The Shoe Shop Girl

A mother and employer team up to teach a girl a good lesson

By Kane Strokes

The early months of 1969, and nineteen year old Cathy Fuller arrives for work at ‘Treadz’ shoe shop just as the shop was about to open. The manageress, Mrs Helen Grant, looked at her watch.

“Sorry Mrs Grant, I got a bit delayed.”

“Your time keeping is going to have to improve, Cathy.” Mrs Grant admonished her. She liked Cathy, always bright and cheerful, but the girl could be a little cheeky at times. Now, if she was her daughter!

Cathy went out the back of the shop to the staff room, took off her coat and returned quickly to the shop. There were two other members of staff, both ladies, and both in their 40’s, Vera Grist and Maureen Taylor, and both thought the same about Cathy’s cheek, although neither said anything about it. It was the way of the world these days, but if she was their daughter!

Mrs Grant surveyed the shop, noting what stock needed replenishing. She had also checked the stock room; that too needed a good clean.

“I’ll do the stock room,” said Cathy, much to every one’s surprise, as no one liked working in the stock room.

Mrs Grant was happy though, as it saved her the task of appointing someone to do it and making herself unpopular with that person. As Cathy left for the stock room, Helen noted something different about Cathy this morning. If it were possible, her skirt was shorter, and she was certain Cathy was wearing stockings. She might have to say something if Cathy had to climb too many ladders or couldn’t crouch in a ladylike manner when customers tried shoes for size.

Cathy climbed the stairs to the stockroom, stopped at the barred window and looked down to the yard at the back door of the shop. From here, she could see when Danny arrived. Danny Philips, her boyfriend, not that Cathy had told her mum about Danny, as mum had said long ago she disapproved of him. He was different from the other boys, which is why the girls flocked to him. The other lads wore shirts and jumpers like their dads, but Danny wore a white T shirt and a leather jacket. He also liked different music; he played ‘Cream’, and ‘Yes’ and ‘Deep Purple’, music that Cathy now played at home, much to her mother’s increased irritation. Danny was going away for a couple of weeks; he was coming to say goodbye.

Cathy switched on a small transistor radio in the stock room and began tidying, in between checking the window for Danny’s arrival. She made herself busy whilst Vera and Maureen collected the stock needed to replenish the shop, then checked the window again. He was there. Cathy slipped away and out of the back door to meet him. Cathy ran towards him.

“Look, I did as you asked.” Cathy flipped up the front of her skirt to reveal her stockings and suspenders, and a daring pair of brief panties. Danny grinned, he always got these girls eating out of the palm of his hand, and this one was ripe for the plucking. They kissed, a deep passionate teenage snog, him pushing his tongue into her mouth. He groped her breasts then he moved his hand down under her skirt and inside her knickers.

Helen looked at her watch. Cathy was still in the stock room; surely it wasn’t that bad. It was also time for her tea break. Helen left the shop floor to find Cathy. She climbed the stairs and could hear Cathy’s radio blaring out the latest hits. As she entered the stock room, she happened to glance out of the barred window and saw Cathy kissing and petting with a boy, not any boy, but Danny Philips, the boy who had fathered three children and walked away, leaving three teenage girls as unmarried mums.

Helen was incensed by Cathy’s deceit, but she also felt a mother’s instinct to protect Cathy. She didn’t want her getting herself pregnant during work hours. With a purposeful stride Helen, marched down the stairs to the back door of the shop. She opened the door to the surprise of the two young lovers.

“Catherine Fuller, my office now!”

Startled, Cathy stayed glued to the spot.

“NOW!” Helen repeated herself.

Cathy moved, running inside.

Helen turned to Danny. “As for you, this is private property. If I catch you here again, I’ll phone the police to report a suspected burglar. Now go, before I phone the police now.”

Danny was no longer so sure of himself and went quickly. Helen locked the door and marched to the shop, informing Maureen and Vera she was in her office and not to be disturbed. Helen entered her office to find Cathy sitting down.

“Who told you to sit? Stand up!”

Cathy stood and watched as Helen sat behind her desk.

“Hardly a week goes by when you aren’t late for work one or two days. Now I catch you in a sexual act in company time. I have all the grounds I need to fire you here and now. If I fire you, you don’t get a reference. Have you any idea how hard it would be to get another job without a reference?”

Cathy was shocked, and started to cry. “Please don’t sack me, I won’t do it again.” Cathy sobbed.

“It’s going to take a lot more than that to convince me not to. Now go dry your eyes and get back to work whilst I decide what I’m going to do with you.”

Cathy left. Helen knew exactly what she wanted to do, but at nineteen she was technically still a child. Next year though, she’d have been an adult at 18. Helen looked through Cathy’s record and reached for the phone to call Cathy’s mother.

The phone rang, interrupting Mrs Fuller’s dusting. The caller was Cathy’s boss, Mrs Grant, telling her about Cathy’s behaviour, and the boy and her predicament that she should fire her. Mrs Fuller, shocked and taken aback with what Helen had told her, asked Helen not to sack her. Was there some other way she could discipline her wayward worker. That was the problem, there wasn’t.

Then Mrs Fuller had an idea. “I’ll lay my cards on the table. I am a strong believer in corporal punishment. Tonight, Catherine will be going to bed nursing a very sore bottom; six of the best with a school cane hanging in her wardrobe. Now I doubt that you have a cane in your office, but you must have a hard bottomed slipper or gym shoe. I’ll have no problem caning a bottom that has already been whacked. I’m sure it will aid the lesson being learned more thoroughly.”

“Well that is rather unorthodox” replied Helen, “But I agree with your principals and sentiments. I’ll offer Catherine the choice; to leave the shop tonight with a sore bottom, and a job to return to, or to leave and start looking for another job.”

“If Catherine decides on the second option, I’ll slipper her on your behalf, then I’ll cane her as I intend to, and bring her back to the shop tomorrow. Would that be acceptable to you?”

“I think we have a good understanding here. That sounds a good solution.”

The women exchanged the usual goodbye pleasantries. Helen replaced the handset on the telephone, then went to find Cathy in the shop. Vera and Maureen were unaware of what had happened outside the back door, but they were aware of Cathy’s poor time keeping. Helen decided now was the time to demonstrate that she would take disciplinary action against persistent poor time keeping.

“Cathy, tonight you will work on until six o’clock to make up for the times you’ve been late over these past weeks. The shop will close as normal. I’m certain there will be plenty I can find you to do.”

Helen left the three of them. Vera looked at Maureen, and then Cathy. “You must have upset her. She’s never laid the law down like that before. You’d better watch your step, young lady, before you get yourself into more trouble.”

Cathy blushed deeply, not knowing what to say.

The afternoon passed slowly for Cathy, not knowing if she was going to get fired tonight. Helen made several appearances on the shop floor, taking an interest in men’s slippers and gym shoes. She studied several pairs, made a note of the product number, then went to the stock room before returning to her office.

At closing time, Vera and Maureen donned their coats and teased Cathy about being late home for her dinner tonight.

“If it were my daughter, I’d be asking some searching questions, and there would be trouble with a capital T,” warned Maureen.

“I so agree,” replied Vera as she turned her gaze to Cathy, and continued: “I haven’t retired my hairbrush yet.”

“Neither have I,” interrupted Maureen, who also turned a menacing gaze towards Cathy, all of which increased her worries about what to tell her mother, and the thought of the cane hanging in her wardrobe, not that she was going to say anything about that to these two.

Helen locked the door behind Maureen and Vera, then turned to Cathy. “Right, young lady, my office now.”

Helen led the way. Cathy followed, still not knowing if she had a job or not. Helen sat behind her desk as Cathy stood in front. She was handed a piece of paper.

“Go to the stock room and bring me back this product.”

Cathy looked at the product number and wondered if this was some kind of test. She climbed the stairs to the stockroom, entered, found the product and returned with the box to Mrs Grant.

Helen opened the box, and took out a pair of men’s size 12 slippers, with a thick hard leather sole. She gripped the heel with her right hand, then brought it down onto the palm of her left hand. It stung.

Cathy watched and turned pale at the sight.

“I’m going to offer you a choice. You can leave now, and take your cards with you, or you can bend over my desk for a well deserved slippering and keep your job.” Helen told a very nervous looking Cathy, who was stood chewing her lip, her eyes glued to the slipper that had just stung Mrs Grant’s hand.

Cathy thought. She knew she only had one option. If she was fired mum would ask awkward questions and there was the cane hanging in her wardrobe, which mum would certainly put to use.

“Well?” Enquired Helen.

“I’ll take the slippering,” said Cathy nervously.

“That’s your first sensible decision of the day. Right, skirt up, knickers down, bend over the desk and grip far side.”

Cathy started to argue and plead about taking her knickers down.

“We do this my way or not at all, and you can leave now with your cards. You are here to be disciplined you will do as you are told.”

Cathy reached under her skirt and slid her knickers down, then raised her skirt and bent over as instructed. Helen admired the girl’s long straight legs which raised her bottom up due to the unexpectedly ideal height of the desk, for as Cathy laid herself on it’s top, she created a natural arch in her back, and a perfect target for Helen’s slipper.

“I don’t know how many I’m going to give you. I’ll stop when I think you’ve learnt your lesson.”

Cathy’s heart sank. This was going to be worse than she thought.

The slipper struck Cathy’s left cheek, hard on her sit spot, the toe just reaching into her cleft. A pause, and then her right cheek suffered the same, followed quickly by a whack across the middle, joining the previous whacks. Cathy gasped. She’d not been whacked in a long time. Already, the sting and the pain were taking its toll.

The next stroke crossed her bottom from right to left, across the previous strokes, the toe digging in as it traversed her already glowing orbs. Cathy grunted, trying not to yell out like a child. Helen aimed the next stroke on the underside on her right cheek striking with an upward movement. Cathy yelled, despite her previous determination. Her left cheek then suffered the same. Cathy yelled again and started to cry.

Helen changed her stance. The slipper struck downwards. Another change of stance and the slipper struck upwards. Cathy was now yelling with each stroke, openly crying and sobbing; a haughty teenager being reduced to a well spanked little girl. The tears streamed down her face.

Helen now pushed down on the small of Cathy’s back. She lifted the slipper and struck the crease of Cathy’s right thigh and bottom hard, three times, and then repeated it for her left cheek. Helen then removed her hand from Cathy’s back.

Cathy jumped up clutching her sore and burning bottom, blubbering like a girl ten years younger, with no thought or concern for her natural charms she was displaying.

Helen used the slipper to point to the desk. “Back,” she commanded.

Cathy reluctantly bent over again.

“Last three, and you’ll stay there until I tell you to move.”

“Yes, Mrs Grant.”

Helen was pleased; lessons in respect and obedience had been learned.

“Part you legs slightly.”

Cathy obeyed. Helen raised the slipper and brought it down three times, hard across the cleft on the girls lower cheeks. Cathy laid there sobbing as the fires of hell raged through her bottom.

“You may get up when you’re ready.”

Cathy did so slowly, with no attempt to cover her nakedness. Helen replaced the slipper in it’s box, then gave the box to Cathy.

“Get dressed, return these to the stock room, then go to the staff room and wash your face, and then come back here.”

Cathy took the box and left. Helen sat behind her desk, replaying the slippering in her mind. It had awakened her own spanking fetish. Cathy returned walking slowly and stiffly.

“You have a job to come back to tomorrow. Next time, you might not be so lucky.”

“Yes, Mrs Grant, thank you.”

Helen escorted Cathy to the door and let her out, then smiled at the fact the girl was oblivious to the welcome she was going to get from her mother’s cane when she got home. Helen returned to her office and sat down. Her mind replayed the slippering time and again. She was getting excited. She yearned for a spanking. She reached for the phone and dialled her home number. Her husband answered.

“I’m late already and I’ve not left the office. I’ll be home soon.”

Her husband assured her not to worry. “These things happen. At least I know you’re safe.”

“Oh, and I forgot my homework.”

“Late and no homework done? You’ll report to the headmaster’s study tonight.”

“Yes sir!”

Helen replaced the handset. With any luck, it wouldn’t be just Cathy who arrived at work with a cane striped bottom tomorrow.

*         *          *

Cathy heard Mrs Grant lock the shop door behind her. She walked away, slowly, cautiously, her gait screamed at the older generation: “I’ve been thoroughly spanked!”

She reached her bus stop, caught a later bus then normal. She winced as she stepped up on to the platform. This bus had empty seats. She wished she was on an earlier bus with every seat taken. Cathy didn’t want to sit down. She didn’t want to go upstairs either. She passed the conductress, the same one as she had cheeked on her way into work, and made her way down the aisle to one of many vacant seats.

The conductress, Rita, was a redhead in her late forties, the same age as Cathy’s mum. She recognised Cathy immediately, and the cheek she took this morning. What she’d give for ten minutes alone with her and a hairbrush! She watched Cathy walk down the aisle and noted something different; no longer the confident haughty walk and posture, she was subdued, walking cautiously, and sitting down very carefully indeed. Was it too much to hope this young miss had been spanked?

Cathy eased herself on to the seat. She sat just forward of two older women, grannies she thought to herself, each sat opposite sides of the aisle. The driver crunched the gears and the bus shuddered away, the vibrations passing through the seat making life more uncomfortable for girls with spanked bottoms.

The conductress arrived for Cathy’s fare. Rita knew Cathy had a weekly pass; she’d seen it this morning. She’d look at it again this evening and delight in a little

payback. Cathy showed Rita her ticket.

“You sat down cautiously.”

“So?” Replied a petulant Cathy.

Rita winked at the two elderly ladies. “The last time I saw a girl sit down that cautiously she had a well spanked bottom.”

Rita grinned, as did the two ladies, now listening intently.

“You should have heard the cheek she gave me this morning. I’d have had my daughter across my knees for a dose of the hairbrush,” said Rita. Turning to Cathy, she asked: “Is that what’s happened? Has someone spanked you good and proper for your cheek? Good job too!”

“No, they haven’t,” replied Cathy, now blushing furiously, her face probably the same colour as her bottom.

“There’s not enough of it these days,” said one lady. “A good dose of the hairbrush does teenage girls a lot of good.”

“It certainly does,” replied the other elderly lady. “Come on, lass. Tell us who spanked you.”

“I have not been spanked!” Insisted Cathy.

Rita and the two elderly women shared a knowing grin between them. Rita sat herself immediately behind them and continued talking to them in a muted whisper.

The bus made its way through the town. It felt to Cathy as though the driver was crashing the gears deliberately at every turn, her sore bottom hurting more each time. The bus left the town for the bumpy and potholed roads of the country. Each pothole made the bus and its passengers jump, Cathy landing each time on both sore cheeks. At least the questions about getting spanked had stopped.

At last, the bus neared her stop. Cathy stood up and started to ease her way down the aisle. As she did so, one of the elderly ladies blocked her passage by putting her right arm across the aisle. With her left hand, she lifted the hem of Cathy’s mini skirt, exposing her very scanty knickers and a very red bottom.

“She’s got a bright red bottom. She’s been spanked!” Shouted the other elderly woman. With that, she gave Cathy’s bottom an almighty slap.

“OOOOOOWWWWW!!” Yelled a surprised Cathy.

The first woman removed her arm to let Cathy proceed. As Cathy got to the back of the bus, Rita was laughing.

“I knew you’d been spanked. Who was it? I’d like to shake their hand.”

The bus drew to a halt. Cathy stepped down and on to the pavement. She couldn’t help but squeal as she did so, much to the delight of Rita and the two elderly women. The bus pulled away.

One of the women beckoned Rita. She came to see what she wanted.

“You know who that was?”

“No,” replied Rita.

“I wasn’t sure at first, but I am now. That was Iris Fuller’s daughter.”

Rita shook her head; the name meant nothing to her.

“You know her. Iris Shaw, that was. You must know her. Used to help lunch times at the school.”

“Yes, I know who you mean now,” answered Rita.

“Well, if Iris finds out that young miss has been cheeking you, she’ll really tan her hide. Iris has never been scared of spanking an ill mannered child.”

“I think I’ll have to look Iris up,” grinned Rita.

Cathy walked cautiously home, got to her front door and let herself in.

“Hello mum, I’m home.”

“You’re late, what happened?”

“I stayed on late because I was late getting into to work.”

“That is not what Mrs Grant told me on the phone.”

*         *          *

Helen Grant walked to the shop door, the adrenalin barely subsided in her body. She unlocked the door and stepped outside to be greeted by her husband, Tom.

“You’ve had a long day. Fish and chip supper?”

“That would be lovely,” replied Helen.

They walked hand in hand to a nearby cafe. Over their meal, they discussed their day. Helen told Tom about Cathy. She omitted the slippering, though told Tom that: “Perhaps I should have done.”

Tom smiled. He conjured up a mental image of Helen slippering the bare bottom of a haughty nineteen year old, then grinned as he thought of later tonight when Helen would be baring her bottom for the ‘headmaster’.

After their meal, Tom drove them home. Neither spoke of Helen’s ‘homework’. Helen was beginning to believe Tom had either forgotten or wasn’t in the mood. She said nothing. She let herself drift away with her memories of earlier, slippering a teenager’s bare bottom.

Tom parked the car. He opened the front gate for Helen. They walked towards the house. He unlocked the front door and held it open for her.

As she entered, Tom said: “Where is the homework you were supposed to have placed on my desk this morning? We will discuss it in my study in thirty minutes.”

“Yes sir,” replied Helen, trying to control the excitement in her voice. She hurried upstairs to her bedroom.

*         *          *

Cathy looked at her mother in shock.

“You have some explaining to do, young lady. Go and fetch the cane, and meet me in the living room.”

Cathy trod carefully up the stairs to her room to retrieve the cane, now close to tears. She was wondering just what Mrs Grant had told her mother. She took the cane from her wardrobe and carefully descended the stairs, making her way to the living room where her mother was waiting, standing, with her arms folded. Iris reached out and took the cane from her wayward daughter.

“What have you to say for yourself?”

“There’s nothing to tell, mum. I don’t know what this is all about.”

Iris slapped Cathy.

“Don’t lie to me! Mrs Grant has told me everything; late several mornings, and meeting Danny Philips.”

Iris swished the cane through the air, and brought it down firmly into her own palm. It stung, but not as much as it was about to sting Cathy’s bottom.

“I’ll ask you again, what have you to say for yourself?”

Cathy confessed to being late several times, more than Mrs Grant had known about, and meeting Danny Philips. As she did so, Iris walked around the room cutting the air with the cane. The swishing noise made Cathy wince. Occasionally, Iris would bring the cane down into her palm. Again, Cathy winced.

She was asked what had happened when she met Danny. Cathy blustered. Iris stood in front of Cathy.

“You’re not going to lie to me again, are you?”

“No mum.”

Shamed faced and looking at the floor, Cathy told Iris all; the kissing, his hands caressing her breasts, and his hand inside her knickers. When Cathy had finished her confession, she looked up. Her mother was stood in front of her, flexing the cane across her chest, reminding Cathy of it suppleness, it’s flexibility and swishiness.

Iris lectured Cathy about the undesirable Danny Philips. She told of the three teenage girls he’d got pregnant and left. Cathy would not be joining their number. The lecture continued, with Iris continuing to flex and swish the cane.

“Skirt off!”

Cathy fumbled with the catch, then let her skirt fall to the floor. Iris raised her eyebrows when she saw the scanty, almost transparent, knickers that Cathy was wearing.

“We’ve spoken of this sort of underwear before. Obviously, you weren’t listening. I can assure you that you will listen this weekend, when we sort through what other underwear you’ve sneaked in.”

Cathy blushed. “Yes mum,” she replied, with a feeling of total dejection.

Iris looked at her daughter’s bottom, still burning red from her slippering earlier.

“I see Mrs Grant did a good job. Gives me a firm foundation to build on. Right, knickers off, kneel on the foot stool, put your palms flat on the floor.”

Cathy did as instructed, her bright red bottom uppermost and pointing to the ceiling. She felt the cane tapping her bottom, her mother taking aim for the first stroke across her sit spots. She closed her eyes and tried to brace herself in readiness.

*         *          *

In her bedroom, Helen Grant reached behind her to lower the zip of the dress she’d worn to work. She let it fall, then stepped out of it. She looked at herself in the mirror. She’d keep the stockings and suspenders, but she’d need to find a pair of knickers more fitting for a school girl. In her underwear drawer, she found the sensibly large knickers she always wore for these occasions. Beside them was the scandalously brief pair that had caused her so much embarrassment last Christmas when her husband gave them to her in front of a full family gathering. She still blushed and cringed at the memory.

Suddenly, Helen was undecided. Should she wear the sensible schoolgirl style knickers?

‘Well,’ she mused. ‘I’m in trouble enough, and I’d like to be in deeper trouble.’

Without a second thought, she picked the small knickers from her drawer. Helen changed her knickers, then walked to the mirror, bent over in front of it, then looked over her left shoulder at her reflection.

‘If that doesn’t get me what I want, nothing will.’ She grinned at the thought.

Helen found her pleated skirt, and white blouse, and her daughter’s old school tie she’d kept as a souvenir, she’d explained to her daughter, although this was the real reason for keeping the tie.

Dressed, once more she looked in the mirror; perfect, every inch a rebellious schoolgirl ready to face the headmaster. She checked the time. She had ten minutes; time to go. She descended the stairs, then went to the dining room door, the makeshift Headmaster’s study. The door was closed. Helen knocked. Tom opened the door, dressed in a smart business suit.

“Ah Grant, I’ll call you when I’m ready. In the meantime you can face the wall, nose against the wall, your hands on your head.”

Helen did as she was told; it was all part of the role play, a part that always made her nervous. She was in sight of the front door. What if someone called? Where would she hide? Helen kept her hands on her head, and her nose pressed against the wall.

“Come in,” she heard Tom call.

She entered. Tom was sat at his desk, the dining table. She stood in front of the table. Tom lectured Helen on punctuality, and her failure to hand in her homework. He stood up and paced the room as he continued to lecture and ask questions. The answers Helen gave were deliberately designed to dig her deeper into trouble.

Tom finished his lecture, saying: “You give me no alternative than to cane you. You will take six of the best. Bend over and touch your toes.”

Tom fetched the cane from the sideboard.

Helen did as she was instructed, her skirt rode up slightly. Then Tom came up behind her and lifted her skirt. For a split second, he stepped out of character as he whistled quietly at the sight of his wife’s bottom encased within such sensual underwear.

Helen heard the whistle. ‘Gotcha!’ She thought.

Tom quickly stepped back into character.

“Since when have these knickers been part of your school uniform?”

“I’m sorry, sir. All my other knickers are in the wash. I didn’t think you’d want me to come to school without any knickers on.”

“That’s enough of your cheek. I’ll decide your additional punishment. To start with, you can take your knickers off.”

Helen stood up, pushed her knickers to her knees, then let them fall. She stepped out of them, then resumed her touching toes position, her legs parted slightly more than they should have been.

This part of their game always excited her. Would he give her extra with the cane, even though they had agreed no more than six? Would he pull her across his knee like last time? Tom went back to the sideboard and brought out a gymshoe.

“Stay where you are, six with the slipper.”

Helen’s heart raced at what Tom had said. The slipper would sting. She wanted that sting. She felt the slipper being tapped on her sit spots. A pistol shot rang out. It echoed around the room. A footprint of burning sting exploded on her sit spots across her cleft. Helen lurched forward with the force of the strike. She regained her position, wriggled at the sting, and waited for the next stroke.

Another pistol shot rang out; another footprint of sting on Helen’s bottom, this time all on her left cheek covering part of the first stroke. The next stroke landed on her right cheek exactly the same. Helen wriggled her bottom. She didn’t need to, but it might encourage Tom to make her wriggle for real.

The fourth stroke was a replay of the third. Helen took a deep breath as the sting mounted. Tom whacked her left cheek again. Helen knew the next stroke would be across the cleft. Tom eyed up where this last stroke would land, across the cleft for sure, but not quite where Helen was expecting. The slipper struck hard and low, across the cleft and rising upwards pushing her cheeks up as it rose.

Helen squealed at the sting. Tom knew that would hurt deep into her bottom. He also knew from experience how much punishment his wife’s bottom could take. Her message earlier about homework was her signal she was craving punishment. Over the years, Tom had learned not to hold back but to give his wife the sore and burning bottom she was craving.

Tom replaced the slipper and picked up the cane.

“Six,” he told her.

Forceful aiming taps stung Helen’s already burning bottom. A swish, and the fiery kiss of the cane added its own unique sting to Helen’s stinging sit spots.

She gasped, then purred: “Yes,” as the sting increased in time with the welt that rose.

The next stroke, lower than the first, the sting of the cane once more adding to the sting on her sit spots. She bent her knees slightly before regaining her position. She afforded her husband a view of her excitement. Helen’s eyes were watering when the third stroke struck lower still. As the pain increased, the tears began to fall. Still defiant, she thrust her bottom out for more.

The fourth stroke was low, just above her crease. Helen yelled at the intensity of the sting. It always took her by surprise, the sting, the pain reaching below the surface, why was she putting herself through this? She needed, wanted, yearned to feel this pain, a pain that brought sexual excitement and cleansed her mind. A small trickle of tears rolled shamelessly down her face, soon the floodgates of tears would open.

The fifth stroke, again across her sit spots, four parallel stripes, the full width of her bottom. She knew she’d not sit easy for days. Mentally, she damned him and thanked him.

“Last one, you know what that means.”

Bravely and defiantly, with a hint of arrogance, Helen thrust her bottom at him, taunting him that she hadn’t really felt the pain of the cane yet. Tom looked at his lovely wife’s welted bottom. He knew how much the cane had hurt her, yet still this ritual each time they played. She’s teasing and taunting him to make that last stroke harder, stingier and more painful than he intended or wanted to. Each time she won, tonight would be no exception. Tom whipped the cane backwards away from her bottom before it travelled forward faster than ever before. The cane lashed into Helen’s bottom. It took her by surprise, then the pain and sting hit her. She jumped up clutching her bottom, crying shamelessly. She yelled more as welt closed upon welt.

“Bastard!” She said, clutching her bottom, performing a very explicit spanky dance for him, then threw her arms around him. Through her tears, she said: “That stings and hurts! Christ, that was good!”

She tore open his shirt, ran her hands behind his back and sunk her nails into his flesh. Their foreplay had begun.

“Upstairs!” He told her. He turned her around, slapped her bum; she squealed, and not for the last time tonight, pushing her towards the door.

*         *          *

Iris Fuller knew exactly where the cane was going to land across her daughter’s bottom. Raised, then whipped down, the cane kissed Cathy’s bottom with it’s fiery kiss fully across her sit spots.

“OOOOWWW!!” She cried out, wanting to rub her bottom already, but her position denied her.

Iris raised the cane again. She had already decided how to cane her wayward daughter; a methodical caning to remember. The cane came down hard, fractionally below the first welt. The welts weren’t touching, but later they’d merge, and when Cathy stood up, the welts would fold in on each other.

The cane struck its target. Cathy cried out again, her eyes beginning to dampen.

The next stroke landed lower still, tears now rolling down the girl’s pain contorted face. The fourth stroke, lower still, the fifth even lower. Cathy screamed as she broke down, sobbing and crying hard. Iris finished the caning with a cross stroke aimed at Cathy’s already welted sit spots. Cathy screamed and cried, the haughty teenager cut down to the size of a little girl.

Iris put the cane down, then helped Cathy up. As she got to her feet, she was saying: “Sorry, mum, I really am very, very sorry,” at the same time dancing the dance of a well caned bottom, bending, straightening , rubbing , anything to try to reduce the inferno raging in her bottom.

Cathy was about to pick up her skirt and knickers.

“Ah ah, you know what comes next!”

“Mum, no, please don’t make me do this, not in front of Steve and Sarah.”

“It’s the rules, young lady, and well you know it. No exceptions, come along.”

Still sniffling, Cathy followed her mother into the dining room, naked from the waist down.

“There’s your dinner. Naughty children eat their dinner at the mantelpiece so their brothers and sisters can see your caned bottom.”

Cathy didn’t have much appetite. She forced herself to eat as best she could, well aware of the gazes of her parents and her younger brother and sister looking at her bare sore bottom. When she finished her meal, Cathy was sent to bed. It would be a torrid night for her, sleeping on her front.

The next morning, Cathy’s bottom was still throbbing, the welts were sore. She looked into a drawer for a pair of knickers. Every pair she had was going to make her bottom feel worse. She closed the drawer. She’d go without, then her mother’s voice called up the stairs.

“I’ll be checking your knickers before you leave, young lady.”

Cathy cringed. She opened the drawer and selected a pair her mother would approve of. After breakfast, another meal Cathy ate standing up, this time voluntarily, she was about to leave when her mother stopped her. Cathy felt her skirt being lifted. Iris checked that Cathy’s knickers met with her approval.

“No more silliness?”

“No mum, promise.”

“Good, and remember what I’ve told you to say to Mrs Grant,” said her mother, then slapped Cathy’s bottom as she went out the front door.

She squealed. Fortunately no neighbours were around to hear her. She waited with others at the bus stop. She deliberately put herself at the back of the queue, allowing others to go in front of her. She desperately wanted to stand this morning.

The step up on to the platform was even more painful than the previous night. As luck would have it, there was standing room only, and a different conductor. The bus driver seemed to find all the potholes. Cathy for once was happy to stand. The bus emptied out a little. The conductor pointed her to a vacant seat, which she very cautiously lowered herself onto.

*         *          *

Helen perused her underwear. She picked through several pairs of knickers. Whatever she choose would add to the throbbing in her bottom.

‘Nothing for it,’ she thought. ‘I’ll go commando today,’ and so closed the drawer.

Helen was getting a lift to work. Tom opened the car door for her. He positioned himself to catch a glimpse of stocking top and bare thigh. She lowered herself very cautiously into the car, Tom grinning from ear to ear at his wife’s discomfort.

The drive to the shop was mainly uneventful, apart from bumps from a couple of potholes which made Helen squeal, much to Tom’s amusement. He stopped the car close to the shop. Helen got out, looked back in the car and told him: “I decided on commando today.” She closed the car door and walked away grinning.

Tom already knew she was going commando, he saw as she got in the car.

Cathy alighted from the bus and walked the two streets to the shop. The walk was uncomfortable, the elastic in the leg of her knickers was rubbing the welt in her crease, their snug fit was intensifying the throbbing. It hurt to walk normally; she tried to walk so as not to draw attention. She was early to work; she arrived at the same time as Helen.

“A new leaf Cathy?”

“I’ll try, Mrs Grant.”

Helen let Cathy in. Maureen and Vera would soon be arriving. Helen walked through the shop to her office. Cathy hesitated nearby.

“Is there something wrong, Cathy?”

“No, can I come in please.”

“Certainly, what’s the problem?”

“I’m sorry for yesterday, and for being late so often. I also have to show you mum made sure justice was done last night.”

Cathy turned her back, put her hands beneath her skirt and lowered her knickers. She pulled her skirt up and bent over.

Helen looked at Cathy’s stripes with a degree of jealously, even though her own stripes were better.

“Thank you, Cathy. I can see your mother wasn’t very happy with you.”

“She wasn’t,” agreed Cathy.

“Clean sheet as of today. Go and get changed and into the shop.”

“Yes, Mrs Grant.”

Maureen and Vera saw a new Cathy that morning, less cheek and more respect. She also walked funny.

“Have you seen the way Cathy is walking?”

“I have.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“You think that someone has had her knickers down for a good hiding? Yes, I’m thinking the same.”

“Perhaps we’ll get a chance to find out.”

The two women grinned, sharing the joke and mentally scheming.

“We’ll have to be careful though. I’ve not seen Mrs Grant spend so much time stood in the shop. Why isn’t she sat in her office as usual?”

“Did you see the way she walked through the shop when she let us in? Something’s not right there either.”

The End

© Kane Strokes 2017


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