Original Story — Bare Botanical Tales 1 (Culver)

 …or ‘tails’, if the reader prefers.

An original, illustrated story by Culver, in two parts.

For this botanically-themed fantasy of spanked tail ends, some imaginary casting of bare-bot models from spanking magazines is suggested:

Emily Larken is played by Sheena Steele (aka Amanda Dawkins) of Janus 128;

Lucy Valewood is played by Sandra of Local Politics in Blushes 4 (and of miscellaneous other Blushes publications, under different names; Lucy, in Half-Term Punishments);

and Becky Fernley, in Part Two, is played by Natalie (aka Andrea Spinks) of Janus 133 (also of Janus 132, 137 and 144).

Becky meets a Mrs Hamberley-Bower, who is based on one of Natalie’s nemeses, Mrs Hanbury-Boyce (Janus 132), another recurring Janus character.

The illustrations are in most cases created using AI. They offer different stylisations of the models, riffing on their likenesses but sometimes — and on purpose — only loosely.

Alf Mossmere is an original character whose AI-generated image is not based on anyone’s likeness in particular. (The same is true of the curmudgeonly patriarchs of Steeplehurst, making a collective appearance in a single image in Part Two.)

No resemblance between fictional characters or settings and actual persons or places is intended or should be inferred.

PART ONE

Alf Mossmere had spent almost thirty-five years working at Steeplehurst Botanical Gardens, the last decade in the capacity of senior steward. As he never failed to point out, the gardens’ trees, shrubs and flower beds formed part of a documented, important scientific collection. He took very seriously his responsibility for looking after it all, and ensuring that the visitor areas remained in good condition. He made his daily rounds in an electric, two-seater utility buggy, always keeping the rear tray well supplied with traffic cones, barrier cord, horticultural tools and a first-aid kit. He steered the vehicle along service tracks mainly concealed behind hedges and shrubbery, and the buggy’s motor produced little more than a subdued hum. To visitors, it frequently seemed that Alf would appear from nowhere.

Among recent innovations at Steeplehurst was the 18-21s Students Pass, a scheme intended to encourage young people to visit the gardens regularly, extend their education and enjoy a sense of wellbeing and mindfulness. Under this scheme the annual fee was heavily discounted. Members received reduced prices in the cafés and gift shop, invitations to occasional events and — the best concession — early admission from eight o’clock in the morning, allowing quiet access two hours before the general public.

Initially, Alf had regarded the idea of an 18-21s pass as something of a liability, unlike the equivalent provision for 60+ seniors which, of course, he’d championed. ‘Wellbeing and mindfulness’ were all fine and dandy, he’d grumble, but, in his experience, college types often meant trouble. Since Alf was usually the only steward on duty first thing in the morning, it would be up to him, on his own, to deal with any inappropriate or anti-social behaviour by rise-and-shine students. Then again, he’d conjecture, many if not most of the early birds would be girls… fit, out-and-about sorts; a lot of them lookers!

In the end, it was the prospect of seeing a spike in visits by nubile young women that had deterred him from speaking out openly against the 18-21s Students Pass scheme. Far be it from him to rock the boat at Steeplehurst Botanical’s strategy meetings! His silence was motivated, in effect, by private hopes of savouring some arousing sights during his early-morning rounds. Besides, he harboured one or two old-fashioned ideas about how to correct errant young ladies, should any cases of misbehaviour arise. He even had some relevant experience in that area, a fact which he kept largely to himself.

27th July

At half past eight on a pleasantly warm summer morning, twenty-year-old Emily Larken arrived at the gardens’ Cedar Gate and presented her pass. The sleepy attendant handed it back, offering her a folded map. Emily glanced at the regulations printed on the reverse side of the document. Running and jogging were strictly prohibited throughout the gardens. She had read that rule often enough, and she scarcely noticed it now.

Emily was on her long summer break from an undergraduate course in Sports Studies. Since arriving back at her family home she had settled into a comfortable routine of early morning runs by the river, visits to the gardens, sessions in the gym and working occasional shifts in a riverside café. The highlight of her week thus far had been ‘dumping’ the boyfriend she’d dated since her pre-university days; he couldn’t keep up with her rigorous training regime.

That morning Emily intended to spend an hour in the gardens before showering at home and heading to the gym. She was dressed for running, but roadworks had meant she’d had to abandon her plan to jog along her usual riverside route.

Emily was a stunning girl, and she knew it. She had a naturally athletic figure, with lean, well-defined shoulders, strong legs and an easy economy of movement. Her bronze colour was that of someone who indeed spent much of the summer outdoors.

Her oval, almost heart-shaped face was perfectly symmetrical, with softly defined cheekbones. Framed by delicately arched eyebrows and long lashes, her blue-grey eyes had an inscrutable, questioning quality. A straight, finely proportioned nose, and a full mouth — the lower lip slightly more protuberant than the upper — suggested an unusual, push-faced combination of strength and vulnerability.

Emily’s honey-brown hair was thick and naturally wavy, lighter where the summer sun had caught it. She kept it drawn back in a high ponytail, secured with a patterned scrunchie whose muted greens, blues and russet tones contrasted pleasantly with her running clothes. A few stray curls around her temples and neck had already escaped, wisping slightly in the morning air.

She wore a white cropped top fitted closely across her ample chest and shoulders, its square neckline emphasising the dip of her sun-kissed cleavage. Lightly quilted stitching across the front provided structure and support. Between the lower edge of the top and the waistband of her running shorts she sported a strip of flat midriff, totemic of her youthful fitness. Her dark grey shorts sat unusually high on her waist and fell loosely to the middle of her thighs. Made from lightweight woven fabric, they were generously cut to allow freedom of movement, the material lifting and folding easily across her shapely bottom. A single pocket held her pass and a door key. White sports socks rose a little above her ankles, their tops neatly folded. She wore well-maintained Nike trainers, their air cushioning visible in the heels. A slim GPS watch was fastened around her left wrist, its screen still displaying the route she’d wanted to run before walking the gardens.

The broad avenue beyond Cedar Gate was almost empty. Plane trees cast patches of shade across the gravel, while the lawns still held the silver sheen of dew. A doddery gardener was beginning to water the herbaceous borders, and somewhere farther ahead an eccentric photographer knelt beside a bed of lilies, waiting for the light to improve. The tropical glasshouse, the gardens’ preeminent structure, stood silent beyond the avenue. It wouldn’t be open to visitors before ten.

Emily began to walk briskly. After a minute or two she increased her pace without even thinking about it, her ponytail bouncing freely behind her. Then she made the error of judgement that she’d later regret. She decided that, okay, she’d run after all, despite the clearly stated regulations prohibiting running; but only along the wider avenues… and she’d slow down if anyone appeared ahead. At the time that seemed like a reasonable compromise. She glanced over her shoulder before pressing the button on her watch.

Her path curved towards the ornamental lake, where swamp cypresses and alders shaded the water. Moorhens threaded quietly through the reeds, and the fountain at the centre broke the reflected sky into restless fragments of light.

Emily sprinted round a bend beside the lake but then — disaster! — her right foot landed on a strip of damp grass, slid sideways and carried the rest of her with it. She remained upright for an improbably long moment before collapsing heavily at the water’s edge, her left foot disappearing into the shallows with a neat splash. A moorhen scurried for cover.

Emily stared at the weed wrapped around her training shoe. No harm done, it seemed, apart from wounded dignity and muddy shorts.

It was then that she heard a faint crunch of gravel from behind. Alf Mossmere had brought his buggy to a halt just a few yards away.

‘Have you hurt yourself?’

‘No,’ Emily replied. ‘Just my pride.’

‘Stand up.’

She did so, brushing damp grass from the backs of her legs.

Alf looked the girl over, taking in her fine form and noticing the GPS watch.

‘You were running.’

‘I know,’ she blushed.

‘You presumably knew you weren’t supposed to.’

‘There wasn’t anybody about. I thought if I kept out of the way…’

She looked down at the pondweed still hanging from her trainer.

‘Take that off and put it back.’

She peeled away the weed and dropped it into the water.

Alf switched off the buggy, removed the key and climbed out.

‘Your membership pass.’

‘Huh?’

‘Your membership pass.’

She drew the pass from her shorts pocket and handed it over.

Alf examined it.

‘Your membership will need to be reviewed, Miss Larken. For ignoring the conditions under which it was issued.’

He slipped the pass into his breast pocket.

‘Wait, you’re confiscating this?’

‘Yes.’

‘Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’ve only had that pass for a couple of weeks. Can’t you just give me a… caution?’

‘Well, I could give you something, I suppose… but I’ll tell you now, young lady, you wouldn’t like it!’

Emily creased her brow.

Alf explained exactly what he had in mind.

Flustered, Emily could hardly believe her ears, but she valued her access to the gardens, and, seriously…? The alternative course of action that he’d just proposed… how painful could it really be…?

‘So you’ll come with me,’ he said. It was a statement, not a question.

She nodded hesitantly and glanced at the buggy’s passenger seat.

‘I wasn’t offering a lift,’ he snapped.

Alf took a firm hold of Emily’s upper arm and led her towards the tropical glasshouse. She walked awkwardly beside him, her damp left trainer squeaking every few steps.

It was only eight forty-five and the glasshouse remained completely closed. That was perfect for Alf’s purposes.

Warm air drifted through the entrance as he opened the door with his staff key. He took Emily inside, locking the door behind him, and walked her towards the growing areas. Drops of condensation covered the glass panes. Palms, tree ferns, orchids and climbing vines rose into the humid space, their leaves motionless in the still air. At the far end of the central path stood a plain elm bench next to a hosepipe and watering can, screened by broad-leaved gingers. Alf led Emily towards the bench and noticed with a twitch of excitement the pinprick beads of perspiration forming on her brow, neck and cleavage. He himself began to perspire.

It was time to deal with her.

‘Which is it to be?’ he barked. ‘The dry trainer or the wet one?’

They both knew what he meant and what was coming next. He’d made that crystal clear during their earlier exchange.

Without making any fuss she untied her left shoe, the wet one, and pulled it from her foot. She handed it to him.

Alf mopped his brow, licked his lips and got to work. If she’d been so minded, Emily could have put up considerable physical resistance to having her shorts and panties pulled down and being bundled over the senior steward’s lap for a no-nonsense, bare-bottom whacking with the training shoe… but in fact she was remarkably compliant. As a ‘fitness freak’ and ‘gym bunny’ she had so conditioned herself to endurance tests that she saw this spanking as a challenge to accept, an exercise in stamina, rather than something to resist. How sporting of her, he thought!

Alf set about his task with great gusto. Time and again he whacked the air-cushioned shoe against Emily’s buttocks, getting into the rhythm of it and watching the firm cheeks repeatedly flatten, blotch, spring back into shape and turn a deeper shade of crimson. He couldn’t help but become aroused…

Emily tried to endure the spanking as best she could, taking deep breaths and refusing to squeal or cry. Alf could feel her body tense with every whumping impact. He thrilled to the sensation and allowed the growing lump in his trousers to increase its friction with her gyrating midriff.

Emily humped and writhed instinctively but refrained from making any deliberately evasive swerves. She remained resilient for a good couple of minutes, but eventually the unrelenting punishment proved too much for her.

With a sudden plaintive wail of despair she shifted her weight over his lap, slumped and succumbed to the pain. She began blubbering incoherently and tears streamed down her face. Good, he thought! He’d broken her spirit! That only added fire to his loins. He took a tight grip of her wrists with his free hand and mercilessly redoubled his efforts, whacking her belaboured buttocks for a further minute or two while she wept pitifully.

When, at last, he was satisfied, he stood the crying girl on her feet and told her to dry her eyes and compose herself. He said she could have her pass back, but in exchange he’d pocket her panties. That seemed to him a fair trade!

Once she’d put her muddy shorts back on, he made her stand by the bench, still quivering, with her hands on her head while he sprinkled her seat with the watering can and used a rough cloth to rub residue dirt from the fabric. He gratuitously slapped the backs of her thighs, several times, then led her back to the door and opened it.

Giving her bruised bottom a parting pinch through the wet shorts, he told her to jog on… but ‘no jogging’ till she’d left the gardens! He smirked, wiped his brow and walked unhurriedly to his utility buggy, adjusting his trousers.

3rd August

Lucy Valewood arrived at Cedar Gate at exactly eight o’clock, her 18-21s pass hanging openly from a green lanyard. She liked showing it off. It meant a lot to her. It gave her unrestricted visits to a place where nobody thought it unusual to spend half an hour looking closely at a single plant.

The attendant yawned a greeting at her, scanned the pass and handed it back with a map. She folded the paper automatically, noticing the regulations printed on the reverse side as she did so. Visitors were not permitted to remove flowers, leaves, seeds or any other plant material from the gardens. She readily approved of that. It would be difficult to imagine a botanical garden functioning at all if people were free to pluck pieces of the collection and take them home.

Lucy was nineteen, a part-time apprentice hairdresser at one of the high street salons in town. The apprenticeship suited her well, leaving her with plenty of free time to visit the gardens and also to pursue her true passion in life… flower-pressing, a hobby she’d loved since as long as she could remember.

She was an effortlessly pretty girl. A gently angular jawline lent definition to her face. She had a finely shaped nose that was ever so slightly retroussé, and a full, expressive mouth. Her large dark eyes gave her an air of quiet attentiveness, though they were frequently half hidden by a fringe that fell heavily whenever she bent to examine something, be it a rare plant in the gardens or a permed head of hair in the salon. Her own hair, chestnut-brown, was thick and full, with natural volume around the top and sides. It fell in loose waves that framed her face with a halo-like softness before reaching her shoulders. She pushed back the fringe so often that the movement had become almost unconscious.

The day promised to be hot, and Lucy had dressed accordingly. She wore a cream cotton vest with a scooped neckline and broad shoulder straps, loose enough to hang comfortably without obscuring her slight, graceful figure. The lightweight fabric moved easily as she walked, catching the breeze and brushing her bra-less nipples.

Matching the vest was a cream linen skirt which sat naturally at her waist and fell straight, a little way above her knees. It was cut with clean lines and finished with two discreet side pockets worked into the seams. Plain cream canvas pumps with thin rubber soles completed the outfit.

Lucy’s overall simplicity of style and the complementary tones of her vest and skirt gave her a look of understated elegance.

Over her shoulder hung a well-used canvas satchel containing pencils, blotting paper, labels and the dark-green, cloth-bound notebook in which she recorded and pressed her botanical finds. The book had originally been a scrapbook, but over the years she’d developed it as a highly detailed record.

Her method was to press flowers between sheets of blotting paper, replacing the paper regularly until every trace of moisture had disappeared. Then she’d mount the dried specimens with narrow paper hinges. Beside each one she’d record both common and scientific names, the date and place of collection, habitat and, when significant, a note of the colours the living flower had possessed before pressing.

The earliest pages held daisies from her grandmother’s lawn. Later came wild garlic, collected with permission from a woodlands trust; blossom gathered from pavements after spring winds; and florists’ carnations preserved after birthdays. Obviously nothing came from Steeplehurst Botanical Gardens.

Lucy wandered the gardens contentedly, reading labels almost as often as she perused the plants themselves.

Ahead of her stood the timber-clad educational centre, closed to visitors until ten. Through the windows Lucy could see crawl-through root tunnels, giant wooden seed pods and interactive botanical displays, all standing in perfect order.

Lucy ambled towards the meadow planting beyond the Lily Pavilion, where devil’s-bit scabious, knapweed and yellow rattle had been arranged in broad drifts. Ox-eye daisies rose among the grass, bees buzzing lazily between them.

She stopped beside a snake’s-head fritillary hung over the surrounding lawn, its bell-shaped flower suspended as though too weighty for its slender stem. The purple petals carried a familiar chequered pattern that had fascinated botanists and artists alike for generations. The accession label identified the plant as part of a cultivated population maintained at the gardens for conservation purposes.

It occurred to Lucy that this flower would press beautifully. The bell could be mounted sideways to preserve the tessellated pattern. A single detached petal would show its markings in great detail. Without quite intending to, she reached inside her satchel for her notebook and opened it. She knew exactly how she’d arrange the flower on the page… but no, there were the rules to consider! ‘Visitors were not permitted to remove flowers…’ Lucy closed the notebook abruptly. A photograph would suffice. Or she could simply do a sketch.

Yet the temptation lingered. The gardens propagated fritillaries every year. This plant carried several flowers. Taking one wouldn’t harm the bulb, would it…? Her pulse quickened and she pushed back her fringe.

Lucy looked along the path. The nearest visitors were some distance away, an elderly couple puzzling over a map. No gardeners were around.

She made up her mind and opened the notebook again. Reaching forward, she pinched the fritillary’s stem between finger and thumb and bent it gently until it parted with a faint, damp snap. The flower came away in her hand. Lucy slipped it between two sheets of blotting paper, adjusted its position with practised fingertips and tied the notebook closed.

She walked on, her satchel swaying by her side. At the next junction she paused beneath the spreading branches of a cherry tree. She couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d just done. In a selfish moment she’d broken a rule and violated the gardens’ conservation ethos! The least she could do now was preserve her new specimen well.

Her thoughts ran to the fritillary. Perhaps the flower had shifted between the paper. She untied her notebook and opened it to check.

A single detached petal drifted upwards from the book, lifted by the light morning breeze. Lucy reached for the petal but it escaped her fingers and floated across the path, as if it had an exasperating will of its own. It landed in the shallow rear tray of a stationary electric buggy.

Alf Mossmere was busy examining the fastening of a temporary barrier. He noticed the petal only because it settled almost beside his hand.

He picked it up. The chequered pattern was unmistakable. Fritillaria meleagris.

Alf’s eyes followed the direction from which the petal had come until they rested on Lucy, who was standing aghast with her notebook open before her.

He crossed the path towards her.

‘Where’s the rest of it?’

Lucy blushed and looked down.

‘In my book.’

Alf stood closely beside her, gazing beyond the swell of her breasts at the incriminating page in the notebook. The fresh fritillary lay where she had placed it.

‘You brought pressing papers into a botanical garden.’

‘I always carry them. I’ve never picked anything here before.’

‘I imagine you persuaded yourself it was only one flower.’

She nodded nervously.

Alf removed the fritillary from the book.

‘Your membership pass.’

Lucy found herself responding immediately to this man’s commanding tone. She unclipped her pass from its lanyard. He took it from her and looked at it briefly before placing it in his breast pocket, along with the flower.

‘Your membership will have to be reconsidered with a view to cancellation.’

She stared at him.

‘You mean… I might lose my pass?’

‘Yes, Miss Valewood,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I do mean that. And you know what’s most frustrating? You’re clearly a young lady who understands plants. Most people who pick flowers never think beyond having something pretty to take home.’

‘Please,’ she begged, ‘I love my visits here! I won’t ever do anything like this again!’

Alf paused for a long moment. He stared owlishly at Lucy’s imploring face, savouring her anxiety before stating that perhaps — just maybe — there was an alternative sanction to cancelling her pass. She was, after all, a budding botanist, and had simply got carried away. But her sighs of relief and gratitude were short-lived; he went on to explain just what that alternative would be!

Having thoroughly enjoyed spanking Emily Larken the week before, Alf had made certain preparations in case the 18-21s scheme furnished him with more disciplinary opportunities. During his weekend shift he’d spent an hour in the gardens’ Sylvan Walk, crafting an old-fashioned, potentially agonising implement of correction…

He’d cut a handful of slender hazel, ash and silver birch twigs, trimming them to an even length of about a foot, and arranging them into a neat bundle with the birch at the centre. He’d bound the cut ends tightly with waxed linen cord before wrapping the grip in a strip of dark leather, leaving the free ends to fan out naturally. The birch, thus fashioned, now rested inside a worn hessian sack in the tray of his buggy.

Alf returned to the buggy to pick up the sack, then he rejoined the shamefaced girl. After a fraught few words she agreed to go with him and accept a good hiding, on terms he set out.

He led her by the elbow back towards the education centre, embarrassing her by arousing the curiosity of the elderly couple, who had finally made sense of their map. He cheerfully wished them good morning.

He ignored the closed public entrance to the centre and took Lucy around the side to a plain staff door.

‘After you, Miss Valewood.’

She stepped inside.

He followed her in and locked the door behind them.

‘Now, it’s time to teach you a lesson.’

The timber interior of the building was expectantly still. Sunlight slanted through the windows across oversized botanical models. A faint smell of wood polish and dried plant specimens permeated the air.

Alf got straight down to business. He sat squarely on an oak bench and turned Lucy over his knee. Perhaps affected by her obvious sense of guilt, he was considerate enough to offer her a manual warm-up before applying his carefully handcrafted pièce de résistance.

‘Right, let’s get you sorted out! Skirt up, panties off! Good! Now, my little flower-presser, we’ll see how you like it when I press my hand against this cheeky young bottom of yours!’

Alf groped Lucy’s buttocks with relish, testing her nates by squeezing, prodding and pinching. After a minute or so of indulgent mauling, turning her pale flesh pink, he began the warm-up proper and administered a sound hand-spanking. He smacked her cheeks from the underside to the crown with firm, insistent slaps and watched the pinkness segue to red.

Lucy was struggling with it all. She knew that she deserved this, and that there was worse to follow. But the smacking hurt her already, and it hurt her a lot. She kept her left hand on the floor for support while clutching at Alf’s knee and calf with her right hand. Then she reached back with a vague scrabbling motion as if to urge restraint. Alf merely captured her errant wrist and clasped it tightly against her side.  

As the spanking gathered momentum, Lucy writhed harder in his lap, panting and making miserable mewing sounds. Alf felt an inevitable stiffening in his trousers, his erection straining through the fabric against the girl’s tummy. Her involuntary squirming inflamed his lust, serving only to inspire him to intensify the smacking.

It was now nine o’clock. Alf could happily have hand-spanked Lucy all morning, but time was a factor and he needed to proceed to the main event. He was smugly pleased with himself for having been proactive enough to construct the birch, ready for exactly such an opportunity as this.

He hauled the whimpering girl from his lap, stood her before him and gave her a few moments to regain her composure. Then he took the birch from the sack and waved it demonstratively in front of her flushed face.

Lucy winced fretfully, looked away and avoided Alf’s lascivious stare. Yet there was no trace of defiance in her. Her eyes lowered, filling with tears beneath the heavy curtain of her fringe. Her lips trembled, slightly apart, as she resigned herself to further indignity and greater pain…

To be continued…