CHAPTER ONE

BEGINNINGS

 

"The trouble with 'emmett' girls", declared Carl with great authority, "is that they're too soft. Give them the slightest tap on the bum and they're howling for mercy."

Jamie laughed in derision. Carl, who was slightly drunk, did not take kindly to his friend's scorn. Cornish fishermen are a proud race of men, especially in the pub on a Saturday night.

"Don't laugh, it's true. When did you last spank an 'emmett's' bum till it was really red?"

"What do you want to spank it for, anyway?" Ian was much less experienced than the other two, but eager to learn.

"Stimulates the blood circulation. It also gives them security by showing them their place," replied Jamie.

"Stop trying to change the subject," Carl persisted, sensing victory for his argument. "Answer the question."

Jamie reflected. He felt that Carl was wrong, but he couldn't offer any real proof. To really get to work on a girl's derriere required a degree of intimacy which could not be achieved in the few days that most 'emmetts' (the Cornish word for non-Cornish people, particularly tourists) spent on holiday in the tiny fishing village where they lived. Admittedly, there was one girl who often came down on working holidays who was progressing quite nicely...

"Now what about that girl who's been hanging around you recently? " Carl seemed to read his mind. "Superb figure. Bet she'd run a mile if you got a cane out!"

Jamie hadn't tried, and so couldn't answer. Instead he made a rude reply about getting something else out, the precise nature of which may be left to the reader's imagination. This was greeted with loud laughter and an offer to get in the next round of drinks ensured that Jamie was off the hook. But secretly he resolved to try to prove Carl wrong.

Referring to Ali's figure as 'superb' was no exaggeration. The girl had an athletic body with excellent proportions. She wasn't skinny and she wasn't fat, being perfectly placed in between those two extremes so that she had a fine set of curves without an ounce of unwanted fat. Her face was not classically beautiful, but was very pretty and her character was very likeable. In fact, her company was very agreeable. Although quite shy in her own way, she had clearly shown an interest in him, which was fine by him. Under her mature exterior he was sure that there was a submissive trying to get out and kneel before him.

Knowing that it would be a kindness to help the emergence of this true self of hers, he had offered to take her out rowing in his boat. She was interested in boating, having been trying to join the local gig club. (A gig is a long rowing boat crewed by a dozen rowers.) "But you'll have to do your share of the work," he told her. "It takes two men to handle that boat properly, but if you put your back into it and do exactly what you're told, we can manage it. However, you have to listen carefully and obey precisely and immediately. Discipline is vital aboard ship." Calling his tiny rowing boat a ship was going a bit far, but she was too enthusiastic to quibble.

He had to admit that she did well. She learned quickly and well, and, whilst she did not have a man's physical power, she was no weakling. They took the boat well out from the village harbour towards the deserted coves which made up so much of the coastline. In tune with the waves lapping gently against the pebbled shore, they both relaxed, and she made the mistake that, quite frankly, he had been waiting for. A clumsy movement knocked her oar out of the rowlock and into the sea.

"You idiot! You can't move about like a cow in a milking shed on a boat this size!" She looked totally crest-fallen and said nothing, lowering her head. Immediately he knew that he had her where he wanted her. Ideally he would have liked to deal with her at that moment, but the oar was already starting to drift away and he thought it best to retrieve it first. "Move to the other side to counter-balance me as I reach out for it."

It should have been a simple manoeuvre; what went wrong he never found out. Suffice it to say that he got the oar, but lost the boat. Or, to put it more bluntly, the boat tipped and he fell in. When he eventually climbed back in, with the oar but soaked through, she was in fits of giggles. Gradually they subsided as she realised that he was not amused.

"So much for you being any good in a boat. You're just another useless emmett. I'll tell the gig club that if they do let you go out with them, they should all put on swim-suits ready and double the boat insurance. Meanwhile, we'd better go back before you sink us."

"I'm sorry. It wasn't my fault!

This was the cue for him to launch into a more detailed technical tirade which left her with head even lower.

"Please give me another chance. I promise I'll do better."

He considered. "Let's see how you handle discipline first. Can you at least do that?" She nodded, not understanding what he meant. "Good. Kneel down and bend over that bench."

On hearing that calm, cool instruction her jaw dropped and her mind experienced some sort of shut-down. She never quite knew what happened in the next few seconds. When her mind regained equilibrium, or something near it, she found herself, bewildered, in the position he had described. Her hands and knees were on the floor, her tummy resting on the wooden bench, and her bottom stuck up in the air. She did not know how she had got there, but she knew what would happen next. And she couldn't move to avoid it. She didn't dare.

The first few slaps, delivered calmly at about three or four second intervals, embarrassed her. By the third, she was becoming aware that they were hurting. By the sixth, she realised that she was becoming aroused. He was so masterful! By the eighth, she didn't want him to stop, despite the stinging. He stopped at twelve, although she wasn't counting. For an age she remained still, not daring to move. Eventually he told her to get up and face him. No tears showed in her face, but it was beetroot red beneath her tan. The submissive was now clearly revealed. He spoke in a slightly gentler voice, but still with an edge: "I suppose I could give you one last chance. Don't mess it up!" The joy on her face was obvious.

They spent quite a while out there he spanked her, for another technical error, she got into position without hesitation and stuck her bottom out almost invitingly. By the third trip, all pretence at finding a genuine excuse to wallop her was dropped by unspoken mutual agreement; both of them enjoyed it, so every trip included a session. On the first two occasions she had worn her black tracksuit bottoms - perfect for showing her bum off - but on later trips she would wear boxer shorts under her jeans or tracksuit bottoms, and somewhat shyly took the trousers off. Her excellently proportioned legs entranced him. Also, this enabled him to slap the bare flesh of her thighs. It stung considerably more, but that and the feel of his hand on her flesh made it even more pleasurable for both of them.

That, however, was as far as he had got to date. In Jamie's experience, that was far enough for a while. Only when this started to get boring or tame should he increase the level of pain. Of course, a bare-bum spanking would be better, but she was much too 'proper' for that. But Carl had got under his skin with his cavalier generalisation. Jamie wanted to prove him wrong, both for his own satisfaction and in the girl's defence. Ali could take the cane. He was sure of it. She was brave and tough enough. But could he convince her? And how could he prove it to Carl afterwards?

There are two ways of introducing a girl to punishment, or taking her to new levels. One way is to grab her, fling her over the nearest suitable object and set to work with gusto, ignoring all cries and pleas as being part of the act. Romantics may find this wonderful, and no doubt many a submissive girl dreams of it. But of course it is fraught with danger. Even the most dominant, masterful dictator cannot guarantee success, and the price of failure is enormous. Jamie, like most men, preferred the cautious approach. It had worked on the boat. He tried it again now. As Ali quietly slipped her bermudas back on after the latest warming of her posterior, he opened the subject, without mentioning the conversation with Carl. Ali was not enthusiastic.

"This hurts enough, you know," she said. "I prefer it not to get any worse. A cane would be hell."

"I thought it might be a bit of a grand finale, since you're going home next week. When's that boyfriend coming down to collect you, a week on Monday?"

She nodded. "He's not my boyfriend, just a friend. A grand finale ... no, not really. It would just be a lot more painful."

"Maybe we could do it in a different way."

"Such as?"

Jamie didn't know. The only option he could think of was one he was sure she wouldn't accept, and it was probably best not to even try it. But Ali, despite herself, was thinking hard. She had to admit that she had been enjoying these sessions, and despite herself she wondered what the cane would be like. After all, she had never dreamed that she would like being spanked! For a while they rowed on, exploring the coastline largely in silence apart from the waves and the seagulls. Eventually she spoke. "I don't really feel like the cane," she insisted, "but I think I could take it if you used it on me in front of a big crowd. Having you control me like that in front of others would make it exciting enough for me to forget about the horrible sting. Of course, that's only a fantasy. I realise that it couldn't be arranged."

"Oh, I don't know." Jamie could not help the broad grin appearing on his face. He had just realised how he could solve both his problems and beat Carl in considerable style. Up to now he hadn't for a minute thought that he could get Ali to bend over in front of witnesses: she seemed far too shy and withdrawn for that. But her words had given him both the opening and an indication that he might just be able to talk her into it. Summoning all his persuasive skills, he launched his opening gambit. "If I can arrange it, will you do it?"

After some consideration, she nodded soberly.

"Well, we have this little club which has a get-together every month or so at this skittles hall just this side of Penzance. There are usually about thirty or so of us, all men, from all over the county. No emmetts. It's called the 'Wench Whackers Ball', and the next meeting is on this Sunday evening. There are usually two or three girls providing the entertainment." He grinned again. "Guess I'd better ring them up and add an extra attraction to the list."

Details were discussed. Ali was relieved to hear that no other people that she knew, or was likely to meet in future, would be present. Jamie decided that it would be prudent not to mention that Carl would be there. However, her enthusiasm dipped sharply when it was made clear to her that she would not be allowed to wear boxer shorts, or even knickers, for her ordeal. She took some time to digest this. On the one hand, the thought of exposure horrified her. Unthinkable! On the other hand, the thought of being made to obey and endure it made her dizzy with anticipation. Her natural caution, logic and common sense said no. She opened her mouth to say "no" and said "yes".

 

CHAPTER TWO

CINDERELLA GOES TO THE BALL

 

As Sunday evening approached Ali became unbearably nervous. Jamie had avoided her for nearly two days after fixing a rendezvous, so as not to give her a chance to back out. Increasingly, she wished she could. Trying to dress for the evening, she changed her mind umpteen times. Knowing they would be - briefly - on view, she went through every pair of panties she had at least twice. In the end she chose a white pair, functional but just lacy enough not to appear dowdy. Over this she put boxer shorts ... though she didn't know why she bothered with them ... and jeans. Her choice of top, at least, was never in doubt: over a bra matching the panties she donned her prized gig club t-shirt. Apart from being her favourite, it had the virtue of being long enough to - she hoped - cover her front. She had no illusions that her rear was going to be permitted any slightest cover. For the hundredth time she wondered why the hell she had agreed to this. But it was too late now.

Jamie picked her up in a battered van borrowed from a friend for the night. The journey was made in strained silence. By now, every nerve was telling her to run for her life. But she couldn't. She felt like Marie Antoinette on her way to the guillotine, or a rabbit staring into the headlights of an oncoming truck.

They arrived at the hall. It belonged to a club and was set back in the trees in some privacy, perfect for their purpose. A large number of men stood around, many of them crowded around a group of three pretty young ladies, who were talking energetically, seemingly oblivious to their fate. Other men stood apart, some clearly not wanting company. Carl, forewarned to keep his head down without being given any reason why, was already inside. Ali stuck closely to Jamie, trying to hide behind him. With this many men and so few girls, she was conscious of standing out like a sore thumb. And of course, everybody knew, at least approximately, her fate. But the club, as Jamie had explained, had strict rules. Nobody pestered or spoke to a girl unless she clearly wanted them around.

Shortly after they arrived, those men still outside made their way inside. It was a small, cosy skittles alley, but with a slightly raised platform at the front which was used as a stage, surrounded by tables and chairs. There was no jostling for tables at the front - places were allocated on a rotational system each month, except for those providing the girls, who had front seats. But in fact all the tables were quite close to the stage, and since the platform was raised everybody had a clear view. The girls stood silently at the back, waiting their turn. Ali stood alone, Jamie having gone to the front, very near to Carl, though Ali couldn't see that. Looking around the room, it seemed to her that there were hundreds of men, but she knew that was nerves. In fact there were about forty. Ages varied, but most were fairly young. Quite a few were very dishy! She had been told that she had to stand at the back until it was her turn, then take her shoes and socks off and walk barefoot up the bowling alley to the front.

The show started, with no introduction apart from the date and time of the next meeting. Ali had been told that she was last to go, but still she breathed a sigh of relief as another girl stepped forward, slipped her shoes and ankle socks off and padded up the skittles alley to the front. Actually, pretty and petite though she was, this was hardly a girl. Maybe mid-twenties? Judging from the ring she wore, the man who stepped up to deal with her was her husband.

Skirt and minuscule panties were removed without any ceremony. The man sat on a chair on a small raised stage, and the girl draped herself over his knee. He began first on one cheek, then the other, then a flurry of spanks all over, then slowing down to a systematic covering of her cute behind. He could certainly spank and she could certainly take it. It was a long time before his hand started to show signs of wear and tear. The only sign that she even noticed that it was her backside that was getting smacked was the slight clenching of her buttocks into even tighter, firmer mounds. Ali could see this even from the back and realised that the audience was so neatly and tightly packed in that they were all very close. The bright shade of scarlet that was emerging was pointed out to Jamie by Carl. "No emmett, that one," he said. Jamie smiled. His turn would come.

The little lady took over a hundred spanks without a sound. After her, the other two girls got their spankings from their boyfriends. One of them, a teenager like Ali, wore stockings and suspenders and a short skirt which was lifted up and the knickers removed. Ali wished that Jamie had told her she could wear a skirt and keep it on, but it was too late now. The other female, still pretty but the oldest of the four, also wore stockings but shrugged out of her dress to reveal that she wore nothing else. Ali thought that it would have created much more interest in the audience if the teenager had gone topless. Then she realised that also applied to her and suddenly she felt very alone, waiting in the shadows for her turn.

But that turn was not yet: these spankings were mere warm-ups. The three recipients were similar enough in their capacities to make them instinctively compete with each other. This enabled each of them to take more punishment than they would otherwise, or at least take it with less fuss. As the last of the three was clambering, red-bottomed, off her chastiser's lap, a suitcase was opened on the stage to reveal a dazzling array of tawses, straps and paddles.

The first girl went up again, over a stool this time, for a dozen with a tawse. The 'splat' it made as it landed sounded horrible to Ali. As soon as the last one landed, she was up and off to the side of the stage as the teenager took her place for twelve with a table tennis bat from her tormentor. For nearly twenty minutes the three ladies performed in strict rotation, with barely a pause. Naturally, they did not maintain their early indifference as the action became more ferocious and their skin more battered. Gasps gradually developed into squeals and yelps and little moans in between strokes, all seemingly amplified by the silence of the audience. The two not receiving at any time stood at the side of the stage. Watching in fascination, Ali observed that at first the mid-twenties girl and the teenager, when not receiving, stood with hands in front, covering themselves, but as time went on they became more concerned about massaging their throbbing flesh and concerns of modesty were forgotten.

Along with the slaps and smacks of leather on bare flesh and the whistle of the riding crop or the swish of the tawse through the air came these tiny voices of anguish; the scraping of stools and chairs as they twisted in torment; the slapping of bare or stockinged feet on the wooden stage floor. The climax of the performance came with a dozen real stingers of the crop onto the already swollen backside of the almost naked older lady.

Suddenly it was all over. The three men sat down and the three unfortunates, leaving discarded clothes on the stage, walked stiffly and carefully, in great contrast to their earlier walk, back down the alley to the back of the audience, where they proceeded to kneel at a table reserved for them. Jamie had explained this to Ali earlier. On their way out at the end of the show the audience would be allowed to inspect bottoms at close range. Consequently, the girls were not allowed to apply soothing cream or ointment, which was provided for later, until after that. This was one of the advantages of going last. Meanwhile, girls who had been on stage invariably preferred not to sit on a chair for a while!

Then Jamie stood up.

And Ali realised in a flash of mathematical inspiration that four girls had come in and only three had been up on the stage so far. The audience seemed to realise it at the same time, because all eyes were suddenly on her, the girl in the shadows which now seemed to have receded. Ali felt faint.

After what seemed an eternity of stillness, Ali squatted down to undo the laces of her trainers. Nervous, fumbling fingers failed her, however. Why oh why hadn't she loosened them ready? Giving up with the laces, she wrenched the trainers off. It was almost as difficult to get the socks off. Then she felt herself walking unsteadily down the alley, bare feet feeling the polished wood. Somehow she took the steps to the stage without stumbling. She realised for the first time that she had no idea what was to happen to her, other than that it was to be the cane. Jamie was already standing on the stage as she stepped up and was holding it in his hand. She stared at it, hypnotised.

Jamie was also staring, somewhere into the audience which she had her back to. Unknown to Ali, Carl was returning the stare, with a smile signalling acceptance of at least a partial defeat. But the final proof required was still to come.

Jamie shifted his gaze to Ali. Although not as nervous as she, he was not at ease. She looked at the floor, her back still to the audience. "Jeans. " The single word was almost whispered, though everybody heard it in the total silence.

Ali fumbled with the front of her jeans, then began to lower them over her hips. Suddenly she felt the warm evening air on her legs. She stepped out of them and straightened up. Her face had gone red.

"Shorts. " She put her thumbs into the side of her shorts and with a deep breath pushed them down. Her face turned even more crimson. She rarely appeared in mixed company in boxer shorts, and had never done so in less. And worse was to come.

"Knickers. " This was it. Thumbs in again, hesitation, then a desperate push before her courage evaporated completely. Now she felt the evening air even more. Standing still, thighs clenched together, hands rather pathetically grouped in front of her. God!

As she stood totally immobile, Jamie slowly walked around her, visibly relaxing now. Then, facing her, he said in a stronger voice, "turn your back to the audience." Somehow, during her undressing she had turned side-on to them. Now she turned her back to them, feeling forty pairs of eyes on her tightly clenched bottom cheeks.

"Place your legs shoulder width apart." Reluctantly, she opened her thighs and obeyed. Then a bombshell. "Keeping your knees straight, reach forward and grasp your ankles." This was about the worst position he could possibly have found for her. She would be totally on display. For a few seconds she did not move; obey, she told herself: I must accept all humiliation. Then she forced herself to do it. Her face blazed even more; what made it even worse was that her face was now toward the audience, albeit upside down.

"You will be given a choice of three numbers of strokes to receive. You will choose one. You may have a few seconds to consider. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir." It was the first time she had spoken. Her voice trembled uncontrollably.

"Very well. Six, twelve or twenty-four?"

Ali tried to take a deep breath, but it only came in gasps, made worse by her bent double position. He would be angry if she chose six. It would have to be twelve. But could she take twelve? Maybe he would be satisfied with six. She had, after all, been given the choice. And she had the guts to get herself into this position. She took a deep breath.

"Please sir," ... (Six or twelve? She still didn't know! ) ... "Twenty-four." And it took her several seconds before she realised what she had said.

"Very well." His voice was expressionless now. "Count each one out loud and thank me for it."

(Ask me to reconsider! Give me a second chance!) Why the hell had she chosen that number?

She was aware of him measuring the first stroke and nearly jumped up when she felt the cane lightly touch her trembling buttocks. Get on with it, get it over with, she thought. Then it wasn't touching her as he drew it back. She heard it swish through the air towards her. Oh no, no, no...