Original Story — Bare Botanical Tales 2 (Culver)

The concluding part of an original story by Culver.

PART TWO

Alf Mossmere, senior steward at Steeplehurst Botanical Gardens, is part way through punishing nineteen-year-old Lucy Valewood. Earlier he caught her picking a fritillary for her flower-pressing collection, a serious breach of garden rules. Now he’s got her in the education centre, well before opening time. Having already hand-spanked the girl, he’s about to give her a birching.

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

3rd August (continued)

Conspicuous in the sunlit room was a giant, stylised seed pod, its smooth, elliptical form carved from laminated timber and finished with a satin sheen. It was partly exhibit, partly a functional seat and partly a play object. Alf told Lucy to lie face down over it. He instructed her to stretch right across the smooth surface and raise her bare bottom for the birch, keeping her skirt hitched well above the waist. When she was in a satisfactory position he tapped the twigs teasingly against her spank-tenderised cheeks.

Then he took aim and struck, bringing the birch into forceful, quivery impact against the underside of her buttocks. Several stray twigs caught the backs of her thighs. Lucy gasped and cried, overcome by a diffuse sensation of prickly pain which both outdid and inflamed the sting of her earlier hand-spanking.

She arched her back and exhaled. Alf ordered her to hold steady and to keep her behind sticking up. He again struck low, the hissing smack of the birch igniting multiple sparks of pain around her bottom crease. This time the stroke galvanised her into lewd jerking motions, as though she was trying to shake away those sparks. The front of her thighs churned against the satin-finished surface of the wooden pod.

Alf barked at her to keep still. He followed up rapidly with two more strokes, the swishing birch now splatting squarely across the topside of her buttocks. She shuddered and squealed, hating the biting pain.

Alf admired his handwork for a moment and grinned. The birch had left a fine tracery of weals, just like the tessellated pattern of the misappropriated fritillary. He was energised by the poetic justice of that, by the wretched girl’s suffering and the spectacle of her scored and reddened buttocks. His excitement kept rigid the urgent erection tenting the front of his trousers. He thrashed Lucy till she screeched for mercy, then he thrashed her some more, for good measure.

When it was all over Lucy collapsed on the floor, crying and clutching her bottom. Alf told her to stand up and pull herself together. She slowly got to her feet and sobbed. For a moment he contemplated pocketing her cream cotton panties, which at present remained where he’d dropped them. He’d made satisfying use of Emily Larken’s over the weekend, and he liked the idea of acquiring Lucy’s too. But this time he had a different idea. He told her to put the panties back on. She did so, tottering first on one foot and then on the other.

Lucy’s punishment had an unexpected epilogue which made her shudder with horror and humiliation. Alf detached the fritillary from her notebook and drew the loose petal from his pocket. Then he hoisted up her skirt again, spun her round so that she had her back to him, grabbed her by the waist and stuffed the plant material inside her panties, poking it firmly between her birch-scratched buttocks. He breathed heavily, his lips foraging through her wavy chestnut hair to find her ear. ‘Here’s your flower back! Let’s give it a good pressing, shall we?’

Alf withdrew his hand from Lucy’s panties then slowly kneaded her bottom through the cotton to keep the pieces of broken fritillary in a snug, warm place. His questing fingers drew residual moisture from the petal, leaving a purple stain in the dip of her cream underwear.

Alf chuckled sadistically, then drew back his hand and gave Lucy’s punished seat a final, resounding smack. Only then did he allow her to remove the floral remains, claim back her pass, satchel and notebook, and go wet-eyed on her rueful way, lesson learnt.

10th August

Becky Fernley would get her A-level results in just a few days. If all went well she would leave for university in the autumn to study zoology. The eighteen-year-old had spent much of her summer so far having anxious chats with friends about grades and university offers, as if she believed that intense speculation might somehow influence outcomes. Happily, Steeplehurst Botanical Gardens offered her respite from the stress of awaiting results, especially since she happened to be an avid birdwatcher.

Becky loved birding. What had begun years before as a fascination with blue tits nesting in a box in her back garden had grown into a dedicated pastime. She had developed a habit of looking upwards almost as instinctively as other people looked ahead. And the botanical gardens supported remarkably rich birdlife…

Becky arrived at Cedar Gate a little after eight o’clock. The attendant blearily scanned her 18-21s pass and handed it back with a folded map. Becky glanced at the regulations printed on the reverse. ‘Visitors are required to remain outside roped conservation areas. Climbing trees is prohibited. Nesting birds and other wildlife are not to be disturbed.’ She nodded to herself. Those were all rules with which she agreed.

Becky was a pretty girl who was used to turning heads (excepting the sleepy attendant’s). Her dark, almond eyes, small straight nose and softly shaped mouth combined to give her face a youthful, natural openness. Her glossy dark hair complemented her olive complexion perfectly. It was cut just below her jaw in an uncomplicated style, parted neatly in the middle and tucked behind her ears before curving gently towards her neck.

She wore a fitted cotton crop top with a wide neckline and short cap sleeves. The soft white fabric sat close against her shoulders, hugged her pert breasts and left a strip of sun-browned skin visible above the waistband of her shorts. The shorts were of faded denim. She’d cut them as high as she possibly could, from frayed old jeans, mischievously aware that they’d bare the tight under-cheeks of her bottom for all and sundry to gawp at. ‘It’s the fashion,’ she’d shrug, whenever her stepfather raised a reproachful eyebrow.

Becky was certainly well equipped. Binoculars hung from one shoulder, while a canvas field bag against her hip contained a bird guidebook, a camera fitted with a telephoto lens and a bottle of water.

Before she had taken twenty steps she’d caught sight of a great spotted woodpecker flying across the avenue. Further along she paused to observe a blackcap singing in a yew hedge, and she smiled as two goldfinches skimmed across the Mediterranean planting. But there was one species in particular that she’d love to locate…

The possibility of seeing nuthatches in the gardens had been suggested to Becky the previous week by another regular visitor, Mrs Hamberley-Bower, a rather grand lady in her forties who had spontaneously struck up a conversation with the aspiring young zoologist in the café and professed her own interest in spotting birds.

Mrs Hamberley-Bower had expertly discoursed on nuthatches while refusing, with mock severity, to reveal the precise location of the nest in the gardens. ‘Half the pleasure,’ she had declared over the rim of her china teacup, ‘is in making the discovery yourself.’ Before they’d parted she’d offered Becky a clue, remarking that nuthatches favoured veteran oaks. She’d given the girl a long, speculative look, adding that she hoped to see her again soon. Becky had felt unnerved for reasons she couldn’t pinpoint at the time.

Recalling that encounter and Mrs Hamberley-Bower’s words, Becky left the principal avenue for a lane leading to the gardens’ Sylvan Walk. She stopped to listen beneath some mature beeches. Nothing as yet. But nuthatches seldom kept quiet for long, and their distinctive notes travelled well.

Becky turned from the lane to a narrow path. At last, a sharp, ringing call came from somewhere ahead. Another answered from deeper among the trees. This was the sound she’d been hoping to hear.

A flicker of movement caught her eye. An adult nuthatch landed sideways on the trunk of a broad oak, carrying a green caterpillar in its beak. It paused for a second, then disappeared around the far side.

Becky lifted her binoculars. When the bird reappeared its beak was empty. The nest had to be hidden somewhere in the bark. She watched without moving. Within a minute the bird returned with another caterpillar, vanishing again behind the same lateral branch. Several more journeys followed the same pattern.

Becky noticed that the oak stood inside one of the gardens’ roped conservation enclosures. She appreciated why. The enclosure protected the root zone from countless footsteps that would otherwise compact the soil.

She adjusted her binoculars. From the pathway she was able to follow every approach the bird made to the nest. Frustratingly, however, the enclosure prevented her from completing the final few feet; the cavity remained hidden.

Becky briefly looked around. The nearest gardener was pruning roses on the far side of the avenue, screened by shrubs. It would be remarkably easy to step over the rope and find that nest. Surely no harm would come of it. She’d tread lightly, and of course she’d touch nothing…

The grass inside the enclosure felt softer beneath her trainers. She advanced only a pace or two before stopping again. Still she couldn’t see the nest entrance. Beside her the lowest branch projected at little more than shoulder height, thick with age, deeply ridged and broad enough to climb. It would obviously support her weight…

Becky rested her field bag against the trunk and pulled herself onto the first branch. The bark felt dry and secure beneath her hands. She climbed slowly. One foothold, then another. She reached the broad lateral limb…

At last she saw the nest. It had been neatly reduced with dried mud until only a small oval opening remained, scarcely larger than the birds themselves. Suddenly a shadow crossed her vision.

The adult nuthatch approached, carrying another caterpillar, but instead of entering the nest it landed several feet away and froze, flattening its body against the bark. It dropped the caterpillar and emitted a sharp cry, announcing to its mate the presence of a predator. The other adult answered immediately.

That was enough to trigger a general alarm. Sylvan Walk came instantly alive with a chorus of avian commotion. A blackbird erupted into loud, indignant scolding from a nearby hawthorn. A robin began ticking furiously from the undergrowth below. A wood pigeon exploded upwards with a clatter of wings. A jay swept across the canopy with a harsh, rasping squawk. Blue tits materialised almost from nowhere, flicking agitatedly through the outer branches, while a wren burst into rapid notes from somewhere near the roots of the tree.

Becky stared at the nuthatch.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

The bird didn’t move.

Crestfallen, Becky climbed down, more carefully than she had climbed up. She retrieved her field bag and crossed back over the rope. The alarm calls continued, subsiding only after she had moved clear of the enclosure. And then, beneath the last anxious chatter of the birds, came the quiet hum of an electric motor.

The utility buggy rolled to a halt.

‘What have we here, Harriet? Looks like a brazen case of tree-climbing! What a disturbance!’

Alf Mossmere was addressing his passenger, none other than Mrs Hamberley-Bower.

‘Oddly enough,’ she replied, ‘this girl is recently of my acquaintance. And I’ve a shrewd idea what she’s been up to!’

Alf knew Mrs Hamberley-Bower well, better than most. It so happened that he moonlighted as her consultant gardener, briefing and sometimes helping out a motley band of lads who tended the extensive grounds of the mansion she inhabited alone up at Steeplehurst Magna. But there was more to their relationship than met the eye.

Several years before, Alf had discovered Mrs Hamberley-Bower’s ‘open secret’: she had a deeply ingrained interest in spanking female bottoms! She continually leveraged her connections and influence in Steeplehurst, asserting the status and authority she needed to summon to the Big House adult young women of the area who ‘deserved’ corporal punishment. These included light-fingered check-out girls, flighty ‘selfie’ posters addicted to social media, spendthrift fiancées and farmers’ daughters who didn’t pull their weight. Hairbrush spankings, tawsings and canings were the order of the day. All in the name of traditional discipline. Yet anyone ‘in the know’ inferred her sadistic motivations, and it was salient that she seemed only ever to summon prettier miscreants.

Alf had long since crossed the socially risky threshold of confiding in Mrs Hamberley-Bower that he shared her peccadilloes. Thereafter the unlikely pair had developed an unconventional bond. One thing had led to another, even to the point of negotiating occasional collaboration in administering bare-bottom punishments up at the Hall.

Since Mrs Hamberley-Bower’s other great enthusiasms were birding and visiting the botanical gardens, Alf frequently offered her complimentary morning jaunts in his buggy. Just minutes before, he’d been telling his no-nonsense passenger about his recent dealings with Emily Larken and Lucy Valewood. She had expressed her hearty approval of the strict measures he’d taken in those cases, surprised only that she’d never crossed paths with either girl herself.

The confused young Becky was naturally oblivious to all of this. Her own world was circumscribed by the typical interests of a teen gearing up for ‘uni’ and, of course, by birding. But she was well aware that she’d landed herself in a spot of trouble here.

‘I literally wasn’t going to touch that nest!’

‘Maybe not,’ Alf retorted, ‘but you’ve broken garden rules. You’ve breached a perimeter, climbed a tree and prevented a bird from feeding its young. The only question now is what we’re to do about it.’

In her ignorance Becky hoped for at least some support from Mrs Hamberley-Bower. The woman had seemed friendly enough over that cup of tea the previous week, and she’d even encouraged her to find the nest. But no help was forthcoming. Far from it. Becky could hardly believe her ears when Mrs Hamberley-Bower spoke again.

‘Don’t beat about the bush, Alfred. The girl clearly needs to be thrashed. Make a similar ultimatum to the one you gave those other flagrant rule-breakers. Put it to her that her membership of the gardens will be cancelled, and her pass confiscated and binned, unless she agrees to submit to summary corporal punishment!’

Alf duly explained to Becky these limited options.

Becky was in a head-spinning quandary. Her right to visit the gardens meant a lot to her. But was it worth it to… what…? accept a ‘thrashing’…? and from people like these…? She took a minute. Against her better judgement she signalled agreement to Alf’s terms, but with something of a bratty attitude.

‘Okay, okay, okay-ah! Whatever!’

Mrs Hamberley-Bower surveyed Becky with disdain. She continued to address Alf over the girl’s head. Not once had she spoken to her directly.

‘Then it’s settled. I have half a mind to drive us all to the Old Hall at once. We could easily punish her there, and take our time about it in comfort. But you’re still on duty, Alfred, and presumably you need to remain here in the gardens. Frankly, I’m itching to chastise her as soon as possible, as doubtless you are too. Hmm. A thought occurs to me. Isn’t your private potting shed nearby? How well equipped is it?’

Alf understood the implication of those questions.

‘Good idea, Harriet! My shed’s only a three-minute ride away and completely private; gardeners and the other stewards need my express permission to use it. And yes, I’ve got exactly what we need there. Shall we go?’

Alf had left in his potting shed the birch he’d used on Lucy. He was soaking it in a jug of cider vinegar and would rather let it rest it for now. But an ideal alternative was available. Bolstered by his recent experiences, he’d reinforced his arsenal that weekend, acquiring at a flea market a couple of crook-handled school canes which he’d carried to the shed in his hessian sack. He’d taken them out and propped them up in a corner, next to the bamboo he used to support saplings. Now he thanked himself for having again been proactive!

Since Alf’s utility buggy was fitted with only one passenger seat, it was decided that Becky would have to plant her barely-clad derrière on the older woman’s lap for the bumpy ride to the shed. On the way, Alf couldn’t help noticing, with a salacious grin, how his companion allowed her elegant hand to drift between Becky’s upper thighs, stroking them at the hems of the denim shorts and squeezing the exposed smooth flesh. For her part, Becky, wincing, had to wonder whether her molester had fewer qualms than she did about ‘touching nests’! Before long, Mrs Hamberley-Bower was reaching into Becky’s cotton top, tweaking and pinching her breasts. The woman muttered something in her ear about how much she was looking forward to making her suffer.

Alf parked the buggy beside a narrow service gate screened by clipped hornbeam. A flustered Becky climbed out, leaving her bag and binoculars behind, and she and Mrs Hamberley-Bower accompanied the senior steward through the gate. They were now in a restricted horticultural area. Nursery beds stretched between gravel tracks, young trees stood in ordered ranks, and propagation tunnels sheltered plants awaiting their place in the collections. Mrs Hamberley-Bower seized Becky sharply by the ear and tugged her along the central path, ignoring the girl’s yelping cries of protest.

‘Owww! Owww-ah!’

The potting shed stood beneath a weathered slate roof, its cedar cladding silvered with age. The shed was spacious inside, nothing like the claustrophobic interior one might have imagined. A broad oak bench filled the centre, darkened by years of compost spillage. Heated tables held trays of cuttings beneath a fine mist, while seedlings stood in labelled rows. Shelves carried pots, specialist tools and varieties of compost. The air smelled of loam.

Mrs Hamberley-Bower instantly spotted the two crook-handled canes in the corner. She let go of Becky’s ear and picked up the whippy implements, retaining one for herself and handing the other to Alf. Meanwhile, Alf ordered Becky to remove her trainers, shorts and knickers, and to lean over the end of the bench. He barked at her to be quick about it, too! The girl complied, albeit sulkily and with much huffing.

A few months before, Mrs Hamberley-Bower had invited Alf to the Old Hall to team up with her in caning another girl, a fulsome upper-sixth blonde referred to her by a local headmaster for having failed her Oxbridge entrance exam. On that occasion the lady of the manor and her excited guest/ employee/ friend had made a success of inflicting their first double caning, becoming familiar with each other’s style and technique in the process. They felt they could now repeat a performance without much need for verbal negotiation. Like the blubbering blonde of before, Becky would get six strokes from each, to be delivered alternately.

The two disciplinarians assumed their positions. They stood either side of Becky and made the girl endure a nerve-wracking wait for the inevitable. They took their time to perfect their stances, flexed their right arms and gauged optimal angles of descent. Becky flinched at the whistling of their practice cuts in the humid air.

Alf was the first to strike. After a couple of taps he drew back his arm and delivered an initial stroke of considerable force, dead centre across the girl’s buttocks, his introduction of cane-bearing pain landing without any concession whatsoever to her likely inexperience. Becky cried out with the shock of it. Her defensive brattiness evaporated at once and she wailed desperately.

Mrs Hamberley-Bower followed up with a vicious opener of her own, denying the girl any recovery time and leaving a scarlet stripe just below the livid weal inflicted by her consultant gardener.

Becky’s two chastisers exchanged glances, inspired by their shared arousal at the girl’s distress. Each knew what to do next. The idea was to alternate three more strokes of their own with three by their partner, and to do so with such rapidity that the wretched recipient would experience the six in a continuous blaze of pain. It was the phase of the punishment requiring most skill: they’d need to avoid ‘cane clash’. Alf initiated the quickfire sequence on the count of three and both executed their parts flawlessly. Becky cried in excruciating pain as a sextet of angry weals traversed the first two stripes almost instantaneously.

After a brief pause for mutual congratulations Alf and Mrs Hamberley-Bower set about the remainder of their task with renewed cruelty. Alf landed a wickedly well-aimed stroke in the crease of Becky’s bottom; Mrs Hamberley-Bower hit lower still, striking the underside tops of the girl’s thighs. Becky convulsed and shrieked in agony.

A couple more strokes were needed to complete the dozen and neither disciplinarian was in the mood for mercy. Swish, crack! Swish, crack! The coup de grâce left Becky with a perfectly symmetrical cross shape of two intersecting stripes layered over the matrix of other fresh weals.

Becky wept profusely. The caning was over now and nothing mattered more to her than permission to stand up and rub her ravaged bottom. It took her a good few minutes to recover her wits and think about getting dressed. Easing herself back into her shorts was extremely difficult given their tightness and the dreadful ache of throbbing pain in her rear. She wouldn’t be able to wear them again for at least a couple of weeks; the tramlines on her under-cheeks and thighs would provoke unwanted questions from her stepfather, friends and her headmaster on A-Level results day. She’d have to make do with knee-length skirts instead. As it was, getting home and scurrying unseen to her bedroom would be awkward enough.

As she’d started to dress there’d been an added humiliation: she’d been denied her knickers.

‘I can tell you’d like to keep her underwear, Alfred,’ Mrs Hamberley-Bower had observed, pointedly. ‘Please don’t be shy on my account.’

Before Becky left the couple to themselves Mrs Hamberley-Bower addressed her for the first and only time that morning.

‘As for you, young lady, you are cordially invited to the Old Hall for tea and cucumber sandwiches next Monday afternoon, punctually at four o’clock. Do not be late!’

A sullen, grimacing Becky looked up as she made her way along the path towards the buggy to collect her field bag and binoculars. The pair of adult nuthatches circled overhead, squawking exultantly, as if flying a victory lap.