Original Story — Beside the Seaside (Culver)

A new story from Culver in the grand Blushes style, together with this lovely illustration…

By Culver, August 2025. Dedicated to Uncle George.

After R. T. Mason, and other writers; whose spanking magazine descriptions of tawsing and strapping I have shamelessly ‘collaged’.

In this fantasy, the hotel waitress is played by Wendy East, the ice-cream salesgirl is played by Sandra Simley, and Trudi Baxter plays the girl on the beach (all spanking magazine models). No resemblance between fictional characters and actual persons is intended or should be inferred.

Wendy, Sandra & Trudi react to being chosen as models by Culver

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07.00: the hotel waitress

Ernest Branwick, comfortably retired, was an habitual early riser, even when away on holiday at Eldercoombe. He always said that a man of habits is a man of character, and he prided himself on his habits. Besides, he enjoyed the tranquillity of early mornings by the sea.

Like many Victorian seaside hotels, the Claremire, where he was staying, clung to a vestige of elegance, but only just; it had seen better days and decades. The morning light revealed a lobby frayed at the edges; its sea-facing windows were scoured with salt, the carpet was threadbare, and the brass fittings at reception had dulled to pewter.

On the first morning of his stay, Branwick presented for breakfast as soon as the dining room opened, when it would still be quiet. He wore a grey, summer-weight blazer and a navy blue tie, looking less like a guest than an inspector, as if ready to judge an establishment that had lost its rigour. Striding imperiously into the dining room he sniffed stiffly at a whiff of furniture polish mingled with the aroma of bacon, Tesco’s rashers beginning to warm under the grill in the kitchen.  He took a seat at the same table he'd occupied the evening before, by the bay window, noting with disapproval that the linen tablecloth was slightly askew and that the flowers in the small vase hadn't been changed that morning.

There was only one waitress on duty. A young girl of about nineteen, maybe twenty. Attired in the hotel's idea of a uniform. Wearing it like she resented it. White shirt, short sleeves, carelessly creased. A thin black tie, skew-whiff. Black waistcoat, a size too big. Black trousers, a size too small. Black shoes, scuffed. A smidgen of pink lipstick, hastily applied. Long auburn hair, pulled back in a high ponytail with a scrunchie, a few strands loose. No apron. No name badge.

She was pretty, he’d give her that. In a feckless, unbothered sort of way.

When she approached, she didn't smile. She wore the blank expression of a modern girl deprived of the use of her phone for the duration of her shift.

‘Tea or coffee?’ (No ‘Good morning’. No ‘sir’.)

‘Tea.’

She fetched a pot and poured the brew with bored efficiency.

‘Cooked breakfast?’ she asked, flatly.

Her posture was non-committal. One foot rested on its toes, as if she was ready to pivot away before he'd even spoken.

Branwick looked at her sharply and gave her his order. ‘Eggs, boiled,’ he rapped. ‘Kippers. Toast, white. Orange juice.’

She nodded and walked off.

He watched her with a growing sense of irritation, regarding her as one might look at a loose banister or a chipped plate. If she were employed at a more exacting hotel, she’d be made to stand straighter and speak more politely. To wear a skirt. Perhaps even to curtsy.

As she retreated towards the hatch to the kitchen he noticed the barely fastened back of her waistcoat and bristled at an impudent slovenliness in the sway of her bottom, alternate folds of fabric creasing beneath tight buttocks in the seat of the indifferently ironed trousers.

This was the way of it nowadays, he reflected. Girls appear to wear indifference and scruffiness as a sort of statement. Back in his day, there'd been an expectation of standards; presentation mattered. And when girls were found lacking they’d been soundly spanked.

She was probably an undergraduate student, he surmised. At home for the summer, working through the holiday. He’d noticed her accent, the West Country lilt of the locals. He thought more about her looks and situation. The set of her mouth was slack with boredom, certainly, but she was attractive nevertheless and her feline features suggested an intelligence in reserve: the arch of her brows, the defined cheekbones and the angularity of her jawline. Red-brick university, he reckoned. He could imagine her in a lecture hall during term time, chewing thoughtfully on the end of a pencil. She wouldn’t be from a well-off family, unlike some in her cohort; she wasn’t the kind who had the luxury of spending the summer holiday ‘finding herself’. In her case, she needed the hours, the wages. Probably she could use a little extra.

While Branwick waited for his breakfast to arrive he reached into his inside blazer pocket and drew out a well-worn leather wallet. From this he extracted three small elastic bands, placing them with quiet deliberation on the table, next to the teapot. He thumbed through the wallet’s compartments and removed a sheaf of banknotes: thirty £10 notes and three £50s. He separated the £10s into three equal piles, folded each pile and snapped an elastic band around them, one by one. Almost absently, he slid the three banded rolls into the waist pocket of his blazer. For a moment he contemplated the remaining banknotes, the £50 ones. They were crisp, new and untouched. He replaced them slowly in the wallet, which he then returned to his inside pocket with the same care he’d taken when removing it.

Branwick rested his hands on the table, his fingers steepled. He felt flush, optimistic and malevolent. He knew from experience that in lazy seaside towns a hundred pounds was often enough to gain access to a girl’s bare bottom and deliver at least half a dozen with the tawse — the trusty implement he had brought with him on this very trip to Eldercoombe. An additional fifty pounds might buy him the option on a spot of ‘the other’ with the same girl, depending on his mood at the time and whether any disciplinary exertions resulted in a pressing need of relief. If that remained the going rate, Branwick's recreational budget for the day would cover up to three disciplinary episodes — three girls! — and also some satisfying ‘extras’, stamina permitting.

A minute or so later the girl arrived with his breakfast tray, placing the dishes before him with precision but no great ceremony. She gave a curt, almost silent ‘Enjoy’ and turned away.

Branwick cracked a teaspoon against the shell of his boiled egg, using more force than was necessary. But he had made up his mind now and could concentrate on enjoying his breakfast.

When the waitress returned to clear his plates, he cleared his throat. ‘Young lady,’ he said, ‘before you go, I have a proposition for you. Sit down.’

She blinked. ‘Sorry?’

Five minutes later, a deal having been closed, Branwick folded his napkin and rose to leave.

Only then did the next guests for breakfast arrive, two partially deaf octogenarian sisters staying in the one other occupied room on Branwick’s floor.

Branwick’s day awaited him, its air holding a freshness which promised heat.

10.30am: the ice-cream kiosk girl

Branwick strolled along the promenade at a relaxed pace, enjoying the mid-morning sun. It wasn’t yet busy but the tuneless beeping and burbling of the amusement arcade sounded incessantly through the salty air. He was still neatly dressed, sporting a full-sleeved white shirt and cream slacks. A Panama hat cast a shadow across his face. He walked upright, his eyes taking in everything, frequently with flickers of disapproval.

A small kiosk arrested his steps, a construct of blue-painted timber faded by seasons of salt and sun. A sign proclaimed Ice Cream in looping, childlike letters. The focus of Branwick's attention was the salesgirl slouching inside the kiosk. A girl of perhaps eighteen, younger than the Claremire waitress but not by much. Wearing a two-piece uniform, cream with pink piping. Short sleeves and a skirt to mid-thigh, as he could see when pretending to peer at the menu on the counter. Her ash-blonde hair tumbled down her shoulders in messy locks. Her pretty face, for all its youthful bloom, bore the sulky petulance of a girl convinced that her own boredom was always someone else’s fault. The shirt looked rumpled, as if she’d slept in it. The skewed neckline was slightly tainted by light beads of sweat prickling her skin. Overall, the pink piping seemed rather absurd, as though someone had once intended neatness, only for the effect to be wilfully undone.

‘What can I get you?’ she asked, without meeting his gaze.

‘I'll have your cherry,’ he said, drawing out the moment. ‘Cherry flavour. Cone. One scoop.’

Perfecting the studied affectation of every unimpressed teenage girl, she winced, shook her head twice and rolled her eyes — an unspoken ‘Whatever!’

Branwick bristled.

Vanilla would have been pleasant enough, but the connotations of that flavour weren’t quite what he’d wanted.

As for her cherry, the chances were that it had long since been taken. His eyes drifted from her sullen face to her alluring cleavage and the pert breasts pressing against the cream top.

The freezer lid gave a protesting creak as she lifted it and leaned in. Her careless stance caused the uneven hem of her short skirt to ride further up her thighs. Her shirt gaped momentarily, revealing yet more of her topside charms.

She was scooping the ice cream with the apathy of someone intent on expending minimum effort, and he was watching her with the attentiveness of a disgruntled roue who remembered when girls cared about deportment, could take a joke with good grace and showed some respect. On pain of a sound spanking.

‘Cash or card?’

He paid in coins, exact change. She dropped the coins into the till, with a perfunctory ‘Amazing,’ and handed him the cone.

Branwick stood for a moment, tasting the cold cream. It was good — soft and sweet — but entirely beside the point. He lingered near the kiosk, pretending to be admiring the sea but repeatedly giving the girl side glances. She was inert again now, leaning against the weather-flaked timber, blonde curls drooping, staring at her mobile phone.

The girl was, he guessed, a sixth form student at the local college. Not among the brightest. Probably awaiting the results of her latest ‘re-takes’ in GCSE Maths and English, her second or third attempt. She clearly wasn’t one of the better-off girls, girls who could afford to spend the summer travelling. Like the undergraduate student serving breakfast at the Claremire, this one had no choice but to take on seasonal work. Low-paid and unremarkable. No value to her CV. Helping her to scrape by, bridging the shortfall left by paltry parental support. Maths GCSE or not, this girl would be aware of what difference even a little extra cash might mean come term time.

Branwick moved away, taking a few slow steps along the promenade. What was left of his ice cream was fast melting. He gazed at the cone ruefully, then tossed it in the direction of a nearby squawking gull. Having made a decision, he walked back towards the kiosk. He wasn’t as sure of the ice-cream girl as he’d been of the waitress, but he chanced his arm anyway, as he really felt like letting her have it.

‘Young lady,’ he said, ‘There's one more thing.’

The girl looked up.

11.30: the beach bather

The beach, like the town behind it, had seen better times. Stretches of sand patterned with faded deckchairs and abandoned windbreaks sloped gently toward the glittering grey-green of the tide. Branwick sat in one such chair, legs crossed at the ankle, shoes placed carefully in the sand. His linen shirt was open at the neck and his Panama hat was set low against the late-morning glare of the sun. A copy of the Telegraph lay unread in his lap.

Branwick was suddenly conscious of a soft sound of flip-flops padding against the sand. A bikini-clad girl, a brunette, was passing within a yard of his deckchair, sauntering lazily towards the tideline.

He squinted and turned his head fractionally, taking in the curve of the girl’s hip. As she ambled past, he had a rear view of her trim figure, the tanned flesh slick with sunscreen. Her bikini string top and bottom, pastel pink, clung snugly to her evenly tanned skin. Her shoulder-length hair was wet as if from a previous swim.

This was the third girl to attract his interest that morning. Another in her late teens or early twenties. Gazing at the roundness of her firm, sun-kissed buttocks, he smiled at the thought of the arrangements he’d already made, and the three rolls of banknotes waiting in the waist pocket of the blazer hanging in his room. One of those £100 rolls was not yet spoken for.

So captivated was he by the strip of damp pink fabric disappearing into the cleft between her bottom cheeks, he almost missed the temporary tattoo curling around her left thigh. Depicting a fine-lined snake coiled through a crescent moon, the tattoo was the kind seen in endless Instagram posts, a design sold in seaside gift shops alongside sticks of rock and lurid sarongs. Branwick found the tattoo irritating, an annoyance that offset yet piqued his arousal.

The girl might have glanced his way. He couldn’t be sure. A pair of sunglasses obscured her eyes. But there was something in her posture, the turn of her chin, the slight rotation of her shoulders, that suggested she had registered his stare and all it portended. She stepped into the shallows with both feet at once, arms folded, as if bracing gently against a sudden chill. The water barely reached her ankles. She stood gazing outward, letting the waves lick at her toes. 

Branwick wondered about this girl. Perhaps she was part of a group of students who were renting a beachside flat and enjoying a week of coastal walks and cheap wine. And yet she was alone. Maybe she was local, her boyfriend working in the funfair by the pier. One of those youths who manned the waltzers and dodgems, his arms greasy from operating engines and cables. If so, that would explain her solitary presence, dreamily kicking at sea foam while the tide stirred around her ankles.

Branwick knew what he was going to do. He waited while the girl stood at the tideline, but as soon as she turned he was on his feet. He walked across the shingle towards her, gingerly but with purpose.

He looked her directly in the face, or as much of it as wasn’t obscured by the sunglasses. He couldn't make out her eyes through the dark-tinted lenses but her brows were slightly furrowed, slanted in an involuntary expression of appeal. A snub nose sat framed between the glasses. Her mouth was full and wide, its corners turned subtly downward in a natural pout that made her seem both sullen and vulnerable. Her damp brown hair was parted in the middle and clung in strands to her cheeks and neck, framing her face in loose, uneven lines.

She was somewhat taken aback at being approached by a much older man, but she listened to what he had to say.  He made everything clear. She lowered her head slightly, bringing her hands together in front of her bikini bottom, fingers clasped in a gesture that was both demure and uncertain. 

Branwick exulted. There wasn't going to be any question about this one.

13.00: the hotel waitress

Despite Branwick’s misgivings about standards slipping at the Claremire, the stale ambience of his sea view room suited his character very well. The wallpaper, a faded damask, had once been crimson but now hovered somewhere between rose and rust, dulled by years of sunlight. The net curtain moved in the sea breeze like a whisper. A mahogany wardrobe stood sternly in the corner, its door slightly warped. The single bed was firm and squeaked faintly when Branwick sat on it to lace his shoes. An armchair by the window retained a faint, agreeable residue of cigar smoke from times past. Another chair, wooden, hard-backed and armless, was deliberately positioned in the centre of the room.

In the corner stood a solid table on which Branwick had placed several items, among them his Panama hat, a half-finished book of crossword puzzles, a small tin of barley sugars and the three banded rolls of banknotes, retrieved from his blazer pocket. His folded copy of the Telegraph, also resting on the table, now concealed the further three £50 notes from his wallet.

Overshadowing all else on the table was Branwick’s pride and joy. The tawse. A heavy and uncompromising implement, cut from thick, dark brown leather with a deep grain. It had a broad handle and two tongues, split neatly for effect and stiff to the touch. The edges were burnished smooth, and the surface was oiled and well-finished. In Branwick’s hands, this imposing instrument of correction had seen plenty of use over the years. It was soon to see a little more.

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked faintly. Branwick sat in the armchair, stiff-backed and upright, impatiently tapping his fingers on the chair’s armrest. Outside, seagulls wheeled noisily.

At just before one o’clock, the waitress slipped through the rear entrance of the Claremire, using the staff door that always stuck in the heat. She gave it a practised tug that freed it from its frame and stepped into the service corridor, cool and dim after the glare outside. She was wearing the uniform from her breakfast shift, as Branwick had stipulated. The one difference was that her long hair, scrunched back earlier, was now free, sweeping dramatically down her back and over the right side of her face.

Being seen wasn’t an option. She took the long route to the second floor, keeping close to the service walls, the ones lined with noticeboards and fire instructions. From the second-floor landing she moved furtively along the guest corridor, glancing both ways before pausing outside Room 231 and lifting her hand to give a single, quiet knock.

She knew what to expect. He’d made it very clear. She was going to have to strip and submit to six strokes of the tawse. He’d told her why, too. He deplored the lackadaisical attitude of girls today and was convinced that the smack of firm discipline was what was needed to liven up their ideas. He’d added that this applied as much to cash-strapped undergraduates, half-heartedly waitressing for the summer, as to any other girl. Right there his perceptive appraisal had cut to the quick, causing her to blush with mortification. But then he’d seemed a little resentful. He’d remarked that although he’d rather not have to pay girls for the privilege of performing what he considered to be a public duty — strapping their bare backsides — he recognised that the offer of some financial inducement helped grease the wheel, so to speak. What he hadn’t told her was that her feline prettiness was an aggravating factor in the matter. That was compounded now, as she stepped into the room, by the attractive tilt of her head and the rakish way her long hair covered half her face.

Okay, she’d thought to herself. Surely it couldn’t be that bad. He was just an old dinosaur, albeit obviously a ‘perv’. The tawse would probably sting a bit. But it wasn’t like he wanted to fuck her or anything. Not like that sweaty Mr Pratchley, the hotel porter, or any of those grimy boys who manned the funfair rides by the pier, some of them hopeless cases from her old school. She’d just have to do what he said, grin and bear it, and keep her mind on the cash.

Branwick didn’t waste time on pleasantries. That wasn’t what this was about. Within seconds of her entrance he’d ordered her to strip down to her bra and knickers. She gave him a brief, apprehensive look, then obediently took off her shoes, undid her tie, slipped out of the waistcoat, shirt and trousers and folded the garments neatly, placing them on the bed. As she undressed, she noticed the tawse and the three rolls of banknotes on the table. She correctly surmised that one of those rolls was intended for her — her reward — but a shiver ran down her spine as she contemplated the size and sheen of the tawse.

Branwick’s eyes roved over her body, taking in the twin apples of her breasts supported in a perfect cleavage by her bra, and the flat tummy. Then his gaze settled on the bare tops of her smooth thighs and the swell of her pubis, plump and soft under satin knickers.

‘Now remove your underwear.’

In for a penny, in for a pound. A hundred pounds, to be precise.

Coyly, she turned her back on him, unfastened her bra and slipped down the knickers.

Her bare bottom was an irresistible invitation.

In a single motion, Branwick got up, reached for the tawse and flicked it experimentally against her right cheek.

‘Owww!’

‘That one didn't count.’

She shifted nervously aside.

Again, the tawse licked at a bare cheek, the left one this time.

‘Aaargh!’

‘Neither did that. As I said, I’m going to give you six strokes, but the six I’m going to give you are going to be hard ones. Each one will hurt you a great deal.’

She tensed, her bottom twitching. This could turn out to be a lot worse than she’d anticipated.

‘Turn and face me!’

She did so.

She really wanted to place her hands in front of her naked tits and pussy but she thought better of crossing him. 

Her pretty face was wary now, with a hint of fear. He liked that. And he savoured, too, the sight of her tweakable nipples and the tapering contours from her tummy to the neatly trimmed hair of her cunny.

‘Position yourself!’

He indicated where, pointing with a bony finger. She duly knelt over the back of the hardbacked chair. Her belly rested on wood, her bottom lifted high. A bottom that was naked and vulnerable, still tingling from the teasing licks of the tawse.

He was behind her now, and she could feel his eyes boring into her raised hindquarters.

The tension mounted.

Was it too late to declare second thoughts?

There was a faint slap-slapping sound. She realised he must be patting the tawse against the palm of his hand, gauging where to lay the first stroke.

Next there was the faintest of sounds, a floorboard squeaking. Then came an agonising blaze of pain across her buttocks, the twin thongs of the tawse curling round and flailing into her flank.

SPLAT!

It was like fire across her flesh, a flame that burnt deeply. It left her gasping breathlessly. Her head jerked up, her bottom juddering.

Fuck, she couldn’t bear five more like that! She turned to him, eyes imploring.

He looked down at her gravely.

‘I told you it would hurt,’ he said. ‘Get back over, and don’t you dare twist your behind away.’

Somehow she made herself obey, clenching her teeth. Again, that squeak of the floorboards as he swung. And then that sheet of flame across her flesh.

SPLAT!

‘Aaaaargh! I can’t stand it!’

‘Of course you can, girl!’ he barked.

Deep sobs overtook her.

She positioned her clenching buttocks once more. Then, for the third time, the tawse cracked resoundingly across her flesh.

SPLAT!

She howled, throat straining, eyes wide.

Halfway through, she thought, mind reeling.

Branwick smirked, relishing her suffering. ‘Just you keep thinking about that hundred pounds!’

She was whimpering now.

He felt a sudden surge of vindictiveness towards her, not only because she was an indifferent waitress but also because she was a student. True, she was probably smarter than many. Be that as it may. But he himself hailed from a university town and he knew just how vain and vapid her kind could be.

He gripped the handle of the tawse and snapped the leather with his other hand.

‘How much fizzy, fruit-flavoured alcohol could you purchase for a hundred pounds, eh?

He swept the tawse down with considerable force.

SPLAT!

‘Aaaaeeergh!’

A bright red imprint darkened rapidly across her cheeks, overlaying the previous three strokes. Again, a shrill cry, subsiding as Branwick’s arm swung back once more.

‘How many oat milk lattes?’

SPLAT!

Another high-pitched yell announced the electrifying contact of leather and bare-bum girl-flesh.

‘Why not buy yourself a hoodie? A faded denim jacket and some ‘woke’ badges to pin all over it?’

She gave a further urgent cry as his arm descended for the sixth time.

SPLAT!

‘Just you make sure you curtsy to me at breakfast tomorrow!’

She convulsed in agony. The pain was searing, unbearable, but there was also the abject humiliation of it all.

Gazing at her crimson, gyrating buttocks, Branwick wondered whether she’d be receptive to a further deal. Yes, she'd earned her £100, taken her hard six — but there was a further £50 with her name on it, snuck between the pages of his Telegraph, if only she’d agree. She was weeping and blubbering now, the tears flowing copiously. Perhaps she’d really had enough. Or maybe she needed something to suck on, to muffle all that noise. Would she be open to the extra offer?

14.00: the ice-cream kiosk girl

Tawsing girls was a noisy business, as Branwick had just reminded himself with the waitress. And when indulging this pastime in a hotel room, there was always a risk of attracting unwelcome attention. Not that he was unduly bothered. The dotty old woman on reception seemed hard of hearing, as were the octogenarian ladies in their room along the corridor, doubtless enjoying an extended afternoon nap. Other guests would be dozing in deck chairs on the beach. And if that shifty-eyed porter got wind of a good hiding or two, occurring in some guest room or other, well… he hardly seemed the type to make a fuss about it. Little did Branwick know, but the porter in question, Pratchley, if ever he did overhear occasional spankings inside the hotel and a squealing of girls, wasn’t above sneaking into a vacant neighbouring room, putting a teacup to the wall and pressing his ear against it.

It was just before two when the ice-cream girl made her tentative way along the second floor of the Claremire. She still wore the same rumpled uniform, cream with pink piping, as Branwick had specified that she should. The soles of her pumps scuffed against the worn runner as she walked, her eyes flicking to the brass numbers fixed on the doors. Room 231. This was it.

Branwick really ‘had it in for’ the ice-cream girl. He’d been rankled by her attitude that morning as she’d slouched and served him his cone, her image the epitome of teenage insouciance. He was also provoked by the pressure of her tits against the folds of her cream top, the curve of her hips and the golden tan of her thighs beneath the hem of that short skirt. When he’d propositioned her, he hadn’t even specified the number of strokes he intended to administer, as he’d done with the waitress. Despite the ice-cream girl’s prickly attitude that morning the mere mention of a £100 had been enough, and he could now look forward to giving her an open-ended leathering.

So. Room 231. This was it. She hadn’t been sure she’d even make it on time. Her ‘bestie’ Amber had been late taking over from her at the kiosk for the afternoon shift. So typical of Amber! She of the bleach-blonde, candy-floss hair! Doing whatever it was that she got up to with Mr Darnleigh, the retired college lecturer who’d offered her unofficial, ‘free’ tuition every morning throughout the summer break! That selfish little slut had almost made her late for her own opportunity to earn some easy cash! But she was here now. As ready as she could be, albeit panting a little. She took a deep breath, smoothed her skirt with sweaty palms, raised her knuckles to the panel and knocked once.

‘Come!’

Branwick lifted the tawse from the seat of the hard-backed chair, where he’d left it, eased himself down in its place and parted his legs. He’d decided to deal with the ice-cream girl in the nursery position. To start with, anyway. He wanted to savour the friction of her pain-induced wriggling and writhing against his trousered lap. Branwick’s old member was moist and still pulsing in his pants, stimulated by the oral attention the waitress had given him just fifteen minutes before. Yes, the waitress had been open to further negotiation, despite all her blubbering. A hot, wet mess of tears and saliva — but mercenary with it, as he’d anticipated. And now he craved fresh sensations.

No preliminaries, no awkward small talk.

‘Pull your knickers down!’

Although the ice-cream girl had been expecting this instruction, something about the thickness of his voice froze her on the spot. And then she saw the size of that tawse!

‘Go on!’ he barked. ‘Get them down and get over here!’

After a further moment or two she summoned the courage to do as he demanded. The sight of the two remaining rolls of banknotes on the table, one of them hers for the taking, reminded her why she was there. But as she stepped forward, knickers around her knees, he stared her hard in the face and her heart sank as well as her underwear.

Her knickers were pale blue, a match with the cream and pink of her uniform and perhaps suggestive of the colour of bubble-gum-flavoured ice cream. The infuriating frivolity of it! By the time he’d finished with her, he determined, she’d need some ice, and some cream, too, to soothe a well-punished bottom. Arse-cream, if you will! But she’d have to make her own arrangements on that score. His afternoon’s exertions wouldn’t yet be over. He still had other buttocks to fry!

Branwick got the girl down over his lap and briskly jerked up her skirt, running his hand across the piping stitched against the hem. He paused to relish the sight of her bottom, bare above her lowered underwear. He seized the knickers roughly and tugged at them until they were altogether free of her feet.

Then he grabbed her by the scruff of her neck, thick curls of ash blonde hair escaping through his fingers.

‘Right, young lady, it’s time to strap you out of your summer-season stupor!’

Without further ado he whipped the tawse down hard across the centre of her quivering bottom.

SPLAT!

The sound reverberated like a rifle shot, causing a cacophony of squawking among the seagulls fluttering on the other side of the net curtain. The girl answered instantaneously with a piercing shriek of her own. Her body jack-knifed automatically and it was only his hand gripping her neck that prevented her rolling straight onto the floor.

‘Didn’t like that, did you?’

He didn’t wait for an answer.

SPLAT!

The second stroke was even more painful, landing across the throbbing line left by the first.

Branwick took a firmer hold on her by pulling one of her arms behind her back and gripping her waist. Then he really got going. Swipe followed agonising swipe. The room echoed and re-echoed to the rifle-shot sounds of leather striking teenage buttocks and the girl’s anguished shrieks. It went on and on. And when at last Branwick pushed her off his lap it wasn't because he had finished but merely because he wanted a change of position.

He led the shaking, wet-faced girl to the bed. Made her lie on it. On her back, with her legs in the air. He raised her legs in one hand and then, with the other…

SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT!

‘Not to worry’ he gloated, between breathless grunts. ‘You can always return to that tatty little kiosk and shove your scorching backside in the Slush Puppy bucket! Now keep still!’

He’d decided to do the undersides of her thighs as well.

SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT!

It was, of course, entirely within his budget to offer her £50 on top of the hundred that she'd already earned. But it wasn’t only financial outlay that he needed to consider. A man of his age had to pace himself. Even still…

‘Let’s chat more about that cherry, shall we?’

15.00: the beach bather

The hotel was quiet, the clatter of tea trays still an hour away.

Fully dressed now, still wearing her sunglasses, the girl from the beach entered the Claremire and crossed the lobby hurriedly.

She didn’t know this hotel, but she walked as if she did, pretending. Her flip flops made soft sounds on the tiled floor. Past the lift, past the door marked Private. She found the staircase and ascended, each step echoing with more confidence than she actually felt.

Room 231. A faded brass number. She paused, breathing slowly, mouth slightly parted.

She reached out and gave a single knock.

‘Enter.’

It irritated Branwick that she’d arrived for the rendezvous wearing those sunglasses. Oversized, plastic-rimmed and wholly unsuitable for indoors! To be fair, he’d mistaken her desire to seem anonymous for vanity. Not that he had any interest in being fair. But her outfit pleased him, a fetching alternative to the earlier bikini. She sported a form-fitting white top, its short sleeves capped at the shoulder, the hem stopping just below the midriff. It perfectly accentuated the pertness of her bra-less tits. Below she wore a pair of white, shin-grazing trousers of light, cotton-linen blend, held in place by an elasticated waistband and offering a clean view of her tight crotch. She was certainly a comely little package. Not as much flesh on show as on the beach, but that was soon to change.

‘Remove those sunglasses at once and come here.’

She did as she was told.

He examined her face with fierce intensity. At last he could see her wide-set eyes, forlorn beneath the downward slant of her brows.

The girl held his stare for a moment then glanced away, her mind bubbling with agitation. Yes, she understood the nature of their agreement. She noticed the promised roll of banknotes on the table. But when she saw the tawse itself draped over the seat of the hard-backed chair she realised what she had coming to her, the awful reality of it. What was it he’d said? At least six? Up to twelve if he felt like it? God! How much was this going to hurt?

Branwick had been so exercised by his earlier dealings with the ice-cream girl that, once he'd bustled her out of his room — minus her pale blue knickers, which he’d pocketed — he'd decided that it was high time to unpack a little something from his bag of toiletries in the bathroom and place it somewhere strategic. Something to smooth over his last appointment of the afternoon. Depending on whether ‘beach babe’ would want an extra £50, of course… Her eyes were flicking towards it just now…

She caught sight of a big jar of what looked like Vaseline on his bed. Why should that be there? Was he going to find some use for that, as well as the tawse? The sight of the jar worried her almost as much. For something so ordinary, it had evil implications.

‘Now undress. Completely.’

She took somewhat longer to get naked than was ideal, but he let her strip at her own pace and lectured her for the duration, enjoying the spectacle.

‘From now on,’ he declared, ‘I expect you to show improved beach etiquette. How dare you disport yourself like a brazen little strumpet, flaunting yourself in a next-to-nothing bikini, sauntering about in wilfully close proximity to a gentleman deckchair user who wants nothing more to occupy his mind than the day’s headlines in the Telegraph!’

Branwick was conscious of the irony of his words. He was using hypocrisy as a weapon with which to torment the girl.

When she slipped out of her trousers, the temporary tattoo curling round her left thigh became visible again.

A pause.

The snake coiling in the crescent moon seemed to taunt him.

As soon as she’d shed her last item of clothing, Branwick made a beeline for the offending thigh. He gripped the naked girl around her waist and repeatedly hand-smacked the image of the serpent’s head.

‘Ow! Ow! Ouch! Ow! Ouch! Ow!’

The slaps stung nastily, rapidly reddening the smooth limb. He was determined to demonstrate his disapproval of any kind of tattoo on a girl.

As she struggled against his hold he noticed the faint smell of salt and sunscreen still clinging to her skin. Somehow this seemed to incense him all the more.

Time to get on with it.

He put her against the back wall, palms flat against the wallpaper, toes a couple of feet from the skirting, legs straight, back hollowed, bottom sticking out.

A pink petal peeped out as she shuffled her feet a little further apart on his instruction.

She tried to shut out the picture of what she was showing him, to blot it all out, but she couldn’t.

Branwick’s greedy eyes devoured every detail.

Her left thigh still stung like mad. And the hand holding out the tawse ran its knuckles over her smooth bottom cheeks.

She was going to get a dozen strokes, he decided, the full complement, in four instalments of three.

He drew back his arm without warning.

SPLAT!

The leather fork of the tawse cracked squarely across her firm-fleshed buttocks.

Her mouth burst open in a strangled cry. She’d told herself that she wouldn’t do that — that she wouldn’t cry out — but she couldn’t help it.

SPLAT!

The second stroke was even worse. The strangled cry came again, accompanied by a desperate writhing of the now blazing cheeks.

SPLAT!

This time she let out a full-blooded howl.

Even the napping octogenarians along the corridor must have stirred at the sound of that one!

SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT!

Branwick was merciless with the tawse, criss-crossing the buttocks and biting into the thighs.

SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT!

She let out a long, desperate wail.

Every stroke made her bottom bounce frantically.

SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT!

Every kick of her feet, every swerve of her hips, every snatch and bend of her long bare legs required him to readjust her position. His hand would slip under her belly to lift her back into place. And through the blazing pain she’d feel an intrusive brush of hard fingertips.

At last he stopped.

She was crying bitterly now.

He spun her round and encircled her with his arms, pulling her close. One hand slid down to her shaking, ravaged buttocks. He groped her fiercely and held her hard against him, pressing her shuddering body against the stiff bulge in his slacks.

It was time to ease the pressure. He gave her a minute or two to calm down, to sob into his shoulder.

Before long, the thoughts of them both ran to that big jar of Vaseline.

Would she be interested in the remaining banknote that had slipped out from his folded copy of the Telegraph? The £50 extra?

She lifted her tear-stained face and, sniffling, slowly nodded her head.

Culver’s models, dealt with