trousers round their ankles, each with a bar of soap sticking out of her mouth, hugely amusing, as indeed it is. The three women prisoners find the sight of the wardens, each carrying a cane, very alarming, as indeed they should.

Now the nurses come around again: one at the front holding the basin for the girls to drop their soap bars into and spit out the foam, one to deflate their enema tubes and pop them out of their bottoms. Melanie is left until last, of course. Any last shred of dignity left to the women prisoners vanishes as they noisily expel the contents of their bladders into the chamber pots. There is much straining, gasping and splashing from the women prisoners and hoots of laughter from the watching wardens.

Now it's back over the ends of their beds for the women prisoners. Three clean bottoms, each with a little cotton wool pad taped on to soak up any last leakage, each with the target area encircled by the impression of the chamber pot rim still visible.

Two wardens pin Melanie's arms to the bed to hold her still while a third prepares to warm her up with the hairbrush. It's actually a clothes brush, a good, solid wooden backed brush. Plenty of weight, imparting a vicious sting from its highly lacquered surface. One stroke is enough to set Melanie wriggling and yelling, which amuses the wardens greatly.

"Don't be such a cry-baby. This is just a little warm-up."

Each slap of the brush leaves a brilliant red oval-tipped mark on Melanie’s pale buttocks, until the marks blend together into a fiery red all over and Melanie is howling and crying.

On they move to Catherine. Same approach, two to hold, one to spank. It's just as methodical as before, as a warm up is exactly what it is, getting the flesh hot, inflamed and, most importantly, sensitised. After this thorough brushing even a light slap feels painful - and the women prisoners are in line for much more than a light slap or two.

While the hairbrush is ringing out its message over the rising sound of Catherine whimpering, two of the other wardens are chatting to Anna: that is to say they're holding her pressed down on to her bed and are whispering to her of the delights to come... "Hear that, Anna, it's your turn in a minute...can you feel it already, that hairbrush, imagine how we're going to warm your botty for you?"

They're sniggering over her. "Hear how much they're getting, Anna? Well you're going to get more than that: you won't believe how much we can make that brush sting you."

So to Anna, who is pinned down in the same way, but also has her other two tormentors leaning on the bed, eye to eye with her, waiting to enjoy her reactions.

Anna would like to be tough, but it's not long time before she's been on the receiving end of the treatment and she soon begins those involuntary wriggles that show the wardens that they're getting to her.

"You're going awfully red, Anna. Are you going to have a little cry soon?"

"No, surely not, you're not a little cry baby like Melanie, are you?"

There is much sniggering as Anna becomes more and more agitated. Her sight is going all blurry and she can feel the tears welling up, ready to trickle down.

"Give me the brush." One of the wardens stands up from her close observation of Anna. "I'll have a go now."

Anna's ample bottom is already bright red and the wardens don't want to risk overdoing it - that might get the next bit curtailed - so now the brush is employed for its bristles, stiff and prickly, tap, tap, tap over the hot and inflamed flesh, irritating it, making it hypersensitive. Then quickly with a scrubbing motion, up and down, around and around. Anna screeches at this: it feels like the flesh is being sandpapered off. She yells and she struggles and the wardens delight in sitting on her to hold her down while she's treated to another round of spanking with the flat of the brush.

Anna is gulping in breath and making sounds suspiciously like sobbing, but the burst of struggling seems to have diverted her away from crying, for the moment anyway. The wardens reluctantly desist; there's the serious business to get down to...

Thursday, 19 January 2017

Chapter 19

A few days following her horrible ordeal at the hands of the Colonel, Anna found herself once again sitting squeezed behind one of the small desks in the same classroom. Somehow the cramped size of them just added to her sense of discomfort and humiliation as she forced her long thighs under the low desktop.

On this occasion however, the lesson was being taken by Jackie Frayn, the 18-year-old niece of the Governess. Anna’s heart was pounding. Mainly with hate. For a few brief moments she let her mind dwell on what she would like to do to the girl... then switched away. Such thoughts were too dangerous. Her hatred for this teenage bitch - who held temporary power over her - knew no bounds. But as always, there was nothing she could do about it. Or, rather, nothing she dare do about it!

Jackie Frayn looked round her classroom with complacent satisfaction. Before her, eight heads were bowed down. Black, brown, dark blonde, light blonde, even red. Her 'pupils', whose ages ranged from 20 to 35, were all dressed in schoolgirl uniforms - at least, a bizarre travesty of school uniform designed deliberately to degrade. And that afternoon they were doing long division sums. Twenty of them. The concentration and the silence was intense. The penalty of failure in this arithmetic exercise was known by all.

One stroke of the cane for every wrong answer and a period of detention for some.

This classroom regime was one of the integral parts of the discipline at Blackfriars Grange, one of half a dozen Senior Reform Schools throughout the United Kingdom. Others were planned over the next three years. The Reform School inmates, mature young women each of whom had been sentenced to a term of strict re-education for their crimes, were being treated as schoolgirls again.

"Five more minutes," announced the young warden complacently. She turned a page of the novel she was reading ... hearing a gasp or two of anguish form various members of her class. Some were very bad at arithmetic ...

A little thrill of pleasure went through Jackie. She loved her work. Being the niece of the Governess also gave her a special kind of authority. She was not simply another prison official; she was in charge of the 'educational' side of Blackfriars. Like her aunt, she adopted a Victorian style in dress, although her long gowns were rather more frilly and fanciful, as befitted a young woman. Her gown that day was of pale lilac with a white ruffed lace collar. Very fetching.

"Two more minutes," announced Jackie.

Again came that anguished murmuring ...

Yes, it was tough at Redesdale, thought Jackie. But then, it was supposed to be tough. The state decreed it so. Amelia Frane, her aunt, like all the other officials in the place, were only doing their duty. Carrying out policy laid down.

"Time's up. Bring up your exercise books."

Each woman stood up and extricated herself from the small desk at which she had to sit. Those with long legs had an uncomfortable time of it. In a tense silence they filed up and, in turn, placed their work on Jackie's desk. She looked at each pale, frightened face ... seeing the tension and the dread in uneasy eyes ... sensing which ones had made the biggest hash of the exercise. Well, she would soon know for sure.

The women returned to their places where they waited, still and silent, hands clasped on top of the head - the obligatory posture whilst an exercise was being marked. Many an eye flickered with anguish to the cane which hung on display behind Jackie Frayn. It had a hooked handle, was three feet long, slim and whippy, and highly polished, especially at the last twelve inches. This was because this 'business end', as it was sometimes referred to, had been lacquered to increase its hardness. And, thus, its efficiency. This lacquering had been the idea of the Governess, and had swiftly gained Ministry approval. It was with some pride and pleasure that the Governor had recently learnt that these lacquered canes were now used in all Senior Reform Schools.

Certainly, each woman in the classroom knew just how painful a full-blooded cut from such a cane was.

Jackie's blue pencil was busily at work. She worked from a crib, slashing through each incorrect answer and noting how many problems had not been solved. Then she sorted the pile of books into some order. Though she sometimes dealt with the women at random, it was more usually her policy to summon out first those who had done best. Thus, those who remained at their desk had to watch the preliminary punishments, all the time knowing that her punishment was bound to be worse! That indeed was a most salutary experience.

Jackie looked up and then slowly round the class. By then you could almost cut the tension with a knife.

"Some good efforts from a few," she announced, "but bad efforts from the majority. Some VERY bad efforts." Jackie could see many of them trembling. Lips being bitten. Tears already beginning to form in terrified, despairing eyes. Well, they were there to suffer ... and suffer they would!

"It seems to me," she continued, "That this class is particularly inept at this form of arithmetic. Very well. I intend to change that. We shall have more long division in future. Also, if there isn’t a rapid improvement, I shall increase the penalties. Two strokes instead of one for every error might make some of you wake your ideas up! And anyone making more than three errors will have a spell in Detention"

There was a low horrified gasp ... Detention was feared even more than the cane.

Then Jackie stood up and took down the cane. She flexed it and then ran her fingers almost lovingly along its smoothness. It was her favourite corrective instrument.

"Alice Williams!" she barked. "Come out here ... "

With something like relief, a tall young woman with red hair stood up. She had a willowy figure and rather small breasts.

"Not a bad effort. Just the one sum uncompleted."

It was no mean feat to have got nineteen of the sums correct! Jackie didn't pay compliments.

"I ... I'm sorry, Miss ... I didn't quite have ..."

"Silence, girl! Get over my desk."

Without demur or delay, Alice knelt on the trestle stool that ran along the front of Jackie's desk, her back to the class. Then she pulled down the absurd bloomer-style shorts and regulation knickers worn by all inmates. Her bottom was unmarked and the flesh exceedingly white, as it often is with redheads. Alice bent across the desk and clasped the back edge ... and Jackie, almost casually it seemed, measured the naked bottom before her.

Then the cane went up fast and high ... and came whistling down even faster.

It lashed across the waiting buttock cheeks ... instantly raising a vivid twin-tracked weal. Seeming all the more vivid on account of its extra-white background.

"Oww ... oww ... aaaahh ... ooowwww!" gasped Alice, red head jerking up and back, bottom squirming uncontrollably as it absorbed the excruciating pain. She managed, however, to maintain her grip on the desk edge.

Oh how thankful she was to be getting only one!

"Back to your place!"

Alice wriggled her knickers and shorts up, stood down and walked back to her desk. For her it was over. Just one burning weal to be endured. But when one had had a dozen or more ... sometimes many more ... to endure, that was really nothing.

"Deirdre Smith!"

A mousy-haired, rather plain woman came out to the front.

"Again ... not a bad effort. Two errors. Over you go, girl." Deirdre was a rather ungainly individual with a big bottom and thick thighs. That bottom was exposed to the class. Not very attractive, thought Jackie; on the other hand, it was a bottom made for corrective treatment. Plenty of flesh, Jackie liked that. The soft, rather loose whiteness quivered as she touched it lightly with the tip of the rod. She could see Deirdre's knuckles clenching white. The woman was a relative newcomer to Blackfriars.
The stroke came lashing down.

As with Alice, the twin-tracked weal flamed instantly over both big buttock cheeks. But, unlike Alice, Deirdre lost her grip. As she uttered an agonised yelp, her arms were flung back and her hands clasped urgently to her jerking-juddering bottom.

"OOOWW ... OOOWW ... AAAAAGGGHHHH!" she cried, head thrown back.

"I've told you about that before," said Jackie acidly.

She was supposed to keep her grip and not interfere with the punishment as Deirdre had done - even if she were a newcomer and unused to withstanding pain. The penalty was that the girl got the stroke again.

Deirdre's hands unclamped form the weal encircling her bottom and gripped the edge of the desk again. Too late!

"Here it comes again, Deirdre," said Jackie.

Deirdre's bottom seemed to quiver all over in anticipatory dread.

Up went the cane ... down it came ...


A second long weal over the madly juddering flesh and Deirdre jerked under the grip of the Monitors. But there was nothing she could do, except take whatever Jackie had to hand out. Luckily for her, on this occasion, it was but one more stroke.

She got it ...

Sssswwweeee ... ccrraacckkkk!


A third encircling weal striped the big bottom vividly. A bright red which purpled towards the end of the weal where the lacquered part of the cane bit more effectively.

Deirdre was sobbing, even though she had received only three cuts ... a potent sign of her lack of experience.

"Back to your place ..."

A struggle with the knickers and her baggy shorts, then Deirdre stepped down and went tearfully to her desk.

The next three punishments ranged from two to four strokes. All the girls, Jackie knew, were considerably more experienced than Deirdre.

One by one they were called out to the desk ... knelt and pulled down their shorts and knickers ... gripped the edge ... and got their stripes. But each girl was far tougher than Deirdre and all maintained their grip to the accompaniment of breathless gasps and whinnying yelps.

Jackie was warming up nicely, rather like a golfer hitting practise shots before the real thing. She was just in the mood to hand out this kind of mass caning ... which was becoming a pretty regular event in her class. They were coming at something like once a week now and, needless to say, were much dreaded. The long drawn-out aspect of them was a terrible thing to have to endure. To witness the torment of others while one waited one's turn. For the women who were left, it was worst of all, in every sense.

In her long, lilac-coloured dress, Jackie faced the class. She was a pretty young woman - but in a rather hard way. Especially hard were her dark brown eyes. And especially now, as they glinted round the classroom.

Oh how terrified of her they were!

And rightly so!

"That has disposed of those who made some effort to use their brains," she announced. "Now we come to a wider band of defaulters. Those who made between five and a dozen mistakes, or failed to finish problems. There are three of you ... a disgraceful performance," continued Jackie. "There is NO excuse for it. Long division is not difficult. It simply requires effort and application. Each of you will spend the rest of the week in Detention. As for the rest of you," Jackie tapped the cane in the palm of her hand, "I want you to remember my warning. If there is not a distinct improvement in the near future, any girl is likely to find herself getting TWICE the number of strokes!"

She consulted the books on her list.

"Melanie Perkins!"

An attractive young blonde girl rose from the back row and came forward, moving with a natural, seductive grace. Just 29, Melanie had served five months of a nine month sentence for having illegal sexual intercourse with three young men on different occasions (three months for each man she had taken!).

"Six errors, Melanie," said Jackie, smiling at her.

The pretty blonde bit a fulsome, pink lower lip. She knew only too well what fate awaited her, having been in Detention before.

“Next, Catherine Green…”

Catherine had so far managed to avoid Detention but she was nevertheless aware of what others had had to endure there. Silent tears ran down her cheeks as she slowly made her way to the front of the classroom.

Anna waited for her name to be called out. She knew, almost certainly, that she had not got many right. Her brain, never too good when it came to arithmetic, had seemed like putty that afternoon.

“… and Anna Dobson!”

Nervously, Anna extricated herself from the small desk at which she had been sitting at and joined the other two women at the front, each of them pale and fearful ...

“Right, you three. Report to Matron upstairs for Detention.” Jackie dismissed them with a wave of the hand towards the door. “Be quick about it... and no talking.”

Dejectedly, the three women made their way up the long staircase to the top floor in silence, broken only by Melanie muttering under her breath: “It’s so fucking unfair. Just for getting a couple of sums wrong”.

Anna sighed miserably in agreement. There seemed no end to their wretchedness in this awful place.

Saturday, 1 October 2016

Chapter 18

When Anna entered the room, she saw the Colonel seated behind a solid-looking table. Feeling cold and vulnerable in her pyjamas, she felt a frisson of fear as she saw the slim, hook-handled school cane lying on the polished surface of the table-top. She knew at once how much that beastly cane would hurt through thin cotton pyjamas.

“Sit down, Anna.”

The Colonel indicated the wooden school desk in front of the table.

His eyes glinted lustfully as he watched the pyjama-clad young woman ease her long legs under the desk.

“I have seen the work you have been doing. It looks very comprehensive to me. Would you say you have learnt a lot while you have been here?”

“Oh yes, Sir, a great deal.” By God, I have too, reflected Anna. Twice as much as she had learnt during her years as a teenager at school.

"Well, the rod is a great stimulus to learning,” said the Colonel with a little smile. He laid his hand over the cane on the desk. “I am going to test you on some of the subjects in which you have been instructed by Miss Beeton. I hope for your sake you have retained a lot of the knowledge that has been inculcated into you.” Again the Colonel laid a hand over the cane on his desk.

He just can’t wait to use it, thought Anna. What a sadistic old lecher he was! Still, she had been caned with worse canes than that ... and they had also been wielded by stronger arms. So, painful and humiliating as it would be, it could not be as bad as some of her experiences in the past. Thus Anna tried to comfort herself to some degree.

“I must tell you, Anna, that if your behaviour does not measure up to my requirements during this afternoon’s lessons, I shall deal with you severely.”

Anna’s heart sank like a stone in a pond. Surely ... surely ... he could not be so cruel!

“I ... u-understand ..., S-Sir ...” she whispered.

“Good,” said the Colonel. “We will get on with your examination.”

Anna braced herself, heart fluttering. Now she had to be more careful than ever. Respectful, obedient, submissive ... to the ‘nth degree’!

“I shall begin with oral questions,” said the Colonel. “Later on this afternoon, you will have a number of written tests.”

“I ... I shall try my very best, Sir,” said Anna earnestly.

“You’d better,” said the Colonel, with evident relish, “Because, for every mistake
you make, this cane will be laid across your bottom, young lady! Understood?”

Anna gulped. “Yes, Sir,” she replied.

The afternoon ahead was beginning to look exceedingly unpleasant.

“From what poem do the following lines come, Anna? Hope springs eternal in the human breast?”

Anna’s brain raced. The subject was English Literature, at which she wasn’t too bad, but the range of it was so wide. Her brain clicked. Got it!

“Essay on Man, Sir” she answered.

“Correct,” nodded the Colonel. “Author?”

“Alexander Pope, Sir.”


Another hurdle cleared. But how long could she keep up the pace? She had answered the first half dozen questions correctly. Of course, it couldn’t last for ever.

“Who wrote the words ‘Oh daughter of Death and Priapus, our Lady of Pain?” asked the Colonel.

Lucky again! It was an obscure line that had stuck in her mind, on account of the phrase Lady of Pain, no doubt.

“Swinburne, Sir.”

The Colonel raised his eyebrows. “Correct. You have become well read while you have been here, Anna.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Now some Shakespeare. In which of his plays do the characters Benedick and Beatrice appear?”

Anna thought hard. Shakespeare’s plays teemed with people. It was so easy to go wrong. And she did.

“Measure For Measure, Sir.”

“Wrong,” said the Colonel with some satisfaction. He made a note on his pad beside him. “Much Ado About Nothing is the answer. We will continue with the Bard.”

Anna concentrated her mind. However, with such a broad subject, it was impossible not to make some mistakes. Of the next dozen questions, Anna got five wrong. Each time, the error was noted on the pad.

“Right,” said the Colonel at length, “I think that will do for English Literature, Anna. You have, I think it fair to say, done quite well. Yes ... quite well. However, there were some errors and you must pay for them. It’s the only way to try and ensure you don’t make the same errors in the future, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Sir.” answered Anna meekly. It was better to know that what the Colonel had just said was true. Was this not the method Miss Beeton had employed? And had not Anna learnt vastly under her tuition? Miserably she watched as the Colonel stood up and removed his black jacket. Oh how unfair it was!

“Come out here.” The supple cane tapped the polished top of the table, lightly but insistently, as Anna got up from her desk and went forward. The Colonel came slowly round in front of the table. “Now bend over and touch your toes, girl,” he ordered. His cold eyes brightened with cruel lechery as he watched his young victim obey. Her ample pyjama-clad bottom thrust roundly at him as Anna bent over and reached for her toes.

“You will, of course, remain touching your toes...”

“Yes, Sir ...”

Anna gritted her teeth fiercely. She had had worse... far worse... she told herself as she felt the light tap of the tip of the cane on her waiting flesh.


The familiar burning, electric-wire pain of the biting cane. Encircling, searing; the tip most searing of all. Anna gasped between clenched teeth. Oh God, no matter how much one had had of it, one could never get acclimatised to the pain. Always it was that bit worse than she expected ... or hoped.


The next cut came a little lower down that taut curve of her bottom. Equally painful,. A thin streak of blazing fire as the flexible willow cracked across the soft flesh ... then a deep-searing burn ... followed by only a fractional ebbing of the immediate pain. Then one was ready for the next.

Anna felt her buttocks clench involuntarily.


Anna’s fingers lifted a few inches off her toes as the third stroke cut across the so-tender overhang of her buttocks. And this time a louder gasp came from between her teeth. Quickly she re-touched her toes and straightened her long limbs. Three to go.

The Colonel was putting everything he had got into each stroke, marvelling at Anna’s stubbornness and fortitude. The delight of caning the bottom of such a luscious 28-year-old woman was beyond description. And to cane her just as hard as he liked! Still, the afternoon’s only just beginning, he said to himself. Before it’s over, I’ll have her squirming and yelling with pain ... and pleading with him for mercy!


What a wonderful sound... what a wonderful sight!

This time, the Colonel saw Anna’s curvaceous bottom give a sudden juddering squirm as she absorbed the pain. Good ... there were limits even to this young woman’s stoicism.


The fifth stroke bit again into Anna’s overhang ... and the blonde head jerked up momentarily and once again the fingertips left the toes. There was a sobbing intake of breath as Anna bent over fully again.


So that’s where it hurts her most, the Colonel thought, and aimed the sixth stroke at precisely the same area.


The Colonel’s aim was inexpert and he caught Anna full across the centre of her bottom. The girl took it with no more than a shudder and a whimper ... and remained bending over.

Six long weals smarted and throbbed and burned, especially where the last inch or two of the cane had bitten. Anna choked back the gall in her throat and blinked away the hint of tears that pricked her eyes. Those weals hurt.

Oh yes, they hurt quite enough!

“Alright girl, you may stand straight,” Anna winced as she came erect; the skin over her bottom seemed to have shrunk. It always felt like that after a caning. “Now go back to your desk.”

Meekly, Anna obeyed, watching the Colonel move back to his chair.

“Right, Anna, we will turn to another subject. French Grammar, I think.”

Anna’s heart sank. Certainly not one of her better subjects ... though Arithmetic was perhaps her worst.

“Define the future of the verb Alder” said the Colonel.

Once again Anna cleared the decks of her mind for action ... and began.

Just think of that cane biting for every mistake, she said to herself severely.

And that thought certainly did seem to stimulate her mental powers to quite a remarkable degree!

However, as is self-evident, no-one can possibly be perfect in one subject, let alone several. Anna certainly would not have claimed to be ... nor would the Colonel have expected it. The whole thing was a kind of charade which both ‘pupil’ and ‘teacher’ played out ... simply for the latter’s sadistic amusement.

After English Literature ...

French Grammar ...

Followed by History ...

Followed by Arithmetic ...

... after four subjects, poor Anna’s bottom carried over thirty throbbing-burning weals. Such was the pain she was suffering, she could scarcely sit down on the wooden seat of her school desk.

Oh God, how much longer was this long drawn-out inhumanity going on?

There was just one tiny crumb of hope. Anna felt that the Colonel’s arm was definitely beginning to weaken ... Biting her lips, she watched as he seated himself again and took up yet another paper.

“Geography ...” he announced.

“P-Please ... Sir ... h-haven’t I had enough ... f-for one afternoon?” Anna heard herself making the plea despite the fact that she knew the futility of it. She knew he wanted her broken, made to grovel and plead… Why add to his enjoyment? All the same, it was something that came bubbling out of her in sheer desperation.

“I don’t understand,” said the Colonel flatly. “Had enough? What is enough, young lady?”

“Sir ... please ... Sir ... you’ve caned me ... s-so much ... I ... I ... just can’t think straight any m-more ...”

“Really? Too bad for you, my dear. We will proceed with Geography ... and exactly the same penalties apply.”

A deep shuddering sob came from Anna and, for a brief moment, she buried her head in her hands. Then she forced herself erect again and tried to think calmly. She must ... absolutely must

“I’m ready, Sir,” she said.

“What,” enquired the Colonel, “is the capital of Malawi?”

Anna’s brains felt like scramble eggs. Malawi? That was one of those new African states. She could never remember about them.

“Mogadishu ...” she said tentatively.

“Wrong,” said the Colonel emphatically. And another note went down on his pad.

A big tear ran down Anna’s cheek. Already, for that simple mistake, she could feel the cane making her squirm with pain.

“Next question,” said the Colonel relentlessly. “What is the average annual export of coffee from Brazil?”

Anna’s mind became a complete blank. She began to sob helplessly.

“Ten questions ... and not a single answer right,” said the Colonel. “I’m shocked at this failure. You deserve the caning you’re going to get.”

“Sir ... please ... Sir ... my b-brain seems to have gone dead ... I don’t know why ... ooohh, please ... I ... I’m s-so ... t-tired ...”

“Come out here, girl. I know a way of making your brain come to life again!”

“No, Sir ... please it won’t ... it c-can’t!” Anna’s voice was high-pitched and wailing. All the same, she got up out of the desk and moved to the front of the Colonel’s table yet once more.

“Bend over ... touch your toes ...”

“Please ... please ... no more ... I’ve tried ... I’ve tried so h-hard ...”

“Bend over, my little beauty!”

The cane was being flexed. ... He watched avidly as his commands were obeyed and the pyjama-clad young bottom was once more presented for his attentions.

Chapter 17

The first lesson of the day ended after one hour. Miss Beeton left the room ... but, previously, had set everyone to learn twenty different lines of Longfellow’s Hiawatha!

“I’ll be testing you when I get back ...”

Silence reigned in the classroom. Every head was bowed.

Concentration was intense. Nowhere more so than amongst those who had just felt Miss Beeton’s strap. They didn’t want another taste!

Anna tried to put pain from her mind and make her brain absorb the words. Oh how difficult it was. Yet, it had to be learnt.

From time to time, she felt rebellious flares of resentment at what she was having to do. However, strenuously, she fought them down. There was no other option than to do as she had been told. To grind her brain to the limit. Other women there had learnt how to do it ... and thus now suffered less.

I must join them, Anna resolved.

I must, I must!

It was the only way ...

From the forests and the prairies,
From the great lakes of the Northland,
From the land of the Ojibways,
From the land of the Dacotahs —

Oh God, what rubbish it was! Yet Anna knew she must learn it.

On the shores of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis —

Drivel! Yet having to be impinged on the brain. In order to be recited. Unless one wanted the strap. Almost frenziedly, Anna concentrated her mind. She wanted to rage ... to weep ... yet, somehow, she concentrated her mind.

She was beginning to realise that, in Blackfriars Grange, there was no other way except complete mental and physical submission. Hideous as that realisation was, it had to be faced.

Anna wept silent, bitter tears.

Aware of her defeat.

* * *

Click-clack ... click-clack ... click-clack ...

Then, suddenly, Miss Beeton was back. Seated at her desk.


All heads came up.

“Anna Dobson, report to the Detention Room in pyjamas immediately.”

A freezing sensation in the brain. Almost a loosening of the bowels. Anna remained seated - petrified.

“Did you hear me, girl?”

Anna tried to collect her wits.

“I ... I ... ah ... I mean ... Miss ... but ... why ... w-why ... M-Miss?” Terror was gripping her like a vice.

“Don’t ask questions, girl. Just do as I say!”

Anna was on her feet. Swaying. Panic surging through her. What could it mean? What was it all about? She had done nothing wrong. Nothing which she had not already been punished for. So ... why had she to report to the Detention Room … and why in pyjamas?

Anna summoned the strength to make it to the door. Then out, along the corridor and upstairs to the dormitory, the sickness of dread rising within her. Inside the empty room, she hurriedly undressed and changed into her pyjamas, all the time wondering what ordeal awaited her in the detention room downstairs.

Such a dreadful place!

So full of hideous memories!

Anna recalled her last visit and almost screamed.

Then, her ‘school’ uniform clothes neatly folded on the end of her bed, she hurried down again until she came to the door of the Detention Classroom. Heart pounding, Anna knocked timorously.

“Come in ...”

Anna turned the handle and the door swung easily open.

Chapter 16

6.30am and the alarm bell sounds at the start of another day at Blackfriars Grange.

Once again, Anna and the other women in her dormitory prepare for another day of misery and humiliation.

Pyjamas off and on with the absurd knickers, followed by the rough cotton blouse with rigid starched collar and tie. Then the grey wool stockings held up by a stiff, deep suspender belt, all securely encased in thick elasticated-leg bottle-green bloomers worn under a bottle-green serge gymslip. Everything was designed to humiliate. And it did. Finally Anna pulled on the clumpy school shoes and grey felt hat, remembering to tuck the elastic behind her ears and under her chin. Very neat, but very uncomfortable.

Anna was ready for class.

And she felt sick at the prospect.

In single file the ‘schoolgirls’ clattered down the corridor to their classroom. Behind her, Anna could hear the other new arrival, Catherine, breathing fast. This was to be her second week. Doubtless, she was feeling even more petrified, thought Anna. It was her fourth week.

Into the dreaded room they went.

It looked the same. It smelt the same.

Small, cramping desks. A blackboard and easel. Miss Beeton’s desk on a dais. And, above all, the punishment stool with before it, hanging on the wall, the dreaded paddles. As was her duty, one of the monitors took them down and oiled them.

Dead silence ... but for fast breathing. And a sob or two from Catherine.

Minutes passed.

Then a tingle of nerves as Miss Beeton’s heels could be heard clicking along the corridor.

In she swept, red hair bouncing, wearing a tight-fitting olive-green dress with calf-length boots to match.

“Good morning, girls!”

So bright, so breezy. Not a care in the world. As if that monstrous place with its iron regime was the most natural thing in the world. Hate burgeoned in Anna’s heart as Miss Beeton smiled at them.

“Good morning, Miss Beeton,” they chorused.

“Now it’s back to work. And I hope there is considerable improvement in the work of some of you ...”

Anna felt herself shudder as Miss Beeton’s swivelling gaze seemed to rest rather too long upon her.

“ ... and, Green, you will stop that noise, or I’ll begin the week by laying a strap across your bottom!”

Wide-eyed, dark-haired Catherine Green pressed a hand to her mouth.

“Latin ...” announced Miss Beeton ... and there was concerted audible moan. It was the most hated subject of all.

“Virgil’s Aeneid, starting at the beginning, each of you will translate a few lines.” A pause. “Now, you’ve all done it before, so there shouldn’t be too many errors. Open your books.”

Anna pushed up the lid of her desk and took out the Aeneid. Opening it, she gazed numbly at its opening lines. Once again, her brain seemed to have become like so much rice pudding!

Arma virumque cano, Troiae qui primus ab oris
Italiam fate profugus Lavinaque venit
Litora —

What, in God’s name, was the translation of that?

A wave of self-pity swept over Anna. They were deliberately given these impossible tasks just so that they would fail them! Just to have a ‘reason’ for punishing them! Oh the monstrous vileness of it!

“Green, you will begin ...”

Anna heard the scrape of her chair as she stood up. There was a brief pause. Thank God it isn’t me, said Anna to herself. But, in due time, her turn must come. Anna almost burst into tears.

“... Arms I sing ...” came Catherine’s controlled voice, “... and the man, who first from the shores of Troy came ...” There was another pause. Anna envied her for having got even this far. She was experienced, of course, that made a lot of difference. But would she fail? Then Catherine resumed. “... fate-exiled, to Italy and her Lavinian strand …”

“Good,” said Miss Beeton perfunctorily. “You may sit down, girl.” She was pleased with the ‘progress’ Catherine had made during her first month in class. Originally, she had been as about as mentally lazy as ... well ... Anna, say. In time, the paddle and the cane had persuaded her to make an unpleasant but necessary effort!

“Next. Patricia.”

Tall Patricia, willowy and graceful, thirty-three years.

- multum ille et terris iactatus et alto
Vi superum, saevae memorem lunonis ob iram

Thus Anna read uncomprehendingly. A panic was already beginning to mount in her. She knew she would fail when her turn came! She listened to Patricia translating.

“ — much buffeted he on sea ....”

“On flood, Patricia.”

“I ... I beg pardon, Miss, on flood and ... and ... f-field ... by ...”

A long pause.


“Er ... oh yes ... by constraint ... of ... of Heaven ... and fell Juno’s unslumbering ire.”

The final words came at a rush.


Patricia sat down. Was that a sigh of relief she gave? It would not have been surprising.

And so it proceeded, with each woman taking up where the previous one had left off.

The next two made a couple of errors ... and each got three strokes of the leather-covered paddle. Miss Beeton was aware of the difficulties of Latin so was less severe than when dealing with simpler subjects.

The next girl word perfect.

And the next ... or nearly so.

Then the seventh woman made quite a hash of it. Four or five errors. It was young, plump-bottomed Melanie. She was much shorter and plumper than Patricia. Twenty-seven or twenty-eight, Anna guessed. Big breasts were straining through her blouse; fat thighs wobbled. In silence the young woman knelt on the stool.

“Knickers down ...”

Obediently, Melanie’s soft-quivering buttock cheeks, so fulsomely rounded, were nakedly exposed.

“Six strokes,” said Miss Beeton. She was still using the paddle.

The big buttocks clenched convulsively as they waited helplessly for the flame-burn of leather-covered wood on flesh ... and quivered even more.

Gasping and whinnying between clamped teeth, Melanie squirmed frantically as the strokes fell methodically. The wild juddering of the whole of her bottom was a hideous spectacle ... especially for those who still awaited their turn. They all knew just how burningly painful even that paddle could be.

But, bravely, Melanie did not cry out. Moreover, she kept her thighs together and thus managed not to rip her knickers. Red-cheeked but dry-eyed, she returned to her place. It had been quite a good performance. Melanie, though, had had over three months’ experience of the ways of Blackfriars Grange.

The eighth woman was word perfect.

The ninth made a couple of minor errors but escaped. Now Miss Beeton was on the front row. Anna’s heart had begun to pound.

Desperately, she tried to work out which lines would be hers ... but even then, she knew she would make little sense of them.

The tenth woman made more than half a dozen mistakes. Six strokes was her allocation with the paddle. Her gasping cries echoed round the room as her bottom changed from white to a rosy-red hue. She had only been at Blackfriars Grange a month longer than Anna.

Sobbing, knickers at half mast, she stumbled back.

It was Anna’s turn.

Trembling, she stood up. The print swam before her.

En Priamus ... she read. Well, that was fairly easy.

“In Priam,” she said.

“Lo, here is Priam, you stupid girl!” interrupted Miss Beeton.

Sunt hic etian Sua praemia laudi; Oh dear God, what did it mean!

“Er ... er ... f-first praise ... er ... here ... was ... er ... his ...” stammered Anna.

“Good Lord, what on earth does that mean?”

“I ... I don’t q-quite know, Miss ...”

“Don’t know? Of course, you don’t know. Because it is gibberish, Dobson! The correct translation is: ‘Even here, virtue hath her rewards.’ That is simple enough. However, it is quite obvious to me you are still not making enough mental effort!”

“P-Please ... I ... “

“Silence, girl! No virtue in that. And the reward here, Dobson, is the paddle. Come out!”

Wretchedly, Anna stumbled to the front of the class. It was all happening as she knew it must. She began to sob as she positioned herself across the desk. Oh the hideous injustice of it! How could she be expected to translate such rubbish?

“Knickers down ...”

She must try to keep her thighs together.

All would be gazing ... mostly with indifference, few with sympathy ... at her bare bottom. She felt her flesh twitching. Then the moment of panic as her wrists were manacled. Anna was pulled a little forward, her bottom curving.

Ready ...

Down from its place came the paddle again.

A sobbing groan from Anna. She tensed. She clenched her teeth furiously.


What good did it do to clench her teeth? At once a yelping cry was torn from her as her head jerked up and back. The pain was too great. Always worse than one had told oneself it would be!

Tthhhwwwaacckkkkkk !

“A-Ahh ... a-a-ahh ... aaaahhhhhhhh!”

Full-sweeping strokes from Miss Beeton. Only during the first week or two was she wont to use anything less.


“Aaghh owww o-owww aagghhhh!”

Oh God ... the pain of it ... the pain of it! spreading ... burning deep ...


“A-A-A-Aggghh ... ooooowwwwwwww ... “

That was four. It was nearly over. But not yet. Anna felt her twisting buttocks clench and clench again in frantic dread as there was a momentary pause before the next stroke. She twisted the other way. Again her buttocks clenched.

It made no difference.


She got it full across her quaking bottom ... and it set her writhing in torment yet again as her gasping yelps rang out.


“Y-Yeeeee aaggh a-a-agghhhhh ... “

The last. Oh thank God, it was the last!

Click ...

Where were her knickers? Incredibly ... somehow . . . this time she had managed to keep her thighs more or less together. That was something. An improvement, one might say. She would not have the chore of mending them that evening. Wriggling, Anna pulled up her knickers and shorts. They fitted tight over her burning flesh. Sobbing, she made her way through a mist of tears to her desk.

“Ahh ... hhhaaa ...”

Oh yes, it was always so painful to put a tender bottom down to the hard wood of one’s desk seat! So difficult not to gasp out.

Burning ...

Oh so tender!

Vaguely, Anna was aware that young Maria had made an equal hash of her translation. Weeping loudly, the pretty, Italian-looking woman was placing herself over the punishment stool.

“Six strokes,” announced Miss Beeton.

“N-No ... ooo ... oooh ... n-no ... p-please ... please ...”

“And Maria, this time I am going to use the paddle!”

“No ... no ... m-merceee ... MERCEEEE ... EEEEEEE!”

It would be the first time for her, thought Anna, as she looked upon the girl’s neatly-rounded, twisting bottom. She felt faintly sorry for Maria. But only faintly. They all had to go through it.

In any event, one had not all that much room for sympathy for others when one had so many troubles of one’s own!

Chapter 15

Another two weeks passed, and once more Anna was summoned to the Colonel’s office, this time in her pyjamas.

“Have you been a naughty girl since I last saw you?” asked the Colonel, aware that the women inmates were sometimes made to remain dressed only in pyjamas as a punishment, often for days or even weeks at a time.

Here it comes, thought Anna. Another game he likes to play. She steeled herself. “Yes, Sir,” she answered.

“So that’s why you are dressed like that,” said the Colonel, grinning.

Anna shrugged. Best get it over with. “Yes, Sir ... I’m sorry Sir … I forgot to fold my school uniform neatly ...”

“I thought you might have been, Anna.” The Colonel continued to grin. “So I brought something with me this time. It’s in my briefcase. Go and get it, young lady.”

Nervously, Anna went over to open the briefcase. It contained just one item ... a wood-and-leather paddle. Resignedly she took it out and walked back to the Colonel.

“You’ve felt one of these before?” he asked.

“Yes, Sir ...”

“Stings, eh? Hurts, eh?”

“Yes, Sir ...”

“More than the palm of my hand?” The Colonel was tapping the paddle against his own palm. The instrument was shaped rather like an over-size table-tennis bat ... a thickish wedge of hard ebony-wood covered by about a quarter of an inch of leather. Yes, thought Anna, that will hurt considerably more than a hand spanking.

“Yes, Sir,” she replied, trying not to lose her resolution. Was he going to have her across his lap again, she wondered. Like the last time? That had been a manual spanking and comparatively easy to take. This time she was obviously going to have to draw on her reserves.

The Colonel stood up. “Bend over and touch your toes, Anna,” he ordered, his voice thickening. “I think it will be more convenient to paddle your bottom that way.”
Anna moved towards the centre of the room. Where was she supposed to bend over, she wondered wretchedly? Not that it made much difference. So she made her own decision and positioned herself so that her buttocks were displayed invitingly as she bent over, stretching her pyjama trousers taut across them as she did so.

The Colonel surveyed the superbly proportioned bottom thus presented to him with the greatest satisfaction. It was a bottom worthy of being spanked... of being paddled. Of being caned, too. Well, no doubt he would do that on another occasion.

“Who is a naughty girl?”

“I ... I am, S-Sir ...”

The Colonel’s hand tightened on the paddle and he stepped into a convenient position. The muscles of Anna’s buttocks also tightened in anticipation and there was a momentary quivering of the soft flesh.


The paddle fell resoundingly over the centre of the fulsome buttock cheeks. Anna gasped, her fingernails clawing into the arm of the chair.

Yes ... that had hurt and hurt plenty. The spreading pain of a broad paddle was not easy to endure.

“Who is a naughty girl?”

“I ... am ... Sir ...”


The Colonel delighted in the sound of the paddle on the naked bottom. He loved, too, the way the soft woman-flesh shook all over, jelly-like at the impact. Above all, he relished the way Anna fought for control, yet could not stop herself squirming and gasping.

The Colonel laid the next two strokes on each buttock cheek in turn ... one stroke swiftly following the other.



Both cheeks instantly took on a deeper red hue.





Anna gasped more loudly, squirmed her shapely bottom more vigorously.

Oh what a beauty, thought the Colonel. It was the purest joy to whack such a lovely arse as hard as he could ... and as often as he wished!

“Oww ... aaah ... owwww ... OOOOWWWW!”

Tough as she was, the deep-burning pain was beginning to get through to Anna. The paddle was never a laughing matter, that she knew from previous meetings with it.

SSPPLLAAATTTTTT! On the right cheek ...

SSPPLLAAATTTTTT! On the left cheek ...

“Oh ... OWWWW ... S-Sir ... please ... S-Sir ... ppllee ... eeease ...”

“It’s hurting, Anna?”

“Yes ... ahhhh ... yes, Sir ...”

“Good ...”


“... it’s meant to ...”


“Ooowww ... oowwwwwwwwww!”

Oh how deliciously that bottom was squirming! And oh how Anna twisted and kicked!


“Yooowwwww ... oww ... oowww!”

The paddle was now descending on the middle of Anna’s bottom again. In the same place as it had started. Where the flesh was getting more and more burningly tender.


“Yeee ... ooowwww ... oowwww ... aaahhhggg!”


“Mercy ... ahhhh ... mercy ... S-Sir ... I haven’t been all that n-naughty ...”

“No? Who says not?”



All across the centre. Each one now making Anna yell out with pain ... each one setting the whole of her lush bottom juddering wildly.



“Merccccc ... eeeeeeee!”

But the Colonel was not in the mood for mercy. He could not remember having enjoyed himself so much for a very long time. He would paddle this woman so soundly she wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week!

He raised the paddle once more, ready to smack it down hard on each reddened cheek


“You may get up, girl, if you wish ...”

If she wished! Anna got up rapidly and turned to see the sweating figure of her tormentor.