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Heads swivelled as the pretty brunette sauntered casually along the hot sand, kicking the grains lightly with her bare toes as she chuckled to her girlfriend. They had obviously just arrived in Lanzarote, as the tans were still pale in comparison to some of the nut-brown bodies on display. British, Henry judged, and saucy with it.
Not only were both girls topless, but the brunette’s bikini briefs were cut daringly high at front and back, the two portions joined by a tenuous cord resting on her hips. This left her naked down both sides from ankle to shoulder, the swivelling heads gyrating by virtue of the enticingly large expanse of brazenly bouncing bare buttock on display.
Bryony was proud of her bottom, and knew that it drew appreciative looks when attired so sparingly. She was proud of her breasts, too, and not ashamed to reveal those twin firm globes to the sun for a short time each day. Her mother had tried to dissuade her from these particular bikini briefs, until Bryony threatened to buy a thong which was deemed ‘nothing less than a G-string’ by her alarmed parent. So they had settled on the bum-exposing briefs instead. Her father had not commented, but she had noticed her uncle looking at her rather intently.
The girls were obviously out to enjoy themselves, Henry pondered bitterly as the soft curves quivered round a breakwater. What that dark girl would benefit from, he thought with a smile, would be a swift application of the cane or strap across her bare rump.
Henry cursed himself on the flight home and again back at his flat in the language school, as he wished he had snapped a memento of those magnificent cheeks in Lanzarote. The telephoto lens he had bought in Duty Free had hardly been used, although there were still some very appealing specimens of the female rear when he went down to the processors the following day and shuffled through his Lanzarote ‘collection’. But none were a patch on the cheeky brunette.
He glanced through the notices on the board, the college buildings silent for a further week until the small number of summer vacation private students arrived. He sighed as he saw that only one student was listed on his sheet for Russian. Sighed as he realised that it would be a financially thin summer, paid as he was by the number of private students in his tutor classes. One student would not make much of an impression on his bank overdraft.
He glanced at the French and German tutor lists: four on one, six on the other. Their financial position was assured. The small retainer he would receive meant ‘living-in’ again. The single name under ‘Russian’ was Bryony Stevenson. He hoped she was keen to learn. A reluctant student was always exhausting.
Bryony’s eyes scanned the notice board, searching for the Russian tutorials. She had already registered and found her room. The building seemed deserted, the two other students at lunch intent on talking to one another in their native French despite her attempted introduction.
There it was. Russian: Mr Henry Porasky, Room E, and underneath Bryony Stevenson. So she was the only one on the course. Well at least that would make sure she got personal tuition, she thought with a smile. The first tutorial was at three, she saw. Glancing at the clock, she realised it was already time to look for room E. There was no-one to ask, so it was hunt-the-tutor time…
Henry was buried in his bank statements when Bryony walked in without knocking: ‘Er, excuse me, is this the Russian course?’
‘Yes, yes, come in do,’ he confirmed, not looking up. When he did raise his head, his eyes widened in surprised recognition. It just wasn’t possible. The chances of such a coincidence must be millions to one. But there she was. The very same girl whose delightful derriere he had admired on holiday.
‘You’re Bryony Stevenson?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Yes, that’s right, Mr, er…?’
‘Porasky, Mr Henry Porasky.’
‘And you’re on the Russian course?’ he asked unnecessarily.
‘Seems I’m the only one,’ she smiled.
Henry felt a distinct stirring as he watched her cross to a desk and fold her tanned legs in front of her, the short dress emphasising her youth.
‘Now, you’ve just left school, yes?’
‘Yes. I did Russian, German and English A’s.’
‘Had your results?’
‘Not for another three weeks, I don’t think.’
‘Ah, I see. And why the Russian?’
‘Well, it’s the one I’m most interested in. I want to work in the diplomatic service, you see.’
At the end of the first tutorial, Henry gazed admiringly at the curve of her rump as she tripped out of the door. She was bright, certainly, but there was scope for improvement…
Bryony simply wasn’t concentrating at the second tutorial at six o’clock. She spent more time examining the varnish on her nails and playing with her hair than making notes.
‘Young lady, if you do not wish to pay attention, I cannot force you to. However I would ask you to remember that a Russian girl of your age… you’re eighteen, yes?’ She nodded. ‘A Russian student could expect to be sent to the principal to be disciplined for poor work.’ It was a lie, but it had the desired effect.
‘But I am paying attention, Mr Porasky,’ Bryony protested.
‘You know better than that. Perhaps your concentration would benefit from a dose of traditional scholastic discipline!’
‘Why, what happens in Russian schools?’
‘The principal has the right to administer corporal punishment, and you’d probably receive a sound thrashing.’
‘No!’ Bryony exclaimed.
‘Oh yes,’ countered Henry convincingly. ‘On the bottom.’
‘What with?’ She sounded strangely interested.
‘An implement rather like a riding whip: very flexible, and I would think very painful.’
‘I bet!’ She paused. ‘Do they get it, you know…?’
‘Well, bare bum.’ She grinned, embarrassed.
‘Apparently, quite often.’
‘No! What, girls too?’
‘Oh yes.’ She obviously believed him.
‘Good God. I bet it stings! I hope you haven’t got one hidden away in your cupboard, Mr Porasky!’ She laughed, he thought, rather nervously.
‘No, but I’m sure there’s something suitable in the Principal’s office.’
Bryony was silent, as she saw that he wasn’t joking.
‘I think we’ll finish with a vocabulary test. If you don’t score seventy per cent, you’ll find yourself with a rather sore bottom. Do you understand me?’
Bryony gulped and nodded. He definitely wasn’t joking! His eye slid swiftly down the list of words, the red pencil darting in to make corrections, and sliding from top to bottom of the column to make a total. A small calculation, and the figure 64% was scribbled on the sheet.
‘Wait here,’ he growled.
It took him some time to find the cane, tucked away behind a case in his room. He had forgotten where he had put it. He slid it down his trouser leg in case he met anyone on the way back to his eyrie of Room E on the top floor. Walking was awkward, and he had to hold the implement tightly at his waist to stop it sliding to the floor. This gave his gait a rather peculiar rhythm.
Bryony still sat at her desk when he returned, nervously fingering her notepad. She immediately noticed the yellow length of cane in his right hand, which he had withdrawn from his trouser leg with a flourish as he reached the door.
‘You’re not really going to…’
‘I am. Come out here.’
‘Not bare though, please, Mr Porasky.’
Henry considered the wisdom of this request, and opted for safety by nodding in agreement.
‘As this is your first punishment, no. Lift your dress, and stand up to the desk.’
Surprisingly, the girl did not argue. She seemed to accept his right of chastisement, though reluctantly. Her cotton panties were considerably more decorous than her beachwear, Henry was disappointed to see, exposing none of the fine flesh he had anticipated. He regretted not demanding their removal.
With her dress lifted round her waist, she looked anxiously over her shoulder: ‘Shall I, er, bend over the…’
‘Yes, right over the desk.’
‘I’ve never had the cane before, Mr Porasky, so you won’t hit me too hard, sir…’ she begged.
The white fabric was stretched over the youthful curves, the division between the fine cheeks clear. He laid the cane across the lower part of her buttocks and swung it experimentally up over his shoulder and back again. It quivered alarmingly, and he worried over the accuracy of the strokes. He wished he had practised again in his room before coming down. The teenage target before him would be considerably more responsive than the pillow which had been his substitute bottom up to now. He wondered how hard he dare beat her. Better take it easy.
‘I’m going to give you four. Ready?’
‘Uh-huh,’ came the nervous response, as her cheeks tensed in anticipation of the first blow.
‘Relax,’ he advised, and waited for the trembling in her bottom to subside before placing the first stroke, none too hard, across the crowns of both half-moons.
Not hard enough, he judged, and brought the cane down a mite harder and lower. The reward was a loud: ‘Oooowwwweee! That hurt!’ The smack of the malacca was satisfyingly sharp against her buttocks, and he paused only a moment before bringing it down again a little higher, to another loud exclamation. She half rose.
‘Bend over. One more to come.’
‘God, I didn’t realise it would sting so much!’ Bryony whined.
‘Bend over, or you’ll get an extra stroke.’
Bryony bent swiftly and gripped the far side of the desk. For the final time, her thinly protected rump and the smarting cane made contact, and she jumped upright to rub frantically at her rear-end, hands shoved spontaneously inside her knickers.
‘Now I know why the boys used to complain about being caned. It hurts like bloody hell!’ Bryony observed. ‘Did I get it quite hard?’
‘Quite hard, yes, but not six of the best by any means!’
‘Phew, I don’t think I fancy getting that again.’
‘Hopefully it won’t be necessary, Miss Stevenson. But if it is, rest assured that I will not hesitate to make use of it again. You may go now.’
Of course, Bryony should have realised that the hope that he would not have to chastise her again was a false one. Events over the next three days built to a peak which would only be satisfied by the most vigorous of thrashings.
‘I’m not satisfied, as you know Miss Stevenson. Not satisfied at all. And I have decided that you should be beaten properly this time in the hope that the final two days will show a marked improvement in your work.’
He was encouraged by the girl’s surprised silence. But she did not protest. As far as she knew, he was within his rights.
‘Do you have any PE kit with you?’
‘Er, no… but I’ve got a pair of athletics shorts and a T-shirt.’
‘Change into those — don’t bother with any underwear — at four o’clock report to me at the rear of the Principal’s house, by the terrace. Do you know where I mean?’ she nodded.
‘Right, off you go.’
The fact that the Principal and his family were away until the following day had led to Henry’s bold excursion into alfresco corporal punishment. The rusting frame of the swing, unused by children long flown the coop, would serve admirably as a whipping frame.
He arrived a few minutes before four, and stood fingering the cane. Nervous in case she didn’t show up, or even worse had rung her parents to complain. But he needn’t have worried.
Promptly at four, Bryony walked hesitantly round the terrace until she spotted Mr Porasky standing by the swing frame. She quickened her pace down the steps and across the dandelion-dusted grass to stand before him. He was pleased to see that the bright blue running shorts were skin-tight, the black sleeveless T-shirt bearing the legend Flagship One and a selection of maritime signals flags. Bryony tossed her fringe out of her eyes.
‘Stand up to the frame, and grip the top cross-bar with both hands,’ he ordered. A little play-acting would heighten the tension for her, he contemplated, walking behind to observe the swell of her backside, a wedge of each cheek exposed beneath the shorts.
‘A whipping frame is traditional for serious punishments in Russia, and the culprit would be secured by the wrists and ankles while the beating is carried out. I don’t propose to tie you to this frame, but I should warn you that if you move your feet or let go with either hand during the punishment, we will begin it all over again. So my advice is to hang on tight until you are told to let go. Understood?’
‘I understand, but…’
‘I don’t want to hear anything else. Place your toes at the base of each upright, and your hands to the corners of the frame so that you are spread-eagled.’ He watched as Bryony obeyed, scared by the new tone in his voice, anxious not to antagonise him.
‘This time, Miss Stevenson, I’m going to punish you as severely as your Russian contemporaries would expect to be punished. Are you wearing knickers under your shorts?’
‘You said not to, Mr Porasky.’
‘Good, good. And as you are going to be punished with your bottom bare on this occasion, this means that…’ He paused.
‘I have to pull my shorts down?’ Bryony interjected. She slid her hands down the uprights and was stopped by a curt command: ‘Put your hands back to the corners, and don’t move unless you’re told!’
Bryony was afraid. As she felt her shorts tugged slowly off her hips and down her thighs to rest at her knees, she felt utterly defenceless. Her nakedness was humiliating, the more so through her spread-legged posture.
Henry smiled, a smile of discovery, of confirmation, as the lowered garment revealed the unmistakeable and teasing ‘V’ shape of the girl’s bikini briefs, the tanned outer areas of her cheeks giving way to the paler, twin lemon-wedges of flesh which dived for the protection of her crotch.
‘I see you prefer bold swimwear, Miss Stevenson. Your suntan indicated that I am not the first to witness most of your bare bottom.’
‘It’s just my bikini, sir, when I’m sunbathing.’
And when you’re parading, my girl, he thought with another grin.
Looking up at the leaded windows of the old house, Henry fancied they were grinning at the teenager’s predicament, too. He tapped her bare buttocks lightly with the yellow length of retribution.
‘Hollow your back.’ The movement forced her bottom out enticingly to present itself for chastisement. ‘Good. Now, how many do you think you deserve?’
There was a long pause. Bryony pondered. She’d had four last time, but this was bare bum: ‘Six, Mr Porasky?’
‘Of the best, of course, for your poor work. Plus three strokes for being late to the last three tutorials, plus one stroke for wearing high heels for this punishment…’
‘But that’s ten strokes, sir… I don’t know if I can…’
‘Oh, you will, Miss Stevenson, if you’re standing there for the next hour, you will.’
She felt his cool hand on the small of her back, and the tap of the cane. A moment later, and the first stroke sliced through to bite painfully deep into the presented buttocks. Bryony yelped, loudly. She continued to yelp, the pitch rising and falling according to the stinging effectiveness of successive strokes, Henry learning as he went along.
The lower part of her rump, it seemed, was particularly tender. He applied his attentions to that area with vigour. And was impressed by her determination to hang on. She gyrated, she screeched, she swore, but she didn’t move hand or feet an inch, as if they were indeed stuck to the frame.
Finally, her buttocks criss-crossed with blazing tracks of pain, Bryony hung her head, sweat-dampened hair across her face, breathing heavily.
‘You may let go now.’
Bryony slumped onto the grass, clasping her throbbing posterior, as Henry glanced across to the kitchen window. The glint of his new telephoto lens could just be seen. He hoped that the sound-operated shutter release and motor drive had done their work. The opportunity for a repeat performance was unlikely, judging by Bryony’s sobbing collapse.
He had been right about her arse in Lanzarote: it had benefited considerably from a firm application of the cane…