Sally: Further Lessons

From Blushes 4

The photos appearing in this section, together with those of the chubby-bottomed blonde girl across the school desk to be found elsewhere in the magazine, are extracted from the new Blushes video, Sally’s First Lesson.

The blonde girl is ‘Angela’, whose caning is already in progress when the video begins. Readers may have seen her in an earlier issue of ‘Blushes’. The dark haired girl plays ‘Sally’ in the title, and she too will have been seen, mostly without her knickers, in ‘Blushes’ number 3.

The first ‘Blushes’ video, ‘Half- term Punishments’, having been a critical success, it seemed like a good idea to do another one. Casting about for two girls to play the tutor’s pupils in ‘Sally’s First Lesson’ one naturally thought of those young ladies whose appearance in the pages of the magazine had stimulated a good response from readers. (The power of postal lobbying is not to be underrated).

Exploratory approaches were made.

Questions like, ‘Do I have to get — you know —?’ were easily disposed of. ‘We don’t make films like that’, seemed to calm maidenly fears on that score. ‘Do I get caned?’ and, more awkwardly, ‘Does it hurt when you get caned?’ were less easy to answer. One opted for truthfulness without over dramatisation — ‘Yes’ and ‘yes’. ‘I think I’d better think about it, if you don’t mind’ was the only answer one could have expected.

Encouragingly, both ‘Angela’ and ‘Sally’ thought the matter over and, by some charming process of feminine logic, each decided that perhaps, after all, it would be alright. Both girls having fooled themselves into thinking that they’d like to be in a caning video therefore, it was only a matter of shooting it — oh, and of providing a plentiful supply of paper hankies for when the ‘few strokes’ of the girls’ optimistic self-delusion was translated into the reality of real canings — a lot more than a ‘few strokes’.

The result is to be seen in ‘Sally’s First Lesson’ — the development of the story as it proceeds from the point where the video ends is outlined in the pieces which run alongside the photographs, and Sally’s temporary ‘transfer’ to Mr Wiggins’ house in Dorset marks the starting point of the video presently in production which takes the lid off what goes on in that gentleman’s elegant country home!

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Sally

 

Angela

A final glimpse of Angela - see more in the video

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Sally’s first lesson with her tutor had been a great success; a Parents’ Evening discussion with the headmaster of her school had confirmed that a marked improvement in her level of application to her work had been commented upon by Mr Ruddle, her English language teacher, and Miss Terry, who took her for Literature and History. It had not seemed necessary to inform the headmaster of the nature of the ‘stimulation’ which had worked such wonders; it would have embarrassed the girl and might have disconcerted the gentleman himself, known as he was for his rather modern attitude to teaching methods. Two lessons a week for the ensuing month had confirmed that all young Sally had needed after all had been a teacher, in the form of her new tutor, whom she could respect and look up to; that and the ‘liberal’ application of admonitory palm and chastening cane to her bare bottom.

It had been disappointing therefore when Mr Walker had ‘phoned to say that family business in the North of England, arising unexpectedly as these things do, seemed likely to demand his attention for several weeks whilst he handled the disposition of a relative’s estate. He was sorry that Sally’s lessons with him would have to be suspended temporarily — she had shown such an improvement — but if it was felt that some stop-gap arrangements would be beneficial to the girl, he would enquire of an associate of his as to whether, in the special circumstances, he might be able to accommodate Sally. ‘Accommodation’ would indeed be the crucial matter in both senses of the word, because his friend lived in Dorsetshire, and if he found he could fit the girl into his crowded schedule it would naturally be impossible for her to commute; she would have to stay over, probably for the weekend, whenever she visited him.

Mr Walker was asked if he would kindly enquire of his friend as to whether he would consider taking Sally on that basis; in due course a telephone call was received to say that it had all been arranged; Sally was expected on the following Friday evening and she would be returning late on the Sunday. Sally left on the five-thirty train from Victoria and was in Dorset just after seven o’clock, to be met at the station by the man who was to supervise her continuing improvement for the next two days and as it turned out, the following three weekends too.

The man who met her at the station on the first Friday evening wasn’t Mr Wiggins after all. He introduced himself as Ron, and said he was Mr Wiggins’ gardener. He opened the back of his estate car for Sally to put her luggage in and then in an oddly gentlemanly gesture, which didn’t fit with his workmanlike appearance, he unlocked the front passenger door and showed her into her seat. The floor of the car was cluttered with boxes and what seemed to be bits of machinery; at least, the floor in front of the passenger seat was, although there seemed to be nothing in the back seat and the boot had been empty. Sally found herself sitting with her feet on something bulky and metallic which was painted green, her heels almost on a level with the seat. She looked up to say a demure thank you only to catch the man’s eyes delving down into the shadow between her legs, her knees as high as her chin and her short skirt leaving much of the undersides of her thighs quite bare.

The driver shut the door and then got into his own seat. They drove away down the station approach and within minutes they were hurrying along country lanes and leaving the town far behind.

‘What’s your name?’ asked the driver. ‘I know it’s Miss Clarke, but I can’t call you that, can I’.

‘Sally —’ The man repeated it then fell silent. At the bottom of a hill he changed gear and his hand wandered to the uptilted bareness at the back of Sally’s leg. He patted chummily.

‘How old are you then?’ he wanted to know.

‘Er — seventeen. Nearly’. She slid her bottom away from his hand and he seemed to take the hint. To maintain the conversation and perhaps keep his mind off her legs, she asked him about Mr Wiggins, pulling her skirt across a bit in case he felt tempted again.

‘Oh, he’s a nice bloke. Well known around here — does lots of charitable works and stuff. Got something to do with a girls’ home — don’t know what exactly, but sometimes he has one or two of ‘em over for a bit. It gives ‘em a change of environment, I suppose.’ He looked speculatively at Sally. ‘I’ve noticed he only seems to have the pretty ones over though. Pretty ones like you.’ Sally thought she probably blushed, but she didn’t quite catch on to his point. ‘Daresay he’ll take to you,’ said the driver amusedly.

They arrived at a large house set in grounds surrounded by a high redbrick wall. Sally took her luggage from the back of the car, her bending over watched closely by the gardener, then she was taken into the house to meet her temporary tutor.

Mr Wiggin’s turned out to be not at all as she’d expected, indeed feared. He was in his sixties, a large, jovial man with a ready smile and crinkly cornered eyes. He insisted, when she called him ‘Mr Wiggins’ that she should think of him as ‘Uncle Howard’ — much more cosy that way, he said. The first disconcerting moment came after Sally had been shown over the house — she had been relieved to see that there was no sign of a schoolroom such as the one in which she’d spent so many uncomfortable-seated hours at her tutor’s premises — and then she was taken to her bedroom.

‘Let’s see what you’ve brought’ said Mr Wiggins. The contents of her suitcase were turned out on the bed and picked over. Several little piles grew here and there on the coverlet; jeans, jumpers, and a cardigan formed one pile, knickers made another. ‘What knickers are you wearing at the moment, Sally?’ Displayed hesitantly to his bright, unabashed gaze, Sally’s little pink pants were directed to be placed on the pile together with every other pair she had brought with her. Mercifully her skirt wasn’t required to be placed on any of the lopsided mounds of clothing. Warily she watched her pyjamas being sorted out, the top halves going in one direction while the bottoms joined the pile of underwear. At the conclusion of the jumble-sale rummaging there was one small collection of items at the foot of the bed, including the tops of her pyjamas but none of her pairs of knickers, and the rest of her things were scooped back into the suitcase.

‘I’ll put these away for you.’ said the cheerful Mr Wiggins. ‘You won’t be needing them.’ Sally’s bewildered expression prompted a few words, though it was no more than that, of explanation.

‘There are a few things in the wardrobe — you’ll find everything you’re likely to need.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Now you’d better get ready for bed — you’ll have had a long day, I dare say.’ The remaining small pile was turned over and the pink-flowered top to one of her pairs of pyjamas was fished out. ‘That’s all you’ll need — the house is very warm.’ He smiled benignly — ‘When you’re ready you can come down to the library to say goodnight.’

Tip-toeing downstairs at twenty past eight on that first Friday evening Sally’s slender reserves of courage all but deserted her by the time she had descended to the bottom stair. One hand on the knob of the banister, she caught sight of herself in the mirror which backed a tall oak-built hat-stand beside the front door. Unobserved though she was she blushed at the sight of her own bare legs, bare thighs, bare — well, bare everything below the elasticated lower extent of her pyjama top. Pulling at the nipped-in waist was pointless, the most she could do was cover her navel, and even then the moment she moved the pyjamas slipped determinedly upwards again. Though she knew nothing about Mr Wiggins — ‘Uncle Howard,’ she’d have to remember that — it seemed ominously likely that he shared her tutor’s views with regard to ‘educational methods’ as they were to be applied to girls who had failed their O-level examinations. Nervous in the extreme, Sally turned her back on the mirror and looked over her shoulder; though it was her own bottom, and much though the thought of its being spanked bothered her, even Sally had to recognise that presented as it was, plump and rounded below the snug fit of her pyjama top at her waist, her bum was unmistakably ‘asking for it.’ A renewed effort to yank her pyjamas down even a bit was quite pointless. Sally pulled the pink-flowered top up again and settled it prettily round her waist, thinking that perhaps if she made the most of her bum instead of trying to hide it, then Mr Wiggins — no ‘Uncle Howard’, she must remember that — might possibly see something more in a half-naked nearly-seventeen-year-old than just a bottom to be spanked.

She turned to face the mirror again and experimented with her hands, trying to find a way to look casual whilst covering what was most likely to catch Mr — ‘Uncle Howard’s’ — eye at the front. There was nothing she could do about her breasts; the pyjamas hadn’t been designed to minimise a girl’s shape and although the neckline was modestly high, the close fit underneath her breasts made a feature of each of them. Even her nipples seemed determined to contribute to her embarrassed discomfiture; Sally prodded at them but they refused to subside and instead pushed brazenly at the cotton as though determined to be noticed. Well, there was nothing else for it — Sally took a deep breath and went hesitantly along the hall to the door she remembered as being the one to the library.

She knocked timidly and waited for an answer. A muffled ‘Come in’ and then there was no turning back. The door handle turned stiffly under her hand and then she was walking in, stepping awkwardly backwards to close the door without letting her bottom disclose its bareness to Mr Wiggins who was seated in a deep armchair to one side of the fireplace, her one free hand floating rather obviously in front of her tummy and joined even more pointedly by the other as soon as the door was shut. Sally took a pace or two forward to demonstrate a measure of willingness, her eyes fixed on her new tutor, then stopped, her knees feeling wobbly and her heart pounding in her chest. Mr Wiggins greeted her with what seemed an unnecessarily enthusiastic smile.

‘Come in my dear, come along in.’ He waved encouragingly towards a vaguely-indicated place in front of him and Sally walked dubiously across the carpet and stood at what she judged to be slightly more than arm’s length from the benign-looking Mr Wiggins. Several seconds passed while the bits unhidden by hands or pink flowers were assayed unhurriedly, then the welcoming smile was lifted to the girl’s embarrassed face, the look so long and direct that after a nervous lick at her lips she seemed to feel obliged to say something to break the tension.

‘Er — I’ve come to say g-goodnight, Mr Wig — um — Uncle Howard.’

‘Oh yes.’ Still the open, uninhibited smile. ‘Though in the circumstances perhaps it would be polite to say ‘good evening’ first, don’t you think?’

Confused, Sally corrected what she hadn’t realised would be a mistake.

‘S-sorry, Mr — Uncle Howard —’ She twiddled her fingers together, a habit she had when she was feeling uncomfortable. ‘Good evening, sir.’ The ‘sir’ had slipped itself in, automatic in the circumstances, which felt very like the moments after she had taken her knickers down in her tutor’s schoolroom and was waiting to be put across her desk for a spanking. ‘Sir’ still smiled, a hint of indulgence about his expression now.

‘I didn’t mean you should say it to me, Sally. I meant you to be polite to our guest.’ His eyes left hers and focused on a point almost directly behind her. She turned her head to look and her startled ‘Oooh!’ might have meant anything. ‘This,’ said Mr Wiggins patiently ‘is Mr Aldridge.’

‘Er — good — good evening —.’ Sally’s sudden flush set off her little girl lost look and made her seem even more helpless.

‘You can think of Mr Aldridge as ‘Uncle Ernest’.’ Sally turned again at Mr Wiggins voice.

‘Um — yes sir — I mean, Uncle Howard —’ she looked again at ‘Uncle Ernest’, sitting in a chair similar to her tutor’s on the opposite side of the fireplace. She couldn’t think how she could have failed to see him.

‘Uncle Ernest is an associate of mine, professionally speaking. An educationalist, like myself.’ He will be helping me out with you, my dear, in our endeavours to get to the bottom of your problems.

‘Uncle Ernest’ cast his educationalist’s eye over the half-naked, half-grown-up girl whose chubby, whippable young bottom had presented itself unawares to his ‘expert’ inspection as she’d first stood in front of her other ‘uncle’, and he formed a ‘professional’ opinion, admittedly at first sight and with certain reservations which would no doubt be considered fully in due course; she was quite definitely one of the nicest, most promising young things ‘Wiggy’ had ever turned up. He stirred in his chair, taking the opportunity whilst the girl’s attention was on Wiggy to ease a sudden tightness; she would need lots and lots of discipline — one could always tell; the plumper, the nicer their bums the more whipping they inevitably needed.

The girl glanced anxiously in his direction again and he, like Wiggy, treated her to an encouraging smile. She looked away as she was spoken to, Wiggy going into his welcoming lecture routine. Uncle Ernest let his gaze take in the naked, tempting look of her bottom again and the firm-muscled smoothness of her legs and added a footnote to his first assessment of her potential. The one other thing she’d need — that was if Wiggy gave him half a chance to give it to her — was a taste of what an over-sixteen little cock-tease like she was, needed to be given by someone with the necessary experience of these things. He glanced at Wiggy and pulled a wry face. Knowing the old rogue as he did though, he thought it likely that anything he himself might manage to give the girl was likely to be a less-than-novel experience for her by the time Wiggy had had her to himself for the whole weekend. Still, there was a whole evening before them yet, and there would be other opportunities.

Uncle Ernest completed his readjustments and settled down to enjoy the new girl’s initiation to Uncle Howard’s educational methods.

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Sally’s poor bottom had had very nearly enough of Uncle Howard’s playful but painfully accurate cane by the time the mantel clock chimed nine. The two chintzy pouffes on which she had been made to kneel — two, there being one for each knee and some two feet separating the pair in order to keep her legs nicely spread — were each looking lopsided where her weight had pressed against their inward edges more than the outward. Her dark hair, strewn across the fireside rug, shone in the glow from the fire; at this moment her face was turned away from Wiggy, but he didn’t need to see it to know that it was streaked with tears and crimson cheeked from a mixture of humiliated exhaustion and the heat from the red- glowing coals in the hearth. Her back was hollowed, her bum thrusting up obediently now, although it had taken the first twelve strokes or so to teach her to remember to do that. Her bottom shivered nervously as the cane tapped menacingly across it along a line perhaps an inch or so further up the roundness of her buttocks than the under-cheek crease would normally have fallen had she not been so tightly bent over. The cane hovered, twitching, as the girl squeezed her buttocks and then, having learnt not to do that earlier (half a dozen nice, stingy strokes), she made herself relax to provide the cane with an aiming point that was soft and resiliently receptive for the next carefully-delivered stroke.

The tenderness already engendered in Sally’s cheeks by all the previous strokes now made it quite unnecessary to use more than a flick of the wrist and the weight of the cane itself, all achieved from the comfort of an armchair, to have the girl gasping into the rug and fresh tears starting down her cheeks. Mr Wiggins expert swing brought the slender implement neatly across that sitting-down bit of Sally’s bum which had come in for more than a fair share of attention. The girl’s hips jerked convulsively forward, her knees pressing hard into their two supports and her bum-cheeks trembling as the smart was rekindled where she had been made to smart before, Sally’s muffled weeping from floor-level mixed in with whimpering words which were incomprehensible yet abundantly plain of meaning in their wretchedness.

Still the cane hovered and with the utmost reluctance Sally’s bum tried and eventually managed to reposition itself at cane-stroke height, and at cane-length from Mr Wiggins’ hand, now resting nonchalantly on the arm of the chair. The cane tapped teasingly across the plumped-out thrust of the unwilling buttocks and a renewed fit of sobbing confirmed that a lesson had most certainly been learnt by the audibly-chastened Sally.

Nothing would now be gained by prolonging this unhappy ritual; besides there were other things on Mr Wiggins’ mind now that a certain rapport had been established. A last playful flick across the back of the girl’s legs and the words that Sally had ceased to believe would ever come released her from the humiliation she had been obliged to endure since Uncle Ernest had been politely shooed off home. ‘Very well Sally — you may get down from there. I believe you’ve had enough of the cane for now.’

Sally took her knees from the pouffes and knelt on the floor and now that the caning was done with, the ebbing away of the nervous tension that the constant requirement to keep her bottom up high and accessible to the cane had cost her set a fresh flood of hot, emotional tears free. She wept quietly, kneeling up and rubbing her bottom with careful hands and no longer caring that the declination of her new tutor’s glance towards the full little pout of her soft-downed pubes might have indicated that although the painful introduction to the weekend was over, there was another sacrifice yet to be made.

Mr Wiggins let her cry — he was no insensitive chauvinist — then, when she had dashed most of the tears from her cheeks once already and then relapsed into a new bout of sobbing, to recover yet again and lift her moist-rimmed eyes at last to his face, he coaxed her towards him and between his knees and suggested that he’d like her to lift her arms — yes, a bit higher — and a careful upward sliding of the pyjama top lifted her breasts and exposed first their soft undersides and then the pink hint of nipple aureoles and finally, with a youthful bounce, the satin-skinned fullness of her bare breasts.

‘Come on.’ Said with understanding in his voice to coax her into holding her arms up whilst the pyjama top was slipped free of her arms and hands. ‘No, no, silly,’ a smile on his face, ‘No need to be shy.’

And so she knelt there, hands obediently by her sides although now and then she touched at her bottom and felt the cane weals across the fullness underneath, and she made a dubious face when he asked her about ‘precautions’.

‘Um —’ She understood the question, of course, but was plainly nervous at its implications. ‘N-no.’

‘And have you ever, in the past?’

‘Er — p-pardon?’ Embarrassment pinkened her face. He smiled at her confusion and clarified his meaning.

‘Taken precautions.’

‘No I’ve — er — never.’

‘Never needed to?’

‘No.’ She shook her head determinedly, anxious to make to it clear.

‘Never had occasion to; that what you’re trying to say?’

She nodded, her eyes wide and hazel, and he nodded too, as though it were for him to approve of her innocence.

‘So you’ve never, ever, been a naughty girl, hmmm?’

‘N-no sir — um — Uncle Howard.’ Her eagerness to insist on that point was quite touching — but misguided.

‘Splendid,’ he murmured, but the quiet way he said it didn’t succeed in disguising the delight in his voice. ‘Well now —’ She looked up at him with her nervous, bewildered eyes, ‘— time we put you to bed, eh?’

He stood up and said that she might discontinue her kneeling. He looked at her, rather pointedly she thought, then slapped her firmly across the buttocks and gestured towards the door.

‘Yes indeed, my dear. Time we had you in bed.’ And as an afterthought, in case she was going to make a fuss, he took the cane along with him, though he doubted that he’d need it.

I will post the original video of Sally’s First Lesson which occasioned this follow-up story in my next posting…