Mildred went to Ivy’s, where she met Betty and Mary. Like the fire in the plump bottom of our naughty girl, news of the good irls downfall began to spread.

The promised storm arrived on one fateful Spring day. Confidence had grown into over confidence. Self confidence into haughtiness. Pubic hairs had covered her soft pubescent bone, fingers had delved, conversations with friends on the delight of a fingered pussy had taken place. It was one such conversation that made her not even notice her form teacher walk into the classroom. She carried on talking to Barbara, instead of standing up with the rest, to say in a slightly singing way, “Good Morning Miss Weltwell.” As she climbed the stairs thoughts of her own upbringing and the spankings she had received raced through her mind, what part of her naughty bottom had taught her the most? What words had her Mummy used to send the message home? What advice from her mentors, the W.I. and the Vicar helped her do what was needed? The memories spoke to her…”Spare the rod, spoil the child.”“It is for her own good.”“She will thank you one day.” After Viennese shortbread accompanying rose-petal panna cotta, she drew Mrs. Davenport aside while their men chatted. Her discreet stinging bottom had lasted an hour, settling into a pleasant promise.It was not a school as you know them today. It was for girls and young women, many of them over twenty. It taught music and art, as well as all the usual subjects. But it also taught deportment and manners. In other words it taught the Victorian young lady how to behave. In particular a certain type of young lady. Sandy and Janet were told they could let the mac go, and it fell, covering the angry red marks that would trouble Alison for more than a few hours. When she was told to turn round, it was to reveal a face almost as red, and streaming eyes. Soon her bottom was a lovely red, spreading down to her upper thigh. Mummy remembered the sit spot and how it stung, so delivered ten right across the point where her voluptuous cheeks joined her thighs. How they bounced, sinking in, then springing up instantly, and how she wriggled trying to pull free of the pain. But Mummy held her firmly, a tight grip around her waist holding the hand that tried to protect her. This annoyed Mummy, she was in mid flow! Seven sinful stories explore the deepest, darkest and dirtiest desires of six women seeking sexual pleasure and, with something to gratify every appetite, are guaranteed to set your pulse racing. Not a piece of paper, no,” he said sternly. “I mean the type of discipline that you will feel every time you sit down for a week. The type you will remember.”

His kind choice had stung sense into her without great discomfort. She deserved whatever he prescribed. His moderate discipline drove her determination to support him with excellence tonight. Her mummy, was at the very least, delighted! “Ohhh you clever girl Karen, you have made your Mummy so very proud. This Saturday, we are off to town you and I, we will go to Rushet’s Cafe on the High Street, and I’ll take you to your favourite bakers and get you a lovely cream cake to have after Sunday tea! Then my dear, we will go looking at uniforms and satchels. You are going to look lovely, you deserve the best….well done!” Holding their discipline strap, his authority swamped her in respect. Her sunny disposition had been absent since she'd woken. Angry at her personal deficiency, she'd failed to snap out of it. He should beat her. She must be excellent company tonight. His deal relied on her. p.m. Go out for a meal to celebrate daughter surviving the Titanic. Food is pretty good but I enjoy the view of the bar even more. Hot bartender makes pulling a pint intensely erotic. All sharp lines and bright blue eyes. I want him to dominate me and spank me. Share no more than a few glances with hot barman but the fantasies in my head keep me entertained for the rest of the evening. Yes, ma’am,” I said through my sniffles. “I’m sorry, and I won’t let it happen again.” I felt the paddle resting against my bottom, and I prayed Vera would not raise it again. Surprisingly, my former depression had disappeared, completely replaced by the long-familiar feelings of respect and fear of further punishment.

All the words looked so official, having been typed by the school secretary. And signed by her teacher in ‘Quink’ blue, fountain pen ink. She obeyed, her skin stretching taut, swamping her paddled bottom in a storm of fresh sting. Appalled by her prospective pain, she cherished his ruthless zeal. Rising, pumped full of respect, she said, "I'm sorry. I'll be an absolute delight tonight. Thank you for strapping me. I'm sorry you needed to. Thank you for only using our discipline strap."