Who Caned Christine?

A spanking whodunnit from Blushes 50.

The clock in the stableyard had just struck twelve. Inside the old house, the door to the lounge was being opened. Soft bare feet with neatly manicured toes walking slowly but purposefully across the carpet. The hint of shining well-groomed hair lit fleetingly in the low glow of the dying fire. Slim feminine figure bending low over the corner bureau, examining documents in the near-darkness. A file being carried across to the long table, contents being quickly sorted. Eyes more accustomed now to the low light. Slim figure of a nubile young girl. Pretty floral-patterned pyjamas. Vague wafting scent from recently-talcumed body. Intent on her study of private documents. Unaware of the lounge door opening again, silently on well-oiled hinges.

Outstretched palm of a hand pressing firmly down on her back, the fingers touching her between her shoulder blades, holding her down against the cold table-top. A glint of moonlight on metal. Small manicure scissors held in other intruding hand. Snip. Snip. Pyjama trouser cord severed. Soft pink material flutters down to the floor. Long bare legs. Smooth bottom curves, shadows guarding the secrets of darker intimate clefts. Pretty girl now bared, being lifted further on to the table, breasts pressing down against its hard smooth surface. Bottom uppermost, glowing pink in the final flickering flames of the old fire. Pretty girl unable to move. Unable to recognise the dark shape and the firm hands. Desperately wanting to cry out. To call for help. But Christine is already trespassing, in the private quarters of the house, rifling through private confidential letters. If Sir James discovered her there… perhaps the mysterious figure now folding up her pyjama jacket was Sir James? But why was he so silent? And what was he planning to do?

Suddenly, there is the flicker of smooth thin bamboo hovering in mid-air, quivering above Christine’s bared bottom. The very softest whisper as it travels down through the air. And then the sharp impact. A stomach-turning crack of long thin cane across warm soft female bottom-curves. Christine gasps, unbelievingly, momentarily frozen rigid by the sizzling line of pain. Her bottom-flesh has already been softened and sensitised by the long warm bath. And her senses were quite naturally on the alert as she commenced her clandestine activities. And then to be caned, in the darkness, an unknown figure holding her down, wielding the cane. Christine has never been caned before. The experience is entirely new. And very very painful. CRACCK! CRACCK! CRACKKK! Christine desperately wants to yell and yell, to shake her head from side to side. To run away from that awful thin rod of pain. But she cannot move. And she cannot shout.

Suddenly the steadying hand and its pressure upon her back has gone. Her heart thumping in the silence, she stumbles to her feet, anxious eyes darting about. Looking for the figure with the cane, hands urgently massaging her bare bottom, feeling the long crimson ridges. But the room is empty. She is alone again. In near panic, Christine reaches down to rescue her pyjama trousers. In the darkness she feels only thin air. More panic. On her hands and knees, bottom tightly curved, red tramlines clearly visible in the moonlight, searching for her pyjama trousers. A fruitless search. The young girl feels very frightened, very puzzled, and nervous. She is crying now, not only because of the caning, but because of her predicament. What if Sir James should walk in right now? Or any other member of the household? What would she say? How does a 22-year-old girl explain how she happens to be standing in a private room, in the middle of the night, in just her pyjama jacket, and displaying the evidence of a recent caning upon her bare bottom? What would Sir James do? Forgetting the papers still strewn across the table, Christine rushes to the door. She holds her breath as she eases it open, senses straining again to detect the slightest sound. If she can only get back upstairs to her room… The coast seems clear. She steps out into the hallway, feeling the cooler air against her bare skin. She tiptoes quickly to the foot of the stairs and scampers up towards the first floor rooms. On the half-landing she turns, her head down, intent on reaching the safety of her bedroom. And suddenly she trips. Eager male hands take hold of her, lifting her up. The landing light is turned on. It will be many hours before young Christine finally returns to her room.

Young Charles, only son of the owner of Carleston Hall, is delighted to lend a helping hand to a maiden in distress. Especially when the maiden is a very pretty twenty-two-year-old, and she has just run straight into your arms, half-naked. ‘Good grief! What the hell is wrong with you?’ This encounter is the final straw for Miss Christine. She burst into tears. ‘I’ve been… I’ve been caned, Charles. Caned!!’ Her modesty forgotten for just a moment, she twists round. ‘Look! Look what he did to my… my… my bottom!’

The clock in the stableyard strikes one. Down in the Green Room a family conference has been convened. Sir James, still dressed in his evening attire, having recently returned from his club, is standing in front of the hearth, smoking his pipe. He is finding it difficult to control his temper, and even more difficult to find the appropriate words to express his indignation. ‘Good God! What are things coming to?’ There is a torrent of questions which require answers. ‘What was the young girl doing in the lounge at midnight? And who was it who caned her? And why? ‘Where is she?’ Charles explains. ‘I told her to wait in the kitchen.’ Sir James, still fighting his temper, decides to take the initiative. ‘Right. Call John Jordan. He was at the club with me. Get him round her as soon as possible. This needs a professional.’ Charles goes to the phone. Jordan is an old family friend. A retired police officer. A man with considerable experience and a great deal of discretion. The scene is set. A crime has been committed. And Sir James intends to get to the bottom of the mystery.

----//----

Christine Jones blushed deeply when John Jordan called her into the room. The policeman paused for a moment to consider the young girl’s appearance. ‘Didn’t you say she was only wearing her pyjama top?’ Young Charles quickly clarified the matter. ‘Yes. That’s right. Stark naked except her pyjama jacket. But I thought she’d better put some… er… pants on.’ The men in the room turned their attention to the girl’s knickers. ‘So they’re not yours then?’ Christine, still blushing furiously, nodded. ‘No… No… They’re Jane’s.’ Jordan allowed himself a faint smile. It was really quite obvious that young Christine was not wearing her own knickers. Jane was a smaller girl, being Charles’ young cousin. And it was apparent to all the men folk in the room that Miss Christine had experienced more than a little difficulty in squeezing her ample rear-end into such nymph-like panties. ‘Well. They’ll have to come down.’ Christine tried to refuse, not wishing to undress again in front of the family. Jordan insisted in his request. ‘There is no way I can investigate a… er… crime, unless I can observe all the evidence.’ Sir James, threatening to release all his pent-up anger on the young lady, endorsed his man’s comments. ‘Good grief girl. Stop dithering. Get those pants off… now!’

Despairing of ever achieving any privacy or modesty ever again, Christine pulled down her pants, revealing again her punished bottom-cheeks. Sir James and his son came closer, eager to study the alleged cane marks under the illumination of a strong angle-poise lamp. Jordan stooped, ready to seek his own conclusions as to the quality and effectiveness of the punishment the girl claimed she had received. ‘And in what position were you, young lady?’ The interview was quite awful, all this probing and all these intimate and embarrassing questions. They were all staring at her bare bottom, all making their own remarks, tracing the long thin red lines of the cane. ‘I… I was… across the table…’ Inevitably, she was again placed across the table, so that the exact angle of descent of the cane could be charged. ‘Just keep still, young lady.’ Christine closed her eyes, feeling so vulnerable. All eyes upon her brightly-illuminated bottom. She counted the seconds to herself, as the clock in the corner of the room ticked away, until eventually, Jordan was satisfied. ‘Alright. That’s enough for now.’ He patted Christine’s rear-end as he spoke. ‘Please wait here, young lady, while we investigate the… er… scene of the crime.’

The party of men left the room, and conducted itself along the hallway to the lounge. Christine wanted to shout after them, telling them not to enter. Because of the paperwork spread across the table. She shook her head in resignation as they ignored her, and disappeared from her view. ‘Insurance papers,’ muttered Jordan, gathering together the loose leaves on the table-top. ‘And your bureau still open.’ Sir James was calmer now, and able to clearly express his views. ‘But why was she in here, and what the hell was she doing taking these papers?’ His friend could not offer an answer as yet. But there were plenty of lines of enquiry to pursue. ‘Who is she, anyway?’ Charles volunteered an answer. ‘Oh. She’s a friend of my cousin. Staying here for the winter break. She’s a hostess or something for a holiday firm. Jane and her met at college a few years ago.’ The former policeman nodded. ‘And where is our Jane, this evening?’ Sir James looked at his son. ‘In bed asleep, I presume…’ The men returned to the other room, Christine standing, hands behind her back, still dressed in just jacket and knickers, looking very apprehensive. ‘I have some further questions for you, young lady.’ Jordan turned to the maid, waiting quietly by the door. ‘Please rouse young Jane. Her presence is required.’ A brief curtsey, and the girl scampered away to the stairs. ‘Charles. Make a search of the house. And the outbuildings. Bring any length of bamboo or rattan, or any other cane-like implement. We must find the instrument which was used.’ Delighted with his task, the youth hurried away.

----//----

Miss Jane expressed considerable annoyance at being disturbed in the middle of the night. ‘What the hell is this all about?’ The maid hadn’t even given her time to slip a dressing gown over her flimsy nightie. ‘A serious matter, young lady,’ replied her uncle. Jane glanced at him, studied his lined features, read the warning signs, and realised that now was not the time to pick an argument with Sir James… ‘Alright. But let’s make it quick, then? Please?’ Jordan, as pleasant as always, smiled at the pretty young lady. ‘So sorry to trouble you, Miss Jane. But your poor friend here has suffered a very great insult.’ He stepped closer to Jane, lowering his voice quite unnecessarily. ‘Someone has caned her.’ Jane’s reaction was a picture. It appeared she knew all about being caned. And she knew it hurt. ‘What? Caned? On her…’ She saw all three men nodding. ‘Yes. On her bottom.’ Sir James yawned. ‘I’m turning in, Jordan. Need my beauty sleep. Report to me in the morning.’ And like a true ex-military man, Sir James delegated the entire investigation to his man, shuffling off to his sleeping quarters with a half bottle of brandy clutched in his hand. ‘And you may leave us, too.’ Charles looked a little annoyed. ‘Please…’ He shrugged his shoulders. It had been a stimulating evening, meeting young Christine on the stairs like that, all undressed and crying, and with those fascinating cane marks written all over her bottom. ‘Oh well. See you all in the morning.’ Reluctantly, he left the room, sadly acknowledging the old saying that all good things must come to an end. ‘What about the canes I’ve found?’ Jordan thanked him profusely. ‘They’re fine. Just fine. Please leave them on the table, here.’ Half a dozen assorted sticks and canes were dropped with clatter onto the table’s shiny surface, making both girls jump. ‘Thank you. And good night, Charles.’

‘How is your bottom, Jane?’ The aristocratic young lady looked astounded at Jordan’s outrageous question. ‘I… I beg your?’ She grasped at the hem of her short nightie, and stepped back against the wall of the room, finding herself standing next to her friend. ‘Well, if there is someone going round this house caning girls’ backsides, it is surely worth ascertaining whether he — or she — has managed to cane yours?’ Pretty Jane almost exploded with indignation. ‘I can assure you that no one has caned my bottom!’ The retired policeman smiled at her. ‘Thank you, my dear. But we ought to make sure, shouldn’t we —’ Jane found herself lifted across Jordan’s knee as he drew an upright chair from the side of the table. He sat back comfortably, the young lady dangling across his knee, nightie hoisted well up her smooth straight back. Sure enough. Jane’s bared bottom was satin-smooth. A gentle peach-like hue. It was absolutely certain that no one had recently tanned that young madam’s bottom. Even a mild hand-spanking would have raised some colour. Jordan pulled the angle poise closer, keeping a firm grip around the wriggling Jane’s waist. No, not even the faintest pink blush. He released her grip, and Jane stumbled to her feet, tugging her nightie down as far as it would go. ‘How… how dare you!’ It was a silly remark, because Jordan of course, had every right. Sir James had invested his authority in his friend. Jordan had a totally free hand, as Miss Jane and Miss Christine secretly knew.

Jordan rapped the table-top with his pen. ‘Now listen to me. Both of you. You will do exactly as I say, because by breakfast time I intend to have the answer to this mystery. And if you don’t co-operate, then you can explain your reluctance to Sir James in the morning.’ Jane was told to stand in the corner, her hands on her head, the action prompting her nightie to rise enough to reveal the pretty little curls of her pubic mound. She stood silent, sulking, as Christine was brought into the centre of the room. ‘We had better take some measurements, my girl.’ She was upturned, finding herself across Jordan’s lap, long legs waving in mid-air, pyjama jacket hoisted clear of her bottom-curves. In the light of the angle poise lamp, the red cane marks were still easily visible.

He traced the route of one particularly long tramline with his finger, and she jumped as his fingertip slipped down between her cheeks. ‘Alright. Some measurements.’ Carefully, diligently, Jordan placed a tape measure across each red line criss-crossing her bottom. ‘Six strokes then?’ Christine nodded. ‘Six pretty firm strokes, I would imagine?’ Christine could only agree, again.

She was put back on her feet. ‘Now. Across the table please, young lady.’ Christine finally refused. The past hours had been one long insufferable embarrassment, having to stand half-naked in front of the household. Having her knickers removed for no good reason. Being put across this stranger’s knee to have her bottom kneaded and fondled and squeezed as her cane marks were being measured. And now he wanted her across the table? ‘No. No. No!’ She shook her pretty head emphatically, her hands clasped together behind her back.

Her refusal was ignored. Unceremoniously, Christine was propelled across to the table, and for the second time in a few short hours, found herself being pressed face-down across the hard surface, bottom again on display. ‘It will be a very simple matter of ascertaining which of these implements was actually used on your bottom, my dear.’ She turned her head, staring in sheer disbelief at the six assorted canes now being held in Jordan’s hand. The retired policeman continued. ‘You see. By applying each of these… er… implements to your bottom, my dear. We can compare the marks and identify the weapon used.’ It was such a simple idea! All it meant was Christine receiving another six strokes of a cane! ‘Of course, I shall have to apply the canes with the same… er… fervour that your assailant obviously had. Christine groaned, her eyes tightly closed. Six more cane-strokes across a bottom already criss-crossed with six stinging cuts. She reached out and gripped the edges of the table for support.

CRACCK! The first cane was applied across the widest dimensions of her bottom, soliciting a loud yelp from the recipient. Jordan studied the twin red tramlines as they rose across her curves. There were no similarities. He selected the second implement, a particularly sturdy-looking length of willow. There was a quiet hiss as it whizzed through the air. Pretty Jane, standing in the corner, jumped in sympathy as it splatted down, wrapping itself with astonishing flexibility right round Christine’s tightly-curved bottom. She kicked back with both legs, holding on to the table edges to prevent herself from sliding right off. Another pause while the results were studied. Then a third implement was selected. Christine turned away, not wishing to see the cane collection, and Jordan’s obvious enthusiasm for his task. But Jane was watching, the events creating very strange and electrifying feelings inside her. And she could plainly see that Jordan was selecting the canes very carefully, leaving the longest thinnest bamboo until last. In Jane’s experience —and that experience was quite broad as far as this subject was concerned — it was that long thin cane that was likely to be the culprit. Judging by the long thin lines on her friend’s backside. Even she had to close her eyes and wince as Jordan took aim, and applied it, with vigour, to Christine’s reddened rump. The squeals and wriggles testified to its effectiveness. Two long thin parallel lines of crimson were written across Christine’s ample bottom-cheeks, right across the soft fleshy region of her lower buttocks. The lines were studied. ‘Yes. That’s the one! We shall demonstrate to Sir James in the morning.’ The two girls were at last despatched to their respective rooms, Jordan’s hand being applied crisply to each bare bottom, hastening them along the hallway. ‘You will both report to me in the lounge at nine in the morning. Understand?’ The two girls squealed in response to his encouraging hand, squeezing Jane’s soft bottom-cheeks and slapping Christine’s criss-crossed backside. ‘Until the morning, then!’

----//----

As the sun rose over Carleston Hall, the indefatigable Jordan was continuing his investigations, the line of his enquiry having reached the kitchens. The maid was being interviewed. ‘Where were you at midnight, last night?’ Jordan felt that the girl looked rather guilty. ‘Um. Here, sir. In the kitchen.’ He thumbed through several handwritten notes. ‘But you did not hear anything suspicious?’ She shook her head. ‘When I set you to collect Miss Jane, earlier this morning, did you go into her room?’ The maid shook her head again. ‘No. Sir. No. I only go into a room if I’m requested.’ Jordan scribbled onto his notepad. ‘So you waited by the door?’ The maid explained. ‘Yes. Miss Jane called to me to wait on the landing for her.’ Jordan continued the questions. ‘Did she reply as soon as you knocked on the door?’ The maid said she had. ‘And did you stand by the open door — could you see into her room?’ This time, the young maid shook her head. ‘No, sir. The door was shut. I didn’t see inside.’

Quietly, and stealthily, a few minutes before nine, Jordan climbed the stairs. He saw Christine slip into the bathroom. She had found another pair of pyjamas to sleep in. He wondered when he would find the missing trouser bottoms. Jane’s bedroom was on the opposite side of the landing. He knocked on the door. After a short pause, a girlish voice responded. ‘Yes?’ Jordan remained silent. There was a slight murmuring from inside the room and he dodged inside the adjoining empty room, keeping the door slightly open. The door to Jane’s bedroom opened, a man’s hand upon the handle. A man’s voice spoke in a rough whisper. ‘It’s not Christine.’ Then Jane’s voice was heard again. ‘Probably the maid. Come on…’ The door was closed again, and Jordan made his way downstairs.

In the lounge, he picked up the cane, selected by his trial and error method on Christine’s bottom. Just an ordinary length of thin bamboo. Quite young bamboo, still bright and shiny, and very flexible as Christine’s squeals and gyrations had testified. Not a garden cane. No weathering which would have taken away the cane’s supple qualities. He tapped it against the palm of his hand, his enquiring eyes scanning the carpet beneath the table, over which Miss Christine had been caned just a few hours ago. He found what he was looking for. Kneeling down, he reached out and picked up a small grey feather. ‘Good. That’s one problem solved.’ He slipped the strange object into his top pocket and turned his attention to Sir James’ papers. No longer spread across the table, but now returned to the bureau, resting on the writing desk in a neat pile. He thumbed through them, noting the contents. One paper in particular caught his eye and he drew it from the pile, folding it carefully, and slipping it into his inside jacket pocket.

The door opens. Young Charles has arrived downstairs for breakfast. ‘Ah. Mr Jordan. Have you solved the mystery?’ The older man smiles. ‘Patience, please, Charles.’ He points to the remaining five canes on the table-top. ‘Would you please return these to their places of origin?’ Charles, young and eager, grasps all five in his left hand and heads for the door, nodding at the one cane lying in isolation. ‘That’s the one that did it, then?’ Jordan nodded. ‘Bloody good job too! Just what the little madam needed!’ Before Jordan could follow that new line of reasoning, Charles had departed for his round-trip of the house.

Breakfast takes precedence over the solving of crimes, however sinister, but there is an uneasy silence in the breakfast room. Sir James is reading the morning newspaper, scanning in particular the money pages. Christine arrives, a look of young guilt still written right across her face. She helps herself to toast and sits — carefully and gingerly — at the end of the table. Miss Jane is the next to arrive. Bouncing into the room in her tee shirt and jeans. Full of life and vigour and cheek. Collects her breakfast tray and joins her young friend. Jordan waits, judging the right time to make a move. ‘Sir James. May we take a walk?’ The old man is happy to oblige, and folds his paper. They leave through the patio windows, and enjoy the freshness of the morning air. Jordan has some points to clear up, and a few favours to ask. The conversation takes but a few minutes. On their return, the maid is ordered to the lounge.

‘Miss Jane has a man in her room, hasn’t she?’ The maid is dumbfounded by the direct question. ‘Oh no, sir. No sir. I’m sure Miss Jane…’ Jordan shrugs his shoulders. It was worth a try, but the young girl’s obvious bewilderment suggests she is telling the truth. ‘In that case, would you please be so good as to take the following messages up to the respective rooms of Miss Jane and Miss Christine, where I suspect the two young ladies are attempting to keep out of sight.’ The maid hurries away with two sealed envelopes. A few preparations are made in the room, including the careful spacing and positioning of two upright chairs. Before too long, the door opens. The girls have arrived. They stand side by side. ‘Good morning again, young ladies.’ They refuse to respond to his polite conversation. ‘Look. The maid said you needed us…’ Jordan nods. ‘Yes. That’s right. Because I feel sure we can solve this mystery if we have a little re-enactment.’ He draws himself up to full height in front of both girls, knowing that they will object to his request. ‘So will both of you please go upstairs and return exactly as you were dressed at midnight last night.’ Jane opens her mouth to complain, but Jordan continues. ‘And in your case, Miss Christine, that means just your pyjama jacket…’ Both girls are rooted to the spot, Jane refusing to co-operate. Until she sees her uncle, sitting in the corner, with his hand reaching across for the cane. Reluctantly, they leave the room, scampering upstairs, hearts in their mouths. The embarrassment of last night is about to be relived.

‘Now, Sir James. Compare the marks.’ Yet again, young Christine is being upended across the table, jacket hitched up, bare bottom on display. ‘You can still make out last night’s cane-strokes.’ He outlines one red tramline, indenting her soft flesh. ‘Note the marks of the bamboo.’ He holds out his hand, and Sir James hands over the cane. ‘No watch…’ Christine screws up her pretty face, her bottom wobbling as she tenses her muscles against the inevitable sting. Jordan canes her, the long thin rod biting deep into her bottom-flesh. She yells, loudly, and young Jane, standing in the corner, shivers with worried apprehension. The two men study the new red line, comparing its length and characteristics. ‘Yes. Identical. The very same cane.’ Young Charles is called for. The cane is left on the table, next to the girl. ‘Charles. Please pick up the cane.’ He reaches across, a look of mild surprise on his face, and lifts up the rod, feeling its weight and its flexing strength in his hands. ‘Now please apply the cane to Miss Christine. You said to me only half an hour ago that you felt she deserved a caning…’

The young man hesitates, wondering whether he is in a dream. Actually being asked to cane this gorgeous young woman. Just the sort of thing he does dream of, frequently. And after last night’s stimulating experience too. He clutches the cane tightly, raises it up to shoulder level, glances quickly at Sir James, and then at pretty Jane. And then he canes her. The bamboo whistling down yet again. Jordan is close by, carefully examining Christine’s upturned cheeks. ‘Yes. Look Sir James.’ More careful analysis, as Christine remains across the table, eyes tightly shut in deep embarrassment as her bottom is prodded and explored. ‘You see. A different impression because Charles is left-handed.’ The old man is only partly convinced, still suggesting that his son could be the phantom caner. Jordan decides on one final test. ‘Problem is, Sir James. There isn’t much space left on Miss Christine’s bottom…’ The old man agrees after a further inspection.

After the cane strokes of last night, her bottom is a complete criss-cross of marks. ‘A touch like Hampton Court Maze. Mutters the old man. ‘Perhaps your… er…’ Jordan is looking at young Jane who is desperately trying to look invisible. ‘Of course. By all means. The young lady will be pleased to help.’

Pretty Jane does not act as though she is particularly pleased. She is still trying to come to terms with the fact that she is standing in front of a trio of men dressed just in a short nightie, and in broad daylight. She complains with some choice language as she is bent forward across the table, next to her friend. Her little nightie is pulled out of the way, revealing that soft peach-textured bottom. It is quite obvious that Jane hasn’t been caned. Not for some while. That bottom of hers is as smooth and as unblemished as a work of art. The three men gather round. Jane looks at her friend, and copies her action of gripping the table edge. Jordan collects the cane again and takes aim. The stroke bites right across the soft upturned bottom-flesh and Jane sings loudly, waving her pretty legs in the most obscene way. The cane is passed to young Charles. The young man is now convinced he is in paradise. He decides to use the one cane stroke he is permitted to get even with his arrogant snobbish young cousin. ‘With my best wishes, Madam Jane…’ he breathes as he takes aim, the cane whizzing down. The small round bottom jumps up and down as the stroke bites in, and its owner yells her pretty head off. The men lean forward, carefully scrutinising the two sets of tramlines. ‘Yes. Quite different. Whoever caned Christine was right-handed. Charles is definitely ruled out.’ The decision is announced with enthusiasm, but Charles looks a little downhearted. Somehow, his ego wouldn’t have minded if he had remained a suspect for a little longer. And two strokes of a cane is certainly not enough for his cousin. No way. Secretly, he would have prescribed twelve strokes at least.

The retired policeman stands close to Sir James, talking in a low voice. ‘I believe the girls have not told us the whole truth, as yet…’ The old man agrees. They decide upon the strategy discussed in the garden. Jane is led away to the adjacent room. Christine is left with the master of the house. Both girls find themselves placed across a man’s knees. But not before Christine is divested of her pyjama jacket and Jane has her nightie removed. Their simultaneous interrogations are going to be intimate. And searching. They are going to be smacked. They will each be tanned until they talk. Until they answer all the questions. Charles is still standing, in the passageway, wishing he could assist the investigations. He sees Jane’s fresh pink tits as she is escorted naked from the room. Her friend is already performing some actions not unlike a breast-stroke out of water, as Sir James’ commences a salutary tanning right on top of her ever-increasing number of cane strokes. Jordan judges the situation right, and makes an instant decision. ‘Get hold of that maid. She’s hiding something.’ Charles smiles appreciatively. ‘You can rely on me.’ He hastens to the kitchen. It takes a little longer to get the maid across his knee. But only because she was wearing more clothes. Once stripped, it was well worth waiting for, as Charles began to tan the truth out of her.

Little else occurred in Carleston Hall for the following fifteen minutes or so, as three young madams had the tannings of their young lives. Many indiscretions took place as they bounced and kicked and wobbled and yelled their way through their punishments. Sir James had seen it all before, but never turned down the opportunity to make a pretty young thing show it to him all over again. Miss Jane and the policeman found new areas of intimacy, as she waved her legs about in the most lewd ways. And a young maid, divested of her little outfit, of her bra and pants, suffered the very first full-scale tanning that young Charles had ever handed out.

So who did cane Christine? All will be revealed…