Corrective Measures

by Sarah Veitch

  Flushing hotly, she held her sore bottom and stared at the assembled staff. The Housekeeper shook her head. Jackson looked away. The butler winked lasciviously. Slowly Betty-Ann moved her gaze towards the Master. His look showed disapproval, disappointment. He'd been such a kind employer so far...

  'I'm sorry, Sire. I'll take the last two strokes and extra ones for getting up without permission, Sire,' she mumbled, apologetically. Shuffling back to the punishment trestle, cami-knickers now at her ankles, she got back into place.

  Lifting her skirts up again was the worst part, as, for a few blissful moments, they had flapped down to conceal her naked haunches. Now she reluctantly pulled each layer back to show her shy striped cheeks.

  'So pretty in pink,' the lord of the manor said softly. 'Can I inspect these parts more closely later on?'

  'Yes, Sire. Whatever you say, Sire,' Betty-Ann whispered, her feminine core flooding with both mortification and arousal. Even Jackson had just tumbled her in the carriage by lifting her petticoats, had never seen her nether parts fully bare.

  But for now her bare bottom was all that the man wanted to see. The maidservant winced as he further tenderised her small buttocks with stroke five. It pained her curviest parts and made her squeal and wriggle. He laid on the final lash just above the section where arse curves in to thigh. 'Betty-Ann, come lie across my knee and let me inspect my handiwork. Everyone else can go.'

  Was this better? Worse? Wonderful to get rid of her shaming audience, awful to have to lie over his knee!

  But he was her Master - it was her duty to please him. And a small increasingly womanly part of her wanted to please him in every way. He was so handsome, normally so kind, so thoughtful and learned. If she could only win his favour again...

  'I'm waiting, Betty-Ann.' He still sounded stern. Trembling she pushed herself off of the punishment stool and approached him, keeping her gaze trained on the ground. He patted his lap and she sensed from his voice that he was smiling. 'Let's have a look at that pretty pink bum.' Trying to let her mind go blank, she put her palms on the carpet, laid her tummy against his knees and stretched her bare legs back.

  'Does it hurt?' he whispered, running a manly finger along the thigh-based welts.

  Betty-Ann opened her mouth to say yes, but found the sharp pain turning to a hot spreading pleasure. His touch was silky and sure and suggestive. Jackson's stolen squeezes had never felt like this. 'It feels better, Sire,' she mumbled as he continued his deliciously arousing ministrations.

  'What about this bit, Betty-Ann?'

  He touched the very kernel of her femininity, and sensation after sensation thrilled through her loins. 'Rub against my fingers, girl,' he ordered and, beyond words, she did so again and again, aware of the wet heat and a heavy pulsing spreading over her thighs. It was followed by a rush of pleasure so intense that she feared that she might faint. 'Uh,' she heard herself cry, and her voice sounded hollow and somehow unearthly. 'Uh, uh, uh, uh, uuuuuuuuuuuuh!'

  'You're not the first girl that's taken a fancy to the cane,' the man murmured. Betty-Ann had no idea what he was talking about but she relaxed over his knee as he stroked the hair that flowed from her cap.

  'So,' he murmured after a while, 'has Jackson enjoyed your ultimate delights?'

  'Yes, Sire. Will I be caned for letting him, Sire? He said I would cause strain to his manhood if I didn't offer my treasures every time.'

  'Did he now?' The Master sounded amused. He stroked her soft bare bottom until she wriggled anew. 'No, you have a right to walk out with whoever you wish. You'll not feel the rod for that - only for household negligence.' As he toyed with her caned hot cheeks, Betty-Ann found her womanly parts getting excited again.

  The Master seemed to know. 'Would you like us to take mutual pleasure?'

  'Yes, Sire. I would Sire,' Betty-Ann murmured. Her hidden places yearned once again to be greatly pleased.

  'Then lie on the carpet on your punished little bottom and spread your lovely legs nice and wide.'

  His words brought the heat to her face - and to the flesh between her thigh tops. Such a strange shamed rapture.

  Betty-Ann did as she was told and watched the lord of the manor unbutton his pantaloons. Then he put his weight on her and slid slowly forward. Oh, that was nice, much nicer than what Jackson did. She gazed up at him with near love as he started to tease her with each thrust.

  'I think it thrilled you, baring your bum for the others,' he murmured. His words were mocking and merciless yet they caused her sex another rush of sensation. She closed her eyes. 'I think a tiny part of you has always liked looking at the other maid's hot red bottoms. Deep down you've always wondered what it would be like to feel the tip of my cane.'

  'Yes, M'Lord,' Betty-Ann muttered, licking her lips and burying her face in his shoulder. She couldn't quite look at him, not with the wild wet elation throbbing through her again.

  'I may have you tied to the Maypole in the Village Green for further misdemeanours - take my riding switch to your poor bared backside.'

  'Yes, Sire. My bottom is yours to punish as you see fit, Sire.' The image combined with his dexterous thrusting made some inner heat in her body expand and the rapture made her cry out and cleave to him, fingers tightening on his strong back. That seemed to excite her Master for he clutched her full breasts through her house dress and pushed strongly into her body, grunted, then declared himself well spent.

  She'd spent a long time being pleasured, then... Shari opened her eyes and found them excitingly close to those of the Regression Hypnotist. 'I was a maidservant called Betty-Ann in a far-off century,' she said, amazed that she was able to recall every detail of her past existence. 'My Master was angry at me for a misdemeanour. I was being soundly caned...'

  'Yes. I know.' Mr Myers the hypnotist had always been an authoritative and somewhat daunting man but now his gaze seemed even more relentless than usual. Shari realised belatedly that she was kneeling rather than sitting on her chair, her slender arms over the back of it, and that she'd somehow lifted up her skirt and pulled down her pants.

  'My God,' she muttered, 'I got so deep into the regression that I actually started to undress myself for a caning.' She blushed as she felt her own sexual wetness on her thighs.

  Dazedly she moved her hands back to smooth down her skirt. 'No, leave your bottom bare,' Mr Myers said. 'I have to reprimand you, Miss Dean. That cheque you wrote me last month bounced to the ceiling.'

  Shari shivered as she recalled how she'd deliberately cheated the man. Part of her had wanted to test him a little, make him slightly angry. She'd wondered if he'd take her in hand.

  'I could just write another,' she whispered, hugely aware of her vulnerable bare bottom. The hot weight rushed to her pubis as she stayed obediently in place.

  'No, some experiences are meant to be repeated through several lifetimes,' the man murmured. He unbuckled his thick nubuck belt, and lined it up with her expectant buttocks. 'And you'll look so pretty in pink...'

  Bottom Of The Class

  To: Robert Banks,

  Senior Lecturer in English Literature,

  Newtown University,

  Newtown.

  From: Stephanie Weeks,

  Third Academic Year Student,

  Room 179,

  Student Accommodation Block,

  Elm Row,

  Newtown.

  12th January, 2001

  Dear Robert

  Just a note to say that I've decided on the subject of my thesis. It's going to be 'The Erotic Subjugation Of Men And Women In Literature From 1800 To The Present Day.' My course book tells me that I can enlist your help as my main tutor, so let's get reading lots of punitive prose!

  Thanks in anticipation and all that jazz,

  Stephanie Weeks

  15th January, 2001

  Dear Ms Weeks

  Can I suggest that you reconsider your subject matter? I'm honour bound to support you if you persist in this choice but must state that it isn't a su
bject I know - or wish to know - anything about. Can I suggest a dissertation on 'Social Mores In The Novels Of Jane Austen' or 'The Use Of Coincidence In Thomas Hardy's Prose'?

  Mr R Banks, BSc Hons, MA

  16th January, 2001

  Dear Robert

  I'll stick with the submissive stance. I read that subservient sexuality appeals to very strong men and women. Guess it's a sort of catharsis, a reversal from taking charge of everyday events. Don't know much about bottom birching in books, but I'll be reading all about it from now on. I've just bought a pulp fiction novel called Bare Buttocks to study. I'll leave Austen and Hardy to your more conventional swots.

  See Ya,

  Steph

  22nd January, 2001

  Dear Ms Weeks

  I acknowledge receipt of the volume (one hesitates to call it a novel) that you left on my tutorial desk. I'll peruse same as my remit demands.

  Mr R Banks

  30th January, 2001

  Dear Rob

  Wow! There's masses of red-bummed literature once you know where to look for it! I've found this little shop in a lane behind the Wet Fish Store. It's got a whole wall devoted to off-with-her-drawers CP. Did you know that the Victorians were into flagellation? The woman behind the counter sold me four books in which young ladies were made to bend over the kitchen table to get their bottoms warmed. Often the Mistress of the House would pull down the maid's pantaloons whilst she sobbed with humiliation, and would birch her naked bum. Not that they just used birches. Sometimes a Mistress would spank her staff's quivering buttocks with a judicial rod or paddle or a hard-backed brush. This was erotic for the woman administering the thrashing - but not for the punished serving wenches. I'd rather have been a home owner than a servant in these whip-happy times. How about you?

  Steph

  1st February, 2001

  Dear Ms Weeks

  I'll read the Victorian literature you sent me as soon as I've finished the latest issue of National Geographic. Thinking myself into a particular role would be futile speculation. What is CP?

  Mr R Banks

  2nd February, 2001

  Dear R

  CP stands for corporal punishment - usually the tanning of female bare bottoms. Does that shock you? I'm a free spirit, me! I've just taken out a subscription to Scarlet Spheres Quarterly, which deals with the caning of naughty grown up girls. I tried to get one dealing with men as well but it was sold out. I can write about the importance of 'assuming the position' in my dissertation; the girls are usually made to unveil their arses then touch their toes to await their caning or bend fully over a desk. I'll send the mag on in a couple of days, once I've studied its viewpoint, vocabulary level, underlying themes and so on.

  Isn't life wicked?

  S

  7th February, 2001

  Dear Stephanie

  That quarterly you send for research purposes was indeed enlightening. Sent in plain paper too, I hear? It was nice to see such thought provoking articles on the subject of female submission, and know that one can learn of this subject without recourse to the gutter press. The editorial was intelligent and provocative (slip of the pen - I mean thought-provoking) and the pictures were tastefully shot. Re the section of your dissertation that relates to how the naughty girl is posed: perhaps you'd like to extend the paragraph on her tractable position by looking at her obvious shame and confusion? How exactly does she feel as she bends over her Master's lap?

  Best Wishes,

  Robert

  9th February, 2001

  Dear Robert

  It's not really appropriate for me to look too closely at the submissive girl's true feelings. After all, I'm dealing with her depiction in literature, so my main focus has to be the aims of the writer vis-a-vis the words on the page.

  Stephanie

  11th February, 2001

  Dear Steph

  The undernoted incident happened last night. My palm is still stinging! I'll send a reader's letter to Knickers Off magazine, of course, but wanted to tell you first, given your interest in CP. Are you familiar with Knickers Off mag, by the way? It's a hundred pages per month of girls being leathered by the four-tailed tawse and wooden paddle. The miscreant tells the story of how it feels to remove her own pants for a hiding, an element which was missing in your own more modest text.

  Anyway, back to last night. I came home to find Mrs Banks reading my No Panties For Petunia trilogy. Have you read any of the three? It's about an Edwardian maid with a very stern Master. Anyway, my wife was reading it and the scent of burning ratatouille was drifting down the hall. 'My God, you must have been reading for hours to burn such a dish,' I muttered, snatching the book away. She had the grace to look ashamed. I mean, we have an arrangement. I give endless lectures on Dickens to homesick eighteen year olds and she feeds me at 5pm and swirls around cleaning the conservatory with new improved Flash.

  I was angry at not receiving my meal, and asked her to make me up a cheese and pickle sandwich. As she cut the Edam I told her she'd have to accept a tawsing or else I'd dock her spending money for the next six weeks. I should add that I've kept a three tailed tawse from the days in which I taught at a private school. I'd been given one by the headmaster, but had never used it as I believe it's a form of bullying to punish kids. But my naughty wife agreed that she deserved a buttock-warming - and I'd been picking up lots of clues from books and magazines!

  'Lie on the bed and remove your tailored trews,' I ordered. She flushed a little, but did exactly as I said. 'Now edge those silken panties off,' I continued, 'and imagine how this tawse will feel on your bare backside.'

  It's a funny thing, Stephanie, but watching one's spouse remove her knickers in order to receive a leather strap is totally different to watching her undress for regular intercourse. I feasted my eyes much more hungrily on those suntanned spheres than I ever had before!

  'My God, woman - you've obviously found time to lie under the sun lamp,' I berated her. 'No wonder the standard of my dinners has been so bad.'

  'You've always got your nose stuck in a Bronte book. I didn't think you cared about what you were eating,' she muttered, looking back at me with obvious challenge.

  'This tawsing will show that I care a great deal,' I said.

  I then flicked the leather against her waiting right orb. She flinched - it had obviously stung a little. I repeated the punishment on her left buttock and she jerked again. At this stage I was feeling my way, you understand - trying to find a level which would impart a firm lesson yet not reduce her to anguished tears.

  Anyway, I upped my swing a little and Mrs Banks reared up a bit and put her fingers back to cover her pinkening haunches.

  'Bum getting sore, is it?' I murmured.

  She nodded and looked at me warily. 'It certainly stings.'

  'You've neglected your chores. You've ruined a meal. It'll have to sting a lot more. You realise that?' I said.

  'Since when was I supposed to run an Ideal Homes Show?' my dear wife muttered sarcastically as she got back down on her tummy on the bed.

  I ran the tawse over her waiting arse cheeks and told her how much it was going to hurt. I talked of the exact shade of red I'd make her bottom. She squirmed about in embarrassment, but I could see the wet sheen of lust on her inner thighs.

  'Where shall we whack this nice thick leather strap? Will I lash it here or here or here?' I taunted, touching each centimetre of her smooth expanse.

  In the end, I toasted the tawse against the lower portion of her naked cheeks. She howled as she received the next six strokes of her whacking. 'I'll now give you four more in quick succession,' I said, 'and then your punishment's over with.'

  I was as good as my word - though I gave her a minute or so between lashes to rub the sting away and put her hands to the front again. At the end of it she was very clingy and we enjoyed an hour of conjugal bliss.

  Hope you can use this account in your work, Steph - or at least in your social life!!!

  Master Robr />
  17th February, 2001

  Dear Mr Banks

  Your musings (I hesitate to use the word letter) are of no use to a serious thesis. I'm now reading French texts on S/M (in translation) to try to get a more global feel for this most serious theme.

  Yours Sincerely,

  Stephanie Weeks

  19th February, 2001

  Dear Steph

  Sorry to hear a tawsing isn't quite your bag! How do you feel about a husband caning his wife's bare bottom? Mrs Banks couldn't get the ratatouille casserole clean (it's a Wedgewood) so I had to discipline her curvy rump again.