Room 2D

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

The day after Monica’s caning by Mr Hollis , from Uniform Girls 15 ‘Good girl,’ said Mr Hollis, coming in and closing the door behind him. ‘Good. Yes, well, I like to make sure a girl’s really learnt her lesson. Otherwise she may imagine that a single beating is just a little aberration. And that nice new Mr Hollis didn’t really mean it. Yes?’ They were back there. Back in Monica’s form room. The very next day after school. Mr Hollis had seen her at lunch time. And told her. He wanted to see her again after school. Just in her uniform, no need for tennis shorts this time. And yes she could keep her knickers on. ‘No need to tell anyone, we can keep it nice and quiet.’ That was what he had said after that unbelievably awful business yesterday. ‘No need to tell anyone. I rather like to catch girls by surprise, unawares. Quite soon the message gets round without anyone actually mentioning details. Mr Hollis is not to be trifled with...

From Fessée 7 Letter from Fessée 9 The Unjust Steward Here is my solution to Paula’s puzzle picture The Unjust Steward . The unemployed labourer is in arrears with the rent for his cottage. His landlord, the squire of the village, sends his steward to collect the money owing. When the tenant is unable to produce it the steward threatens him with eviction. The desperate man pleads for mercy and the steward then proposes a deal: instead of money he will take payment ‘in kind’. If the tenant’s wife and daughter, whom he holds equally responsible for the debt, will submit to corporal punishment at his hands, he will persuade the squire to forego that week’s rent, and on the same condition that of each week in future. After protesting in vain the tenant sends for the two females and informs them of what he has agreed to. They are naturally aghast, but he tells them that it is the only alternative to eviction and after some argume...

From Uniform Girls 15 ‘ ‘And who might you be, young lady?’ he asked. ‘Blayne, Sir. Monica Blayne.’ She knew who he was of course. Mr Hollis, the new headmaster. Since that morning. Which was why he didn’t know who Monica was, or presumably anyone else. She smiled: a tallish, darkly pretty girl of 17. ‘Monica Blayne. Ah yes. Captain of Tennis I believe.’ Monica flushed slightly. He knew that much then. He’d been doing his homework. ‘Yes sir,’ she said. Mr Hollis wasn’t bad looking for someone that age. And certainly younger looking than Mr Pringle, his predecessor. Amanda Smithers when they’d first seen him in Assembly this morning had said, ‘Oooohh look…!’ Meaning, ‘Ooh look, isn’t he nice.’ Not that Monica fancied men that age. ‘Yes,’ said Mr Hollis. ‘Hence the tennis kit. Been practising?’ ‘Yes sir.’ Monica swung the racquet loosely to and fro. Mr Hollis seemed all right. Easy-going. Which had been one good thing you co...

My latest young houseguest is a terrible wriggler. During each of the daily caning sessions she has earned, she cries and pleads and wriggles and, seemingly unable to muster even the slightest degree of self control, tries to avoid discipline by placing her hands in front of the delightfully plump target area. I have recently tried to help her maintain a little dignity — and to keep her sensitive hands from receiving too many hard blows — by tucking her wrists inside the tight waistband of her lowered knickers. They are of course several sizes too small, so I find they hold her hands quite firmly in place. It’s all for her own good of course, and I find the ritual of preparing her just so helps me to focus. Even if it does start her crying even sooner.

A nice short story f rom Blushes 25  illustrated with pictures of one of their prettiest models. The shorts were — well, tiny was the only word that could possibly be applied to them; tiny and tight and embarrassingly high-cut both before and behind. Fresh on they had been crisp and neat, even if over-snug, but now, after what must have been fifteen minutes of  Bolero ’s insistent, lilting rhythm — the brass was beginning to bray from the speakers and the timpani were forcing the pace along — they were fine-creased along the valleys of her groin at either side, with other creases darting in from the straining side-seams in counterpoint every time she bent at the hips, legs straight and wide apart, back hollowed despite the forward stoop so that her bottom sat up perkily, head held as high as possible even as she swung side-to-side from the waist and touched her toes with opposite hands; now, the little shorts were damp wi...