And the Band Played On

From Uniform Girls 14

‘I’ve warned you before, young lady. As the eldest member of the Marshland Majorettes, you’re expected to set an example.’

Christine Smith, tall, slim and eighteen, stood sulking in the centre of the small office. She had never wanted to join the Marshland Majorettes, but her parents had insisted. They had seen them perform at a village fair shortly after the Smith family had come to the area. ‘Just the thing for our Christine,’ her father had said. ‘Teach her a little discipline and poise.’

The poise was all very well; the discipline was another matter, especially when it was handed out by the troupe’s leaders, Mr and Mrs Jackson.

‘This time, I think, the hairbrush is called for,’ said Alice Jackson. Her husband, sitting beside her, nodded. Christine tried to think of something else. It wasn’t so much the music or the marching she so disliked; it was that silly uniform. A frilly little skirt which afforded little modesty, showing off her knickers to all and sundry, especially the men, who often lined the route of their marches. She knew they all prayed for a windy day.

‘Oh please, Mrs Jackson, not before the parade,’ she asked. ‘They’ll see the marks.’

Alec Jackson contemplated the girl. He agreed; after all, he’d designed the uniform. It left little to the imagination, especially when the taut knickers were filled out by a well-developed girl. Cut high over the hips, those knickers revealed a remarkable amount of girlish bottom; and the more they marched, the more seemed to be revealed.

‘I’m not letting you off this time, Christine; and you know the rule; we never delay the punishment. You know that, and so do your parents.’ She felt so trapped. Surely they were reasonable people? Surely they would understand how terrible it would be to march through the centre of the village, in front of neighbours and friends, with angry red blotches on your thighs, set off by the white knickers.

Mrs Jackson thought for a moment. ‘Alright, I’m willing to offer a compromise.’ Christine relaxed, just slightly. ‘A hairbrush tanning where it won’t be seen, followed by a caning after the parade.’

Christine’s legs suddenly felt like jelly. A caning! She’d never been caned; in fact she didn’t know anyone who ever had been caned. It was the stuff of Billy Bunter and schoolgirl fiction from her mother’s generation.

‘Alright’ she whispered, ‘but now…?’

The woman interrupted her question. Put yourself across Mr Jackson’s knee.’

Christine crept forward, her face burning with the indignity of the situation. Why did Mr Jackson always have to hand out the punishment? It just wasn’t right. Mr Jackson had already moved away from the table, and was patting his right leg. She slipped across his lap, her long hair falling in front, obscuring her already limited view. The woman had picked up her handbag, and handed her husband a thin red lipstick. ‘My husband will draw the outline of your knickers on your skin. Then he’ll know where to apply the hairbrush.’

Christine cringed, as she felt the man’s cold hard hands steady her bottom. She felt too the touch of the lipstick as he carefully and slowly drew a line, marking out the small triangle of her tight knickers, a line that reached from her hip, down over one thigh, deep between her legs, and back up over the other thigh. She shuddered as the hands parted her legs so that the lipstick would reach deep down between them.

She cringed again as those same hands started to ease her knickers slowly over the curves of her pert young bottom. ‘Mustn’t smudge my artwork!’ joked Mr Jackson.

In a few seconds, they were nestling snuggling around the top of her thighs, her bare bottom fully on view to that dreadful man.

Alec Jackson had seen it all before. In five years of organising the Marshland Majorettes, he had taken down literally scores of tight white knickers, and always the experience was a new one. Sometimes the bottoms were plump and expansive, at other times, slim and pert; but always the operation was accompanied by sighs of embarrassment, or protests, or even a tear of two. He often enjoyed guessing whether the girls were really blonde or brunette. With their knickers down he soon found out.

The girl before him, stretched out so helplessly across his lap was a real beauty. At eighteen she was both a naive and unsophisticated girl and also a very well-developed young woman.

‘Does your father ever smack your bottom?’ he asked, tapping it lightly with the palm of his hand. ‘Y… yes, sometimes,’ came the reply. ‘I bet he does’ thought Jackson.

His wife handed him the evil-looking hairbrush with its smooth wooden back, slightly curved. ‘I’m going to apply this hairbrush to your bottom, young lady, inside the line of your knickers.’

Clutching it with his right hand, he bent her tightly over his knee, revealing the most tender areas. SPLAAT! Christine screamed, as the smooth wood impacted against the inner part of her left buttock. SPLAAT! A sting of pain shot through the other bottom cheek. SPLAAT! She kicked out involuntarily, in an attempt to ease the pain. SPLAAT!

‘No… no… more… please…’ she screamed, and burst into loud sobbing. Jackson smiled. He’d stop when this naughty young lady had learnt her lesson. She wailed and kicked and wriggled that poor bottom of hers. SPLAAT… SPLAAT!

Finally, weeping, she was stood on her feet. Gently, with one hand, she tried to ease her knickers up over the red blush of her bottom. ‘I hope that will keep you on your best behaviour, at least for the duration of the parade,’ said Mrs Jackson.

Christine nodded. ‘I’m sorry… I’m sorry…’ she sobbed, wiping tears from her eyes.

‘And as soon as the parade is over, I want you back in here. You’re going to be caned, Christine.’

The girl scampered out of the office, still tugging at her knickers.

‘Those lipstick marks look rather sexy,’ thought Alec Jackson. ‘But they’ll pale into insignificance compared with the thin straight lines that girl will find across her bottom before the day is over.’

----//----

The parade was a great success. All the girls marched superbly.

‘Well-trained’ commented Christine’s parents. ‘Those Jacksons certainly have a way with them, getting them all to march with such precision.’

Mr Smith was still enthusing about the display when he reached home. ‘I expect they’re all getting a pep talk now,’ he suggested to his wife, who had remarked that Christine was a little late coming home.

Their darling daughter, at that moment, was lying flat on her back, on top of the Jacksons’ long smooth desk. Her long slim legs were being held back by Mrs Jackson’s firm hands. Her little white knickers were lying on the floor, and Mr Jackson was applying a long bendy cane to Christine’s round bare bottom.