Corrective Measures

by Sarah Veitch

  'Section 5B states that...' the policeman started, jerking his finger towards a set of rules on the wall. He looked at her steadily. 'If you don't bend back over the stool of your own accord you'll get two extra lashes of the tawse on your naked bum.'

  'But it's so sore already,' Chloe whispered, holding her stinging twin rotundities.

  'Of course it's sore. It's punishment, isn't it? If you'd been sent to prison you'd lose your freedom. This way you only lose your dignity for an hour.'

  An hour of the cane. Chloe's lower lip trembled. 'Can't I have an early pardon or something?' she asked. 'I admit that my behaviour was wrong.'

  'Your friend Emma took her ten strokes. You've only had nine and you're making a fuss,' the official said sternly. His features softened. 'If you ask for the remaining strokes real sweetly I'll apply them at level two rather than level three.'

  'I'll ask sweetly, sir,' Chloe promised in her most sincere yet breathy voice. The man looked at his watch and tutted loudly. Anxious not to keep him waiting, she turned and faced the judicial whipping stool.

  Bending back over it took all the resources she possessed. For a few moments she'd held her bum safely in her cupped hands and massaged away the anguish. Now she had to obscenely display it again.

  'Don't be shy. I've been warming that arse for the last half hour,' the officer said with a shallow laugh. 'I've seen it wriggling like an earthworm.' Chloe wondered if he taunted the male culprits with equal verve.

  But she didn't have time to muse over the workings of the man's mind. She had to concentrate on getting through her official chastisement. 'Let's hear that bum begging for its tenth correction,' the policeman said.

  Chloe sought for the most debasing words, knowing that they'd make her disciplining lighter. He'd made it clear that if she shamed herself he wouldn't lay on the judicial rod so hard. It was fair in a way, she thought. After all, the object of the exercise was to make sure that she didn't become a repeat offender. If she was thoroughly humiliated she'd never play the illegal lottery again!

  'I've been very bad. I need the cane. I deserve it,' she muttered stiltedly.

  'Not so coy next time,' said the man. 'Say something like "Sir, I deserve a hot sore reddened arse".'

  As Chloe searched for the words, he applied the tenth stroke to the pinkened centre of her hapless flesh.

  The twenty-two year old yelped, then searched for the phrases which would result in a lighter eleventh mark. 'My bare bottom's so sore, sir,' she whispered, 'that I'd give anything to sit in a tub of deep cool water.' She hesitated, then continued contritely, 'But I know that you're going to make it a hotter and better arse.'

  'My cane will do that,' the policeman confirmed. 'It's a tool of transformation. Especially when I swish it just there.' He whacked it against Chloe's curvy underswell, and she moved her hips from side to side then forced them to still into position. 'I'm just wondering,' the official continued, 'where to apply stroke twelve?'

  Chloe tried to find an answer that her chastiser would like. 'That's up to you, sir,' she murmured. 'After all, my bottom is yours for official punishment.'

  'And is that bad bottom sorry?' the man prompted, his voice holding a rueful smile.

  Chloe's tone was heartfelt even to her own ears. 'Yes, sir. God, yes. It's very sorry.' She shivered as she felt the rod being run up and down her curves.

  'Your soft pale skin has turned hot all over,' the policeman said softly. 'It's making me angry cause I can't find a single white space.'

  I could take a rain check, Chloe thought, but she daren't say it. Instead she waited, her reddened bottom sticking up in the air.

  'I can't hear you,' said the man.

  Chloe sucked in her breath. 'Sir, I've broken the law and...'

  'No, your naughty backside has broken the law. Let's not be bashful. Let's call a disobedient arse by its proper name.'

  The girl exhaled. Damn, he was going to shame her till the very last cane stroke. The man was such a cad.

  But the cad was wielding the cane and her body was a vulnerable raised target. She'd humiliate herself to reach her sentence's end. 'Sir, my bottom's been really bad. You were right to make me pull down my pants and bend over the whipping stool. I'm asking you nicely for a last sore taste of the cane.'

  'How can I refuse such a cutely said plea?' the official murmured. He squeezed her cheeks preparingly for a few moments then Chloe felt the rod heating the place just above her thighs.

  'Aaah!' she gasped, then lay there for a while after her disciplining ended, feeling the strength flow back into her upper limbs.

  After tea and sympathy, the two friends left the building. They'd walked three streets when they saw a slightly younger girl buying illegal raffle tickets. 'Don't do it,' Chloe said, rushing over to her and knocking the ticket book away.

  The girl looked alarmed then scornful. 'What's it to you? You're not the anti-betting boys.'

  'No, I'm a recent ex-offender,' Chloe sighed.

  'Took a bit of a spanking, did you?' the girl jeered. 'I'm not scared of a slapping.'

  Chloe shifted from foot to foot. 'It was much more than that.'

  She hesitated, hating the prospect of further displaying herself. Then she decided that her actions were an act of true philanthropy, were for the greater good. Slowly she turned round and bent forward until her hands were touching her toes, her head hanging. Then she lifted up her skirt to reveal both scarlet globes and murmured 'It could be you.'

  Pretty In Pink

  'I'm sorry, Ma'am - the tray just slipped from my hands,' Betty-Ann whispered as she knelt on the floor surrounded by the Master's best crystal. If only she hadn't been daydreaming again. 'You can cancel my days off for a year!' she continued, mind searching for a suitably shame-free punishment. She knew all too well what could happen to disorganised young serving wenches' bums.

  'Just fetch the razor strop then set your belly across the kitchen table,' the Housekeeper snapped, beginning to sweep up shards of crystal decanter, 'and contemplate the whipping you're about to get.'

  'As you wish, Ma'am.' Betty-Ann curtseyed low, then hesitated, wondering what a thrashing would feel like. She'd been a servant in the Big House for three whole years, which was ample time to see the razor strop used on various pleading backsides. And the Housekeeper was well known for short temper and her especially strong right arm.

  But to delay would just earn her a further welting. Obediently Betty-Ann walked towards the door of the kitchen, praying that she wouldn't find Cook or any of the serving wenches loitering. To be chastened by the Housekeeper was abasement enough, but to be disciplined whilst others employed at The Big House looked on...

  The razor strop was two feet long with a rounded end. It was fashioned of thick brown leather. The twenty-one year old stared up at it for a dry-mouthed moment, then she unhooked it from its place on the wall. Gently she ran her middle fingers along its length, feeling the frayed texture caused by its slapping against luckless bottom after bottom. Men and women in senior positions were always punishing the more junior staff.

  She, Betty-Ann, had only been punished once before, and that had been by a hand which doled out a thorough spanking. She'd been eighteen at the time - it had been her first week here. The long hours and the early morning winter chill had gotten her head quite muddled, and she'd put bleach in the cottons when she was supposed to use starch. 'But I can't read, Ma'am!' she'd protested, as the grey-haired Laundress pushed up her skirts and pulled down her pants.

  Unswayed, the older woman had bent Betty-Ann over her bony knee, and started slapping. 'You should've taken a telling,' she'd replied. 'Starch is in the red urn, bleach in the blue.'

  That spanking had hurt so much. The Laundress had had big hands - rough, wash-toughened hands. They'd felt like sandpaper on Betty-Ann's tender spheres.

  Having her naked cheeks spanked had made her quake. She'd blushed and kept her head right down. She'd stared at the cold slate floors and tried to think romantic tho
ughts about finding a husband. But after a moment or two of hard slaps she'd only been able to think of her poor sore backside. She'd let out a sob, and the Laundress had said 'Stop snivelling or I'll really give you something to cry about.' Betty-Ann's howls had seemed to enrage her; she'd lashed especially hard at both buttocks after that.

  Now, as Betty-Ann lowered herself over the kitchen table, she wondered what the razor strop would feel like. How many strokes would the Housekeeper give her? How long would the pause between the whackings last?

  Some of the girls ran up to their attic rooms after they'd tasted the cane or the birch, and when they came down again their faces were all soft and relaxed and they seemed gently contented. Betty-Ann couldn't imagine what caused that.

  She was very aware of her rough serge bloomers being on display now that she'd lifted her own skirts up as she'd been told to. Would the Housekeeper mock their thin cream countenance? They were all she could afford. The bloomer legs went halfway down her thighs, which would afford her poor extremities some protection. She'd seen Daisy the Seamstress taking the belt once and the leather had struck low and pinkened her plump white thighs.

  It was warm here in the Kitchen. Betty-Ann flapped her arms to create a draught. She knew one part of her was about to get warmer. She'd seen the other maids touching each others red rumps and marvelling at the heat. She'd been such a good girl until now that she'd never had to endure such a thrashing, had never known more than a few harsh words from the senior members of the House.

  'Been thinking about what's coming to you next, have you?' The Housekeeper marched in. Her heels made angry clicking sounds on the flagons. Long years of being in-service had added a brisk seniority to her tone.

  'Y-yes, Ma'am,' Betty-Ann stammered, raising her pleading large eyes to meet the woman's, but keeping her face down against the table top.

  'At least you've got your skirts raised and the strop ready,' the forty year old continued. 'First instructions of mine you've carried out properly this week, you dreamy girl.'

  'I'll do better,' Betty-Ann whispered. She tensed her buttocks as the woman moved behind her and picked up the hellish strop.

  'You'll do better with a well-warmed bum. Never fails with the other serving wenches.' She pushed Betty-Ann's skirts even further up her back, and pulled her bloomers more tightly against her bottom. 'This thrashing isn't just for ruining the Master's best brandy goblets, you know.'

  'Yes, Ma'am. I understand that, Ma'am.' The last thing Betty-Ann wanted was a rehash of her last fortnight's crimes and their possible penalties.

  'You put away the china in the wrong cupboards. You've been late lighting the fire of a morning. You've let the silver service sets get tarnished. Why, if the Master was to hear...'

  'He's heard!'

  Both women jumped and turned their heads in the direction of the rich low voice. Betty-Ann shut her eyes seconds after they feasted on her employer. Behind her, the changing currents of the air told of the Housekeeper's long low curtsey. 'I'm about to remind the girl of her duties, Sire. That is, if it fares well with you?'

  Betty-Ann held her breath; what would the man say? He'd always been such a generous and understanding employer. But she was guilty of so many recent wrongs...

  'You use the strop on her bloomers rather than on her bare seat?' The man sounded intrigued. Betty-Ann cringed as the lord of the manor walked round to stare at her extremities. He was a good looking man of some thirty-eight summers. Most of the older girls in the Big House hoped that he'd look on them with especial favour some day. She, Betty-Ann, had always worn her best frilled cap and apron in his presence. Now he was staring at the thin creamy bloomers which Housekeeper had pulled tight against her rear.

  'Yes, I strop her over her cami-knickers, Sire. It spares her modesty a little, Sire. And the strop is hard enough even through the material to teach her rump the error of its ways.'

  'Go ahead then, Miss Krell. I'll just pull up a chair and watch you put her through her paces.'

  Oh, this was degrading! Betty-Ann trembled as she heard the scrape of the kitchen stool's legs on the floor. She turned her head to the side and squinted back. Her usually kindly Master was sitting about three feet behind her bum. He was looking at it with coolly academic interest.

  'If you'd rather...?' The Housekeeper held out the leather punisher to him. The waiting servant held her breath.

  'No, no. I've been hearing reports of her many sins this past month or two, so after you've taught her the work ethic I intend to discipline her myself.'

  Worse and worse! Betty-Ann bit her lip at the sire's cold words, then she opened her mouth and gasped as the strop lashed her unsuspecting right buttock. The gasp turned into a squeal as the woman walloped the knickered orb five times.

  'Let's make the other cheek the same, shall we, love?' she murmured gloatingly, and Betty-Ann shuddered anew as her left globe was treated to the same fiery focus. She ached for permission to put her hands back to protect her lower self.

  'Ask the girl why she's been so lax,' the Master said.

  'I know that without asking, Sire. She's been walking out with Jackson the carriage driver. Keeps her out to all hours on her day off, and she sneaks out to the yard to see him when she's supposed to be following my instructions in the house.'

  'Is this true, girl?' the lord of the manor enquired.

  Betty-Ann shuddered, but knew that whispered lies would simply earn her a sorer bottom. 'Yes, Sire, but I'm really sorry, Sire. From now on I'll concentrate fully on your employ,' she said.

  The man laughed low in his throat. 'As the person who gives you food and a roof over your head, I'm glad to hear it. But for now I just want you to concentrate on the horrid stinging strokes that Miss Krell has been forced to dish out.'

  'Yes, M'Lord,' Betty-Ann squealed as the Housekeeper laid on the strop again. The leather hit low down her thighs, sending her cami-knickers flattening against the curves of her cheeks.

  'A dozen!' the Housekeeper said with some satisfaction. 'Sire - should I thrash her more?'

  'No - I'll take over now.' Betty-Ann bit her lip. 'Stand up and face me, girl,' the man continued. Betty-Ann got up carefully from the table and turned his way. Staring at the ground before him, she smoothed down her skirt in an absent-minded gesture. 'You won't be keeping that over your haunches for long,' her Master said. He looked her up and down. 'Go into the sitting room and push the three chaise longue and the armchairs back against the wall. I'll join you in a moment.' The girl hastened on uncertain legs to do what she was bid.

  Ordinarily she loved this room, adored its heavy purple velvet curtains and chintz settees, but now it was to be the scene of her further ignominy. If only she'd obeyed Housekeeper's earlier warnings and caught up with her sleep and her chores. A Master could thrash his servant very hard indeed; it was the rule of the land, it was a house rule. She'd been lucky to lodge with a Master who didn't dole out whippings for each small misdemeanour. But now...

  She curtseyed almost to the ground as the man strode into the room. 'Sire, I've cleared a space as you asked.'

  'Good girl, now fetch the whipping stool and bring it here.' He pointed to the area she'd cleared on the carpet. Afraid yet curious, Betty-Ann went to the cellar and brought out the low wooden contraption with the padded top.

  With difficulty, for it was both heavy and ungainly, she carried it back into the vast sitting room and put it down where the chaise longue had recently been. The Master smiled at her approvingly then he tugged the bell that called for every member of staff to assemble in the room.

  The butler came first. His eyes didn't even flicker when they rested on Betty-Ann's flushed face. 'Can I help you, M'Lord?'

  'You can stay and watch this lazy disobedient girl take her thrashing.' As the kitchen staff, gardeners, pageboys and wardrobe women hurried through the doors they were told the very same thing.

  At last the entire staff was assembled round the walls of the room. 'You're here to watch me make an e
xample of Betty-Ann,' the Master said. 'As most of you know, she was a quality serving maid until six weeks ago, when she started walking out with a certain gentleman.'

  Jackson reddened and hung his head. Betty-Ann looked away from her embarrassed beau. 'I'm a fair man,' the Master of the house continued. 'I overlooked the decline in her work, her increasing lateness. But today she ruined a crystal gift from a friend in Germany which can never be replaced.'

  A low murmur of disapproval filtered from the staff, and several of them scowled at Betty-Ann and shook their heads. 'I'm going to put paid to her laziness and daydreaming now by baring her bottom for six of the cane,' the man added. He turned to the blushing servant girl. 'Get in place over the whipping stool and raise your skirts.'

  Not looking at the others, Betty-Ann obeyed. The padded top seemed to push up her tummy in the centre so that her buttocks felt raised and slightly spread. 'Now pull down your knickers,' the gentleman added matter-of-factly. Never had she felt so ashamed.

  Yet she daren't disobey him. Slowly Betty-Ann pulled the well-washed garments to her knees to reveal her posterior. She was glad that she was facing away from the watchful women and men.

  'Stroke one coming up,' said her Master's voice. She felt the currents of air around her backside change, then a burning line was branded over her sit-upon. Betty-Ann gasped at its unexpected intensity, but kept her bare bottom in place. 'Stroke two,' added the man. This one went lower than the first, left the area feeling even more tender. Stroke three warmed the plump backs of her thighs.

  'I'll be a good maid from now on, sir,' she cried out, as she sensed him line up the rod for the next lash.

  'You'll be better after half a dozen of these have seared your rump, girl,' the man retorted. Betty-Ann closed her eyes tightly as she realised he was going to dole out all six.

  The fourth was the unkindest cut of all. It seemed to retrace its predecessor's harsh glow, redoubled the hotness at her poor leg tops. Acting on instinct, Betty-Ann scrambled backwards then leapt to her feet.