A short story reminding us how it used to be

By Frances Stephenson

A short story from a friend of the author

In the late 1950s we lived in a quiet road. Our father was working abroad on a long term contract, leaving our mother to look after my sister and myself. I was just eighteen and my sister a year younger. We were often told that we were very pretty girls and, on examining myself, I must admit that I had little to complain about. Juliet, my sister, also seemed to have inherited this pleasing aspect. We were both of medium height with soft brown hair, mine being blonder than Juliet’s, We both had slender and shapely legs, naturally small waists, good bottoms and breasts and enviable soft dewy skin. Neither of us lacked admirers and the front door bell was seldom quiet.

A hundred yards down the street lived a Mr Lewis with his wife and two sons who were about the same ages as my sister and I.

Our mother used to spank us, sometimes quite hard, but for more serious offences she enlisted the help of Mr Lewis. Whoever was due for punishment would have to present themselves at Mr Lewis’s home, ring the bell and wait, almost shaking with apprehension. The door was almost invariably answered by one of the boys. Richard, the eldest, who rather fancied me and it was usually he who answered the door with a friendly although sympathetic smile on his face.

My sister or I, or perhaps both, had to present ourselves for a painful interview with Mr Lewis. Now we were older this interview always involved us bending over and touching our toes for a sharp caning on our knickers. He would direct these painful strokes onto the lower, and more sensitive, part of our bottoms. Not only was it painful but the marks showed beneath our gym knickers and advertised that we had had the cane and I came in for some teasing, with many questions as to how we had earned our stripes.

Our mother was quite keen for us to advertise our stripes and James Lewis made sure our knickers were well pulled up and showing the lower cheeks of our punished bottoms This was not the end of our indignity. We had to wear hip high tee shirts over ‘too small’ washed out navy blue gym kilts which had shrunk to micro mini length. We seemed to show acres of thigh and were sure that anybody could see our knickers and probably the lower portions of our well caned bottoms as well.

Part of our punishment was the walk back to our house clearly advertising the fact that we had been well ‘dealt with’. There were seldom many people about but it was still so embarrassing. This exercise was, fortunately, confined to the warmer weather. We were allowed to wear coats in the colder weather but our tiny skirts were on show for the two Lewis boys whilst we were leaving the Lewis household.

I remember that having been caned during the spring I set out for home and was surprised to see five or six boys loitering near the Lewis’s front gate. I was painfully aware that they would have a good view of my recently caned bottom, somewhat inadequately covered by my white knickers. There was much lip smacking and other appreciative noises as I made my way back to our house, my cheeks hot with embarrassment, especially as Richard Lewis had been one of the audience and his friends could have only been there at his instigation.

When I challenged him later he said with an engaging smile: “I have been telling everyone that not only do you have the best figure in the school but the best legs and prettiest bum. Your admiring audience totally agreed with me which is why you are getting so much attention and admiring looks and so much lip smacking.

“You are absolutely wonderful and I confess that I am hypnotised by you and would be so pleased if you would join me at the cinema on Saturday. I am so very sorry about your sore bottom as I know, only too well, how hard my father canes!”

You can readily imagine how this revelation took the wind out of my sails and I shyly admitted that I, too, quite fancied him. We kissed with some intensity and Richard’s hand found its way up my naked thigh until it cupped my sore bottom. He quickly located my stripes and gently stroked and cherished them. We both became stimulated and continued our snog at the local cinema that Saturday.

Richard and I were married some three years later and I am pleased to say that he continues to cherish my bottom whenever we privately kiss. We still do so over 25 years later and, although I have not been caned for many a year, we both remember vividly the first time.

It is an exercise that I can thoroughly recommend; just take off your tights, put on a pair of thin knickers and both let your imagination do the rest.

The End

© Frances Stephenson 2014