Chapter Seven

 

Lashley looked intently at the grey-haired, grim-faced woman sitting on the other side of the desk. She saw there were no laughter lines in the corners of the woman’s eyes nor were there callipers indicating a sense of humour running down on either side of the mouth. Behind the oval steel-rimmed spectacles the woman’s eyes were unblinking and penetrating. The face was unlined and the impression given by her upright carriage was one of restrained power.

Her gaze fell to the woman’s hands. Lashley was pleased to see they were strong, hard hands, showing determination, stubby fingers with the nails trimmed short and kept scrupulously clean; the hands of a practical, unimaginative, straight-to-the-point active discipline-enforcer.

The woman’s dark-blue dress fitted her like a prison wardress’s uniform. It was the kind commonly worn by old-fashioned nannies. There was no hint of knees being shown, or calves revealed. The dress came down to just above the ankles. The swelling of the bust was rigidly held in.

It was certain, Lashley felt, that under the dress the woman wore unbleached cotton underwear and thick dark-coloured stockings. What else could they be when the sort of shoes, flat-heeled, proclaimed the wearer to be disinterested in the passing whims of fashion? The only concession was a starched white collar and cuffs.

In spite of its being a warm day, the woman had made no attempt to remove either her severely-cut long-sleeved jacket or the round black hat skewered firmly in place by a hat-pin.

‘And how do you impose discipline on your charges?’ Lashley asked.

‘The old-fashioned way,’ the woman replied.

It was as though the reply had cost her an effort to speak at all, Lashley thought. She looked at the woman’s narrowed eyes, enquiringly.

‘By hand,’ the woman barked. ‘In my experience, few men dare disobey when dealt with firmly. The determination of a woman is the deciding factor. ’She licked her lips. ‘No,’ her mouth was set in a straight line as if she was pursuing an argument, ‘any show of persistent misbehaviour is speedily dealt with by prompt removal of the trousers and underdrawers . . . ’

Lashley noted with approval the use of the old-fashioned term “drawers”,

‘. . . the offender being placed face down across the knees and a sharp smacking being given on the offender’s bare flesh. In difficult cases, such treatment in the presence of a female, preferably, the man’s wife or sister, or in suitable cases, the daughter, will bring the man to his senses. The scorn, the humiliation, is so great, that even the threat of it is enough to cow all but the most obstinate cases. ’

‘And in such cases?’ Lashley asked softly. She ran her tongue over her dry lips, listening carefully to the reply.

‘In such cases - which are few, I can assure you - ‘ the woman allowed a faintly mocking smile to cross her face ‘ - a WHIPPING in front of a selected group of spectators is the preferred treatment. That NEVER fails. Men are really cowards at heart. ’

‘A whipping?’

The woman nodded.

‘Dog- or horse-whip. Cane. Tawse. Birch. Strap . . . Whatever comes to hand. A WHIPPING . . . accompanied by laughter and ridicule from the women, of course. ’

Lashley was satisfied.

‘When can you start? Today? Good. I have a case I can hand over to you. A miserable man called Cyril. This is the story about him so far . . . ‘

 

‘You, my lad, will call me Nanny. I shall call you “Cyril”. And I don’t expect to have to tell you anything twice. ’

Cyril nodded. He had been kept standing to attention for about an hour, his trousers and underpants hanging around his ankles, his short shirt protruding at the front like a tent pole on its side.

Standing like that in front of Lashley, who had been silently watching, made him feel foolish.

There was something about this stern woman which attracted and frightened him at the same time. Sexually, he craved to be dominated by her. But he was afraid of her; he had to admit that. It might have had something to do with the way she had ordered him to prepare himself for her inspection. Perhaps it had been the way she had run her cold hands over his private parts and the loud sniff of disdain she gave when he had hardened and had then, in spite of his frantic efforts to restrain himself, ejaculated.

But ever since he had been a child, he had always ejaculated when touched by a female, regardless of who she was. He blushed even now as he thought of those occasions.

The tight broad black belt she wore set his imagination soaring. What would it be like to be tanned by her, laid across her knees, his bum exposed, to have her firm hand or the belt thwack him ten, twenty, even fifty times, relentlessly? Ashamed of his thought, he almost wished she would do it.

There was a strong smell of disinfectant and military discipline about her, making him understand she abhorred dirt or untidiness in any shape or form. He was breathing more quickly now.

Suddenly he became aware she had asked a question.

‘Well?’ she asked. ‘I’m waiting. ’

He gasped.

‘Er . . . I . . . er . . . ‘

‘You weren’t listening, were you?’

Miserably - but somehow, excitedly, expectantly - he admitted he had not been.

‘Over my knees!’

In a daze, he obeyed. Within the first hour or so of meeting her, he was to be punished. His cock grew stiffer.

‘Twenty bare-bum spanks,’ she announced. ‘You will count in the usual manner. A mistake - and you know the consequences. ’

‘Yes, Nanny. I know, thank you. ’

Best not to annoy her at the beginning of the relationship.

He hardly dared to breathe while awaiting the first spank. His rigid, trembling member was lying across her unyielding thigh, aiming at the territory he was forbidden ever to encroach upon, pulsing, begging for relief. Would he shoot when the first smack fell? Would his cock unload with the shock? Would she even notice it or, perhaps, increase the number of stripes if it happened?

Crack!

She knew how to shape the palm of her hand to inflict the maximum suffering and pain.

He squirmed, proud that the sting and shame of the smack had not caused him to shoot.

Crack!

The next one fell slightly off the original mark.

Crack!

He realized she was deliberately aiming at a different place with each stinging spank. Her object was to redden every part of his exposed bum, rather like putting a backwash to a painting.

With the fourth crack he could no longer restrain his pent-up spunk. The hot sperm shot from his member in a pulsating, creamy stream, soaking her uniform. It was impossible for her not to know what had happened, its flow being so copious. He heard her sharply draw in her breath.

‘So that’s it, you filthy little man, is it?’ she gritted. ‘Very well. ’

She leaned over his body, her ample breasts bearing down on him, rallying his cock, although only to a shadow of its former glory.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her pick up a short cane lying on the floor. Now she was really going to teach him something, he knew.

After three strokes, he was in tears, squealing like a naughty schoolboy. His ordeal had just begun, though. The strokes continued to fall, bringing the sting of the bamboo rod to his vainly-writhing bum-cheeks, and all the time his disgrace and shame mounted.

‘Please, Na-anny. No . . . no more. I . . . I . . . ‘

‘You what?’

The cane came down again.

He had no idea what he should say.

‘I . . . I . . . ‘

The cane slashed into him again.

His screams were muffled in the folds of her long dress. He heard Lashley’s amused laughter as his spunk started to come again.

At last she stopped, letting him lie quivering and moaning and spunk-welling across her knees for a short while.

‘Get up!’ she ordered at last. ‘Go and look at your bottom in the mirror. ’ A half-smile lay on her lips and she was not even panting.

When he reached the mirror he could see his bottom was shining bright red. He could see the outline of several handprints would appear on his flesh by tomorrow. Before then though, he knew his flesh would turn purple, then black and finally blue from the cane.

His cock had begun to rise once more. Guiltily he looked at the glistening patch on her uniform where he had been lying and could also see his cock was still oozing slowly in heavy driblets. With a mixture of horror and disgust with himself, he found he had enjoyed the experience.

‘Next time,’ she whispered to him, ‘you’ll get it in front of an audience of mocking women. Next time you’ll be shamed. ’