reading

‘You have been used to the slipper, the strap, even the cane, Miss Welsh. Mostly on panties, or with nightie pulled tight around the bottom – sometimes even on the bare, when you were particularly naughty, and with panties completely lowered. But I assure you that the punishment you now merit will make previous chastisements seem bland. You have read of judicial canings – in Singapore, for example – where six or eight strokes on the bare buttocks, with a rattan, is considered normal, and a dozen quite severe. You shall have the rattan on bare buttocks, miss, but not six, not eight, and not a dozen …’

MEMOIRS OF A CORNISH GOVERNESS

THE GOVERNESS AT ST AGATHA’S

THE GOVERNESS ABROAD

THE HOUSE OF MALDONA

THE ISLAND OF MALDONA

THE CASTLE OF MALDONA

PRIVATE MEMOIRS OF A KENTISH HEADMISTRESS

THE CORRECTION OF AN ESSEX MAID

MISS RATTAN’S LESSON

THE SCHOOLING OF STELLA

THE DISCIPLINE OF NURSE RIDING

THE SUBMISSION OF STELLA

THE TRAINING OF AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN

CONFESSION OF AN ENGLISH SLAVE

SANDRA’S NEW SCHOOL

POLICE LADIES

Stranger Spanking

JEAN WELSH EYED THE black girl as the overnight express slid north, through the grimy suburbs of north London. She was a couple of seats away, petite yet long-legged, and powerful with muscle. Her hard, conical breasts, and the big plums of her nipples, jutted clearly under her skimpy, clinging teeshirt, while her frayed jeans, above the holes at her knees, seemed moulded to her firm, pert bum and swelling thighs. Her hair was thick and close-cropped, like a motorcycle helmet, above fine Nilotic features, the lips an orchid, with a slender tapering nose, and big sloe eyes: creole, Jean thought. She wore her scuffed runners as though they were glass slippers, and Jean wondered what this ravishing ebony creature was doing on the way to Scotland.

Jean shifted nervously, awkward in her own formal clothing: grey suit, the skirt just above the knees; white nylon tights and sensible black slingbacks; a white nylon drip-dry blouse and a red-striped tie. She looked at herself in the dusty window, and worried that she was trying to look too much like the Heathbury schoolgirl she had so recently been – as though she could not abandon the familiar, comforting uniform.

Then she worried that her blouse was too tight, or too transparent, for her low scalloped bra was faintly visible, supporting breasts which always made her feel oopsy, no matter how many compliments they occasioned: a 42, D cup. She sighed, for the black girl’s figure seemed perfect, boobs and bum to die for … Jean crossed her legs, then uncrossed them, wondering what the black girl would look like naked.

She closed her eyes, and into her imagination swam, unbidden but unresisted, the image of the girl, nude, with a boy, nude also, and his coffee buttocks pumping as he slammed into her loins, the massive black cock sliding in hard rhythm, and shiny with her oil … Jean blushed, and then frowned, giving herself a mental spank on the bottom.

Now, Jean, even a big girl can be spanked if she is naughty. And your games have been very naughty indeed … a disgrace, meriting more than spanks.

Jean’s own pear-shaped bottom, snug and visible under her tight skirt, in high-cut bikini panties, attracted the same glances of lustful admiration as her own boobs, but someow she felt ill at ease with ogling, as though lust concealed mockery. Her hair reassured her: no one could fault her thick, glowing, corn-yellow mane. Nervously, she patted her hair; caught the black girl’s eye, and smiled nervously. She was rewarded with a sensuous pout, which might have been friendly, or not: she turned away and blushed, feeling even more awkward at invading the beautiful black girl’s space. London, and London people, always made her feel nervous.

She still could not help visualising the black girl in the nude – in the showers, after a good sweaty game of hockey, yes, that would be best, lathering each other’s bellies and bums … and boobs, too, and slippery parted crevices, if the games beak wasn’t looking …

Jean gave herself a mental six spanks on the bottom, and told herself very firmly that she was not to be naughty, or think naughty thoughts. But somehow her six mental spanks made her craving more intense, and her knickers moistened slightly.

Her travel warrant allowed for a sleeping compartment, and an adequate, though not lavish, meal. She ate her sandwiches rather quickly, then toyed with her glass of Evian and a cellophaned slice of fruit cake, wondering how to open it without making a mess. The black girl was rolling a cigarette and swigging from a can of strong lager. The train was now speeding through the Midlands, and Jean allowed herself another reassuring smile at the black girl; this time the girl’s pout was less assured, as though the increasing distance from London decreased her cockiness.

Jean felt eased by the nearness of countryside. She began to daydream of the Scottish glen which would be her new home, almost tasting the fresh Highland air. Her spirits rose, and she ached for the morning to come, so that when the steward came to say her sleeping compartment was ready, she followed him at once, with a backwards glance at the ebony girl, whose eyes now widened, as though alarmed at her departure. The poor thing must feel all alone, Jean thought smugly as she entered the two-berth compartment.

She elected the lower berth, and swiftly unpacked her overnight things: toothbrush, razor, soap, deodorant. The compartment was furnished with little bars of soap and sachets of shampoo, and nice fluffy towels; there was a washbasin and a tiny WC. Jean yawned, soothed already by the clackety-clack of the rails. She took off her jacket and hung it in the small closet, then unzipped her skirt, took out her nightie, and was about to step out of the skirt, when the door opened again, and the steward ushered in the black girl. Jean blushed: it had not occurred to her that her compartment might have a second occupant. After servile mutterings, and acceptance of a two-euro coin as tip, the steward withdrew, pausing to scrutinise the two females a little longer than necessary.

‘Hello,’ said Jean, making sure her skirt was secure, ‘I’m Jean Welsh,’ and extended her hand, which the black girl, after a moment’s hesitation, warily shook.

Jean smiled nervously, and realised that the suspicion in the lovely sloe eyes was really a front for shyness: the black girl was as nervous as herself. She began to pick up and examine the toilet items bestowed by the railway company.

‘Shampoo,’ she said, ‘scent and soap and everything. All the gear. Real nice.’

There was a pause. Jean discreetly zipped her skirt up again, hoping the girl would not notice, but she did, and her eyes gleamed.

‘You ready to sack out?’ she said. ‘Go ahead, it’s OK, I’ll stay up a while.’

She put down her scuffed duffel bag, which clanked with tins. Then she extracted two cans of lager, and a packet of Old Holborn and cigarette papers. She popped two cans and handed one to Jean, who took it nervously; then she sat down on Jean’s pillow and began to make a cigarette, her eyes on Jean’s skirt, tight over her bum. Jean blushed.

‘I’ve taken the bottom,’ she blurted, ‘I didn’t realise – I mean, I’m sorry, if you would rather – I’m awfully sorry …’

‘Is that the first word you white girls learn?’ she said, cruelly mimicking Jean’s Heathbury vowels. ‘Sorry …’

‘Well, I am sorry,’ Jean began, then laughed herself, and to her relief, Coretta laughed with her.

‘O!’ Jean cried, ‘I certainly didn’t mean – Coretta, I’m sorry if –’

Jean sat beside her on her bunk, and put the can to her lips. She took a sip, and grimaced, for it tasted horrible, but after her second and third sips, she felt it warm her stomach. She declined a smoke; Coretta inhaled and exhaled with noisy exuberance, filling the compartment with smelly fumes. Somehow, Jean didn’t mind. Sitting beside the black girl, she smelled the musky scent of her body, which excited her.

‘I’ve never been away from London before,’ she muttered, grinning sheepishly. ‘But I am glad. Imagine – me, a copper! I don’t care what Wesley says: “Don’t you want no BMW, bitch?”’

‘Come to think of it,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘I don’t care what Derryl or Clarence say either. Or Winston, or Robert … fuck the lot of them, with their gold and their fancy motors and all that shit. I said I’d rather take my chances at the Stratford Job Centre. That did their heads in! So here I am, the first West Indian cadet in the Scottish Parks Police. It was that or the dole queue. Fucking medical! Went to Homerton General, there was this big Scotch bitch of a police doctor. Went through every nook and cranny, felt my tits like they were hamburger patties, poked right up my arse and slit, squeezed my bum-cheeks like they were bananas … whew! Some medical!’

‘But … that’s amazing!’ cried Jean. ‘I am going to be a police cadet, too. I have to go on to Oban, then to Auchiltibuie …’

‘Yeah! All right! Small world,’ said Coretta. ‘Glenlassie Barracks, right?’

‘Why, yes,’ said Jean. ‘Only, I haven’t been to … to a Job Centre. It was Miss Tadd, the games mistress at school, who suggested it. She’s Scottish, you see.’

‘None of this in Glenlassie,’ said Coretta ruefully. ‘Got to live like a fucking nun or something. Purity in thought and deed. Shit! Sounds like my granny from St Lucia.’

‘I had a medical, too,’ said Jean, blushing. ‘The Scottish doctor came to school, and a lady police officer – a superintendent, I think – from the Scottish Administration. It was awfully intimate. She tested my … my bumhole, and also, to see if I was still a virgin.’

‘No, actually,’ said Jean and blushed furiously. ‘But I fully accept this idea of celibacy. For cadets, at least. I mean, I have no problem. My school was girls only.’

‘Sounded to me like you have to be pure even after you are a cadet,’ said Coretta. ‘You went to some posh school, then.’

‘Stands to reason. No boys, jolly hockey sticks: button-pushers and rug-munchers, the lot of you. And whopping on the bare arse while the teacher fingers herself. I know.’

‘I wouldn’t put it quite so crudely, Coretta. Strict discipline is maintained, and schoolgirls have – well, friendships. I don’t think you really understand …’

Jean looked away, her heart thumping, and pretended that she hadn’t heard Coretta’s two words. She yawned, and said she wanted to go to bed, and would Coretta mind if she turned away, to change into her nightie? Coretta said nothing, and Jean was aware of the black girl’s gaze, as she unzipped her skirt, and slowly lowered it, revealing her white tights, and the white cotton panties underneath. She wrapped a towel around her shoulders and bosom, and awkwardly unbuttoned her blouse, and slipped out of it. Then she unhooked her bra and swore under her breath, for the clasp wouldn’t budge. Suddenly, she felt smooth cool fingers on her bare back.

‘Allow me,’ said Coretta, and deftly unhooked the bra, allowing Jean’s big breasts to spring from their confinement.

Somehow, Coretta’s fingers were in the way, and brushed Jean’s nipples, which, to her embarrassment, were standing all stiff and tingly, as though she were excited, snogging a boy, or … diddling herself, or something. Coretta let her fingers rest lightly on the naked skin of Jean’s boobs, before folding the bra neatly and handing it to her. With a sigh, Jean dropped her towel, aware of the black girl’s eyes on her proudly swelling teats, and swiftly slid her nightie over her head. Then, off came the tights and panties, and she smiled briskly at her room-mate.

She stood, as though for inspection, in her frilly black nylon nightie, whch was a 16, two sizes too large for her bottom, but necessary to accommodate her breasts.

‘Don’t you get sticky hot in that thing?’ drawled Coretta. ‘I sleep in my skin.’

Suddenly, the black girl rose, and, in a moment, had stripped off her jeans and teeshirt. She wore no panties, and Jean gaped at a golden ring, clipped to the lips of her quim, beneath a swelling ebony hillock that was completely hairless.

‘That’s me,’ Claretta said, ‘a shaven raven. The ring was a gift from Wesley. I had the nipples pierced too, and ringed –’ she squeezed the nipples of her pert brown breasts, and showed the wide perforations in her nipple skin ‘– but the Scotch doc said I couldn’t have them, as a police lady. Dare say they won’t notice the pussy-ring, though. And there’s nothing they can do about this.’

She swivelled, and showed Jean a croup of such smooth, coffee-creamy firmness that Jean stiffled an impulse to give the arse-globes a kiss there and then. In the cleft of her buttocks shone a tiny tattoo, of a snake, as though rising from her very anus.

Coretta’s buttocks parted slightly, stretching her bum-crack, and Jean ran her fingers over the tattoo, nestling in the velvet cleft.

She began a sensuous squirming motion of her buttocks – slippered on the bare, Jean dreamed – and the snake did writhe and dance, as though alive. Jean clapped.

Without hesitation, she pulled open the folding WC door, and squatted on the metal toilet, making a noisy tinkling sound. Then she got up, and wiped her furrow and pussy with toilet paper, and slapped cold water on her cunt-lips and anal pucker. She sprang nimbly on to the top bunk, and watched as Jean made her own toilette, holding her black nightie awkwardly over her bum, so that she could pee.

‘Don’t you feel silly in that?’ said Coretta. ‘It’s far too hot in here, anyway.’

‘I suppose I do,’ said Jean, and, with a deep breath, pulled the nightie over her head, and sat on the toilet naked.

She felt Coretta’s eyes on her, as she parted her buttocks to wipe her anus well. When she had completed her ablutions and brushed her teeth, she turned off the light. For a few minutes there was silence, as the two girls listened to the rattling of the train.

‘I suppose not. Too excited. And perhaps I shouldn’t say –’ Jean giggled ‘– I’ve never slept in the nude before. It is rather exciting.’

‘I’ve never been out of London before,’ said Coretta again, ‘and it is a long time since I’ve slept on my own. It is a bit scary.’

Jean turned away. She was bathed in the smoky fragrance of the black girl’s lithe nude body, as it slid under the thin covering beside her. Her reflex was partly out of modesty, but, mainly, she did not want to betray the moisture that was beginning to seep from her fleshy quim-lips, and wet the luxuriant forest at her pubis. Jean’s mons was very hairy, and those curls which straggled generously below her cunt, and across her perineum to brush her anal hole, were now sopping wet with her quim-juice.

But the bunk was so small that she felt Coretta’s hard bare teats, and her shaven hillock, squashed against her side. Coretta put a lazy arm on Jean’s knee, then on her belly, and snuggled her curly head against Jean’s shoulder.

‘Same as you, I suppose,’ said Jean, not resisting as Coretta’s fingers slid across the small of her back, and dangled in the cleft of her bum. ‘It is a sort of nature reserve with all sorts of rare plants and birds and things, and the parks police have to keep away poachers. A complete ecosystem, the superintendent said, with hardly any people, except for the boys’ boarding school, and some mysterious aristocratic lady’s estate.’

‘And there is a lake, with a clinic, where fat old bags lose weight,’ said Coretta, stroking Jean’s bare bottom very gently. ‘Maybe we can go nude swimming.’

Jean was pretending to be drowsy, but in fact shifting her buttocks and haunches, to conceal the flow of quim-juice that Coretta’s artful stroking summoned from her pussy.

‘The superintendent said Glenlassie Barracks takes only female recruits, and most of them are Scottish – only two Sassenachs in the intake of six cadets.’

‘That’s us, then. First time I’ve been called a Sassenach,’ said Coretta.

‘Quite a rigorous testing: the super had a nurse, and I had to do pushups, situps, and gym stuff, stripped to bra and panties.’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Coretta impishly, ‘I can’t tell one white person from another. I was tested the same, only nude, ’cos I don’t need a bra, and I can’t afford panties …’

Jean giggled, as much at the joke as at the ticklish caress of her anal pucker by the black girl’s light fingertips.

Coretta shrugged, and said the super and the nurse both seemed very interested in her bottom: the nurse in the inside, poking her with a sort of stethoscope, and taking measurements of her anal passage, and the super in the outside, tapping her bare bum several times with the rubber end of her pencil, as though testing it for cracks.

‘She was a bit of a laugh – said that Inspector Proudie would take my knickers down and spank my bare bum if I was ill-disciplined. I told her I didn’t wear knickers, and she reared up and said “Knackerr-rrs wull be proveeded!”’

Jean’s body rippled with laughter, and her buttocks clenched and unclenched as she giggled; she gave no sign of noticing that Coretta’s finger had had a moment of cheek – moving to slide right down her cleft, and nestle squarely on her anus bud.

‘She certainly did,’ Jean panted, helpless as the moisture seeped from her swelling cunt-lips. ‘She wanted to know all about girls’ school … you know, corporal punishment. The slipper, and spanking, and so on. We were a rather old-fashioned school.’

You have been used to the slipper, the strap, even the cane, Miss Welsh. Mostly on panties, or with nightie pulled tight around the bottom – sometimes even on the bare, when you were particularly naughty, and with panties completely lowered. But I assure you that the punishment you now merit will make previous chastisements seem bland. You have read of judicial canings – in Singapore, for example – where six or eight strokes on the bare buttocks, with a rattan, is considered normal, and a dozen quite severe. You shall have the rattan on bare buttocks, miss, but not six, not eight, and not a dozen …

‘Well, there was none of that at Upton Lane Comprehensive,’ said Coretta, ‘but she quizzed me about the holidays I spent with the family back in St Lucia. I told her I was well-used to the strap, taking it if I was naughty, and dishing it out too, and always bare arse. The older folks would send bad boys to me for their whoppings, and I obliged, by strapping their bare bums till they squealed and wriggled. I told her I liked to thrash boys on the bare behind, and the superintendent seemed pleased.’

‘And do you?’ said Jean, trembling under Coretta’s caress. The black girl must have felt the moisture from her pussy by now.

‘And we two are the only Sassenach cadets,’ mused Jean. At Heathbury, bad girls – rude girls – got the slipper or a hand-spanking, or even the cane, usually on the panties or nightie pulled tight, but sometimes on the bare bottom. It smarted frightfully.’

Coretta’s finger now stroked Jean’s perineum; Jean parted her buttocks and let the black girl nudge her engorged pussy lips. Coretta dabbled in the oily moisture.

She took Jean’s willing hand, and placed it on the shaven hillock of her own pussy. Jean’s fingers crept towards the cunt-lips, and found a clitoris, throbbing and distended. She touched it, and Coretta shivered. Her cunt, too, was wet. She kissed Jean’s earlobe.

‘Then, when I became a prefect, I used to administer punishments myself,’ Jean continued, ‘and sometimes, for a really serious offence, we would cane a sixer, with the headmistress’s permission. The girl had to bend over a settee, and she would have her knickers pulled down, and take six on the bare, held down by the other prefects, to stop her wriggling.’

You will be publicly stripped of your prefect’s badge and tie, Miss Welsh, before removing your other garments for your naked caning. Due to the seriousness of your punishment, you may have the privilege of being bound.

‘I’ve never been caned,’ said Coretta, ‘nor do I want to be. The strap or belt is bad enough. But using them, on a squirming bare bum …’

‘The super did say that justice in Inspector Proudie’s domain – as she put it – was sometimes rough and ready – simpler to thrash bad boys rather than waste taxpayer’s “bawbees” with a court case … and bad girls.’

There was silence, as both girls pondered this. Coretta’s fingers stroked Jean’s engorged wet pussy-lips, and Jean moaned, putting two of her fingers an inch inside the black girl’s open cunt, which closed, and seemed to nibble her fingernails. Jean’s thumb flicked Coretta’s stiff wet nubbin, and now the black girl gasped aloud.

‘So,’ Jean said, swallowing hard, ‘we both have experience of corporal punishment. I feel I can trust you, the sort of trust you have for a stranger in a strange place … you know already that there can be something exciting about spanking and beating. On the bottom, I mean, the bare bottom, or else with panties pulled tight.’

‘But I don’t wear panties,’ Coretta murmured, now openly frotting Jean’s clit.

‘Mmm! Don’t stop!’ Jean gasped. ‘Oh … a naked beating hurts awfully, but there is a lovely warm glow afterwards, and you feel sort of proud and happy to have taken it. Sometimes, I sort of miss it, and spank myself, on the bare bum, with my silver hairbrush, and I … I masturbate while I spank.’

Both girls had their fingers eagerly working each other’s sopping wet cunts. They began to moan, and writhe softly, as they masturbated to the rhythm of the hurtling train.

‘Does it bother you?’ Jean sighed. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m … kinky.’

‘Bother me? You mean, talk of spanks, or us wanking off like this? Course not – I’m no lesbo, but loneliness is the worst thing, and a warm body is a warm body. Every girl wanks off, doesn’t she? I dare say a whopping warms you same as a good snog – but all you posh schoolgirls are lesbos, aren’t you?’

‘Certainly not,’ Jean retorted, rather feebly. ‘I meant, does it bother you that corporal punishment might be … on the agenda, for police cadets?’

‘Depends how much of the agenda it’s on,’ panted Coretta, her belly writhing, as Jean masturbated her with her fingers, their expertise betraying her all-girl schooling. ‘Whew! Mmm … You wank so well, I’m going to come any moment. Mmm! Oh! Yeah, I suppose it would be a thrill to tan some poacher’s bare arse with a … a truncheon, or a rod from a tree. But I’ve never spanked a white boy. Oh! Mmm! Keep rubbing my spot … or spanked a white girl, for that matter. Oh!’

Jolted by the rhythm of the rails, the two nude, slippery masturbators wriggled their bodies into position.

‘Please,’ gasped Jean, as she thrust her bare bum upwards, towards the black girl’s raised hand, ‘please hold me, down there – on the clit – while you spank me.’

Coretta grasped Jean by her pubic bone, her palm on the thick fur of the flaxen bush, and four fingers wedged deep inside Jean’s soaking cunt. Jean moaned as the first spank scorched her bare buttocks, a full, hard slap across the centre, but slightly aslant, so as to mark the soft underflesh by the arse-cleft.

At the same time, Coretta’s fingers slid in and out of the wet cunt, and she jerked Jean’s loins closer to her own, so that Coretta was able to masturbate herself with the heel of her palm plunged in Jean’s oily slit. She spanked in hard, insistent rhythm.

Jean’s bum writhed, as her buttocks clenched tight at each agonising bare spank.

‘No, really! And I was punished, so dreadfully … Oh, you spank hard. You vicious bitch, don’t stop! Spank my bum raw! How many do I deserve for my wickedness?’

Jean’s writhing, naked buttocks glowed a fiery red in the light from the nightlight.

‘Till my palm hurts as much as your arse, white bitch. What were you punished for?’

‘No, honestly, I can’t tell you! School’s honour. Oh! It smarts so! But I hate myself!’

‘Oh! Oh! Oh! Coretta, I … I wasn’t punished enough … Oh! Ahhh … Yes, yes, yes …’

Both girls moaned and yelped in the spasm of pleasure, as Coretta’s pulsing fingers masturbated both their cunts to wet, squirming climax. They sank into each other’s arms, and Jean whispered that she would return Coretta’s favour, and give her a bare spanking, or a lashing with her knotted handbag strap, if she preferred: Coretta refused.

‘I like to dish it out, not to take it,’ she said. ‘You schoolgirls go both ways.’

‘I suppose we do,’ said Jean. ‘But taking it from you was so lovely. I felt like a helpless fish, wriggling on the end of a hook.’

‘You certainly wriggled,’ said Coretta. ‘I wonder how many wrigglers there are for us in Scotland? Maybe it’s no coincidence that we are the only Sassenach cadets.’

Late for Duty

JEAN AND CORETTA did not look at each other on the jolting bus ride from the small town of Auchiltibuie to Glenlassie. On the local train from Glasgow to Oban, they had exchanged shy glances, but upon boarding the bus, became distant, as though every mile on the twisting narrow ‘B’ road brought them closer to the dignity of police cadets.

The glen stretched as far as Jean could see; they entered it in a swoop, through a narrow gap, and saw an undulating, green mass of trees, shaped like a crooked arm, and ringed by mountains, with one single winding road leading to the gap at the other end, twelve miles away. Jean and Coretta gazed, entranced: there was the shimmering dark water of Loch Dubh, and the white building of the waterside clinic; across the glen, the grey pile of Williestoun school; atop both, the spires and turrets of Largs Castle; and, guarding the glen’s approach, the clustered buildings of the hamlet of Williestoun, with Glenlassie police barracks looming over them. Apart from the sombre mass of Loch Dubh, numerous rivulets and streams glistened in the dank forest.

As the the bus hummed into the valley, the few other passengers became silent and morose, as though anxious to rejoin the main road to Inverness. Above, a bright July sun illuminated the scene, with a few fluffy clouds scudding in the warm breeze. They approached the grey cottages of Williestoun, and the bus hissed to a stop. Jean and Coretta got off, and crunched on gravel, outside the largest of the granite structures. A sign read GLENLASSIE SCOTTISH NATIONAL PARK – HM SCOTTISH PARKS POLICE, carved in the forbidding granite above the front door, as though there had never been a time when the Scottish Parks Police did not exist.

The barracks itself was of indeterminate age, and general institutional style: church, jail, courthouse or school, or all of them at once. Outside stood a row of gleaming black bicycles of the kind Jean had seen in old police films. The small cluster of buildings seemed quite different from the cosy encampment glimpsed from afar. Now, they were in a tiny enclave surrounded by forest. Around the barracks, the drab remnants of Williestoun clustered in desuetude. Jean and Coretta watched the bus glide away, and stood awkwardly, clutching their suitcases. They were due to report at ten o’clock: it was four minutes to the hour.

‘Time for a smoke,’ said Coretta, ‘I’m sure a few minutes won’t matter.’

They went inside a ruined stone cottage, open to the sky, and Coretta lit up, puffing hungrily. Jean glanced nervously at her watch, and the accusing bulk of the barracks that glared down at their hiding place. At last, Jean led the way; she saw that Coretta’s London verve seemed to have deserted her, and she was awed and nervous.

Jean marched to the door, and entered the spacious, vaulted vestibule of the police barracks. It smelled of disinfectant; the floor was a chessboard of black and white tiles, and there was also a curious aroma of rubber. An imperious woman in white nylon blouse and tight blue skirt, also of nylon, and surprisingly short above her stockinged knees, stood behind a tall counter, like a bank’s. Her blouse bore the stripes of a sergeant. Her lush dark mane was tied in a severe bun, and Jean felt conscious of her own flowing, free-styled blonde tresses.

A second policewoman wore similar uniform, her nylon blouse blue, but without insignia of rank, save for blue epaulettes, and she sat in the corner, clacking at an ancient typewriter, before a huge pile of documents. This, and the ponderous ticking of a grandfather clock, were the only sounds in the room, apart from the nervous click of Jean’s heels, and the flop of Coretta’s sneakers.

The typist’s blond hair was cropped almost to the skull. Her blue uniform skirt was almost a mini, and rode up, to show the tops of her stockings and sussie straps, which she made no attempt to hide. She glanced perfunctorily at the new arrivals, smiled a secret smile, then yawned, and crossed her legs. Jean stared, for she showed the creamy pale skin of her haunches and a large part of her shaven hillock under a frilly sussie belt, low over her mound: the police constable wore skimpy wine-red knickers, which covered her pubis with only the merest thong. Her black slingbacks dangled at her toes, almost, but not quite, off, and revealed a big hole in her left stocking, just at the instep.

‘Yes?’ barked the sergeant, and, in one lifting of her eyebrows, and one flicker of her piercing blue eyes, she managed to convey her understanding of Jean’s large breasts and hair, Coretta’s ebony skin, their clothing, their lateness, their newness, the precise reason for their visit, and her disapproval of all those things.

Jean put down her bag, briefly seeing behind the counter: the sergeant’s skirt, too, was well above her stockinged knees, revealing long, coltish legs, superbly muscled, and shiny blue hose in a very fine fishnet, with gleaming black boots – of rubber – that came up to her knees, like jackboots.

‘New recruits Coolidge and Welsh, reporting for basic training, Sergeant,’ said Jean, trying to sound formal, as her voice echoed thinly in the massive vault.

‘Aye, and which would be which?’ said the sergeant in a soft, fluted Highland burr.

The two girls introduced themselves, and the sergeant smiled grimly, as though this was the most incredible happenstance in a day packed with unwelcome surprises.

‘The two Sassenachs,’ she said, ‘six and one-half minutes late. Parade missed.’

‘The other recruits arrived in good time for the parade ground,’ said the sergeant. ‘They are Scots girls.’

‘I am Sergeant Cunningham,’ she said at last. ‘You will follow me. WPC Hick!’

Jean and Coretta followed Sergeant Cunningham down an increasingly dark corridor, the dim light revealing the hour-glass perfection of the sergeant’s figure, the power and grace of the tightly skirted buttocks that swayed before them, and the easy, fluid rippling of her back. The nylon uniform blouse clung damply to the sergeant’s body, and Jean was unsure whether her big jutting breasts had the aid of a bra or any support. The waist, however, seemed so frighteningly thin, that she reasoned the sergeant must wear a corset or waspie, at the very least, and, to her satisfaction, thought she could make out the band of just such a restraining garment, dark blue in colour.

She wore a thick service belt of matt black fabric – rubber, perhaps – and to it was buckled a black rubber scabbard, with a holster flap, as though concealing a sword, and about three feet long. WPC Hick, too, wore such an accoutrement, hers dangling carelessly on the stone floor. The sergeant’s high-heeled jackboots had steel blakeys at heel and toecap, which clacked harshly on the stone flags, as they neared the end of the corridor, lined with musty oak doors, all shut, but with bustlings of movement behind them. The sergeant walked with her legs rigid, thighs well apart and back ramrod straight, in a curious and imposing military strut. At the end of the corridor, a larger and more ornate door stood ajar; beside it was a spiral stone staircase that descended into blackness. The sergeant noticed their glance at this gate to the netherworld.

She knocked softly on the open door, and a gentle female voice bade entrance. Jean and Coretta were shown into a cosy, book-lined study, with leather armchairs and a thick carpet, and Jean found herself automatically curtsying, as though she were visiting the headmistress back at Heathbury, while the sergeant murmured to the inspector.

The inspector’s office did indeed resemble the austerely comfortable quarters of a senior schoolmistress, right down to the umbrella stand in the corner, where, beside the umbrellas and knobkerries, hung three implements of thin wood with crook handles, each of varying length and thickness, and which could only be disciplinary canes. Thick velvet drapes shut out the bright July day, and a small lamp glowed on the desk.

Inspector Proudie rose to greet them, with a steely half-smile, then promptly sat down again, as though this perfunctory gesture satisfied all social obligations forever. She was handsome, like Sgt Cunningham, and Jean estimated her age at no more than thirty.

In fact, she bore a strong resemblance to the sturdy superintendent who had conducted her interview and physical tests. Her lush brown hair was severely cut in a gamine bob, which threw into relief the strong cheekbones and wide sensual lips, and big, piercing brown eyes. Her white nylon blouse clung tightly to pert, conical breasts, surprisingly like Coretta’s, and she wore a black and gold necktie, like a man’s. Her epaulettes were gold braid. Beneath her desk, it was apparent that the inspector, too, wore a skirt of unusual shortness, and her stockings shone very lustrously. Jean realised that her skirt and stockings were actually made of thin latex. Her shoes were high stilettos, with little gleaming steel toecaps, and steel blakeys on the spikes of each heel. She eyed Jean with studied calm, but raised an eyebrow at Coretta’s casual street clothes.

‘Well,’ she exhaled, as though the one syllable, like Sergeant Cunningham’s raised eyebrow, encompassed all the disapproval the Highlands had to offer.

From outside the closed curtains came shouts and marching noises. Inspector Proudie peered through a slit, as Jean heard a dry whopping sound, then another, and another, and her heart began to beat, with a tiny moistening of her crevice. Inspector Proudie nodded approval, and smiled thinly. Outside, the sounds of marching resumed.

‘Cadets, atten-shun!’ cried Sergeant Cunningham. The girls jerked to attention.

‘You two are the Sassenachs Superintendent MacFee has thought fit to recommend: Heathbury school, and the Job Centre, Stratford, E15.’

‘Well!’ she said briskly, and now with a twinkle in her steely eyes, ‘the next three weeks will see if we can make policewomen of you. You are aware that we are a properly constituted police force like any other. Our jurisdiction extends no further than Glenlassie National Park, but within my domain, we are the law – the only law. No matter what Lady Largs, or Doctor Smurfitt at her clinic may think.’

‘At ease, Coolidge and Welsh,’ said Inspector Proudie. ‘Sergeant Cunningham will supervise your basic training indoors, and Sergeant Righter, outdoors. It will last a period of three weeks. During that time, you will receive half pay, and, upon graduation, back-dated full pay: upon failure to graduate you will receive your half-pay in full and a return rail warrant, second class, to your point of origin. Basic training consists of academic and legal instruction, and tough physical exercise. You must learn the finer points of Scottish criminal law, and you must become acquainted with Glenlassie and its unique geography, flora, and fauna, including the villainous human specimens. You have heard of egg thieves, I suppose: vicious and perverted males who collect the eggs of the protected rare birds that nest here, thanks to our warm air current from the Azores: the white-tailed river martin, the mottled osprey, and so on. There are also other forms of poaching and “eco-disturbance”, as our masters in Edinburgh term it, but your training will make you a match for any miscreant, male or female. You will be as fit as a Royal Marine, and able to dispense summary justice in the field. Needless to say, a policewoman’s life must be pure, since physical and moral fitness go together, with no consumption of tobacco or alcohol, and no consorting with males: no tupping, ladies, even on a weekend pass to Inverness – whatever your civilian life may have accustomed you to.’

‘Any infractions of police discipline are taken care of within our own ranks.’

She nodded to her rack of punishment canes. Now she rose and selected one: a thin, whippy ashplant, which she cracked in the air. Both Coretta and Jean flinched in alarm at its rushing whistle.

Standing, she was even more imposing: long-legged, the skirt tight round lush thighs, and a bum that rippled with taut muscle.

‘Superintendent MacFee has no doubt hinted that here in the Highlands, justice is rough and ready. The county of Ross-Shire has neither time nor resources to waste taxpayers’ money on futile courtroom procedures. That is why females make up the parks police; we cost less. Psychological tests have proven that female officers, with their maternal instinct, are more protective of their territory, where wildlife is concerned. Also, the type of miscreant found in these glens is a regressive and childlike type, and responds best to a female authority figure: the maternal disciplinarian, ready to dispense corporal punishment, inspires awe and submission, thus avoiding expense on elaborate places of confinement. We learn from the regular habits of our wildlife, specially birds. They are very precise creatures in their migrations, their matings and layings. They do not arrive late, not even six and a half minutes late.’

‘We travel on bicycles, even the plain-clothes CID officers. Since Glenlassie is a national park of Scotland, nothing may be removed from our precincts: not a rare bird’s egg, not a beast or insect, not a flower or blade of grass. Our remit extends to the grounds of the Loch Dubh Clinic, Williestoun school, and the Largs estate, but only insofar as protected species are threatened: Lady Largs is free to pluck her own blades of grass, I’m afraid. It is the removal of any item which is the offence, not the use within Glenlassie, by ramblers and so-called New Age Travellers. An effective means of control is to stop and search intimately all those leaving the glen by this, the only road. Policewomen must be prepared to identify, warn, and chastise miscreants, all in the space of moments: if possible, with the miscreant’s consent, but if not …’

‘Vermin, who think they can come here, to infect our glen with their own city foulness, are best sent packing with a sore behind. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Good! The cane and the tawse, ladies, are the most effective deterrents in a policewoman’s arsenal, when charm and reason fail. That will be all for the moment. Sgt Cunningham will show you the barracks, and take you to the quartermistress for your medical inspection and outfitting. You shall not need to visit my office, unless you are guilty of some very serious infraction, and we need to have a little chat.’

She opened the drapes a fraction, so that Coretta and Jean could see into a tiny courtyard paved with granite slabs, and ringed by tall conifers. On the granite, four girls marched stiffly under the staccato commands of a tall, crop-haired sergeant who ordered the girls to quick-march: first at the double, then to slow-march. The four girls held their arms ramrod straight, and kept eyes front, with heads lifted high. Their legs were stiff, like puppets’. Sgt Righter was dressed in a short, bottom-hugging rubber skirt, and kneeboots, like Sgt Cunningham, with shiny stockings and a nylon blouse that clung damply to her large swaying breasts, but the scabbard at her belt was open, and she held a thin, whippy rod, about three feet long.

‘You will join the other cadets,’ said Inspector Proudie, ‘after your induction, medical, outfitting and signature to the Official Secrets Act of Scotland.’

Coretta and Jean gazed numbly at the punishing military drill under the hot sun. Hatless, and glistening with sweat, the new recruits drilled in the nude, but shod in heavy metal clogs with thick soles, like surgical boots, and evidently painful to march in. All four had cropped heads, shaven pubic mounds, and livid pink stripes on their bare bottoms. Then the curtain closed, and the inspector handed both Jean and Coretta a pink slip, which she detached carefully from a duplicate book.

Jean looked at her slip; it bore the date, and there were two columns, one labelled OFFENCE, the other PENALTY. In the first column, Inspector Proudie had written in neat black ink: ‘Six minutes late for duty’, and in the other ‘Six strokes w/cane’. Jean stared at the slip, and at the smiling inspector, feeling the blood drain from her face. Coretta’s features were twisted in a suspicious frown.

It is for your own good, Jean, and the good of the school. An example must be made, and so the whole school shall watch your bare bottom squirm.

Inspector Proudie put the tips of her fingers together, making a pyramid of her hands.

‘It is called zero tolerance,’ she said. ‘Bad behaviour must be nipped in the bud. If one apple is stolen, the whole orchard will be stolen. If one girl has a hole in her stocking, they all will. Both outside and inside the barracks, we prefer to circumvent the tedious and unenlightening procedures of the legal system with the short, sharp shock of corporal punishment. All my WPCs agree, ladies. Do you?’

Coretta swallowed, and said the same. Neither mentioned the gaping hole in WPC Hick’s stocking.

‘Cadets must acquit their punishment slips in two weeks; as and when you are full constables, there is no time limit, except that all punishment slips must be acquitted together once they accumulate to thirty strokes. I would advise you not to acquit until you have got used to our system, and witnessed, or quite possibly administered, a punishment, and feel ready to bare your own bottoms to the cane. That’s right – no need to look surprised – punishment is most efficacious when delivered on the bare. A police officer, caned herself, is best equipped to judge her own cane’s effect on a miscreant’s buttocks. When you are ready to take your punishment, you will give Sgt Cunningham one day’s notice.’

Your friends, and the whole school, will witness your punishment: thirty strokes on the bare buttocks, with a Singaporean rattan, kindly provided by Miss Tadd. I know you will be brave, Jean, but you will cry in agony as you are caned.

‘I look forward to our next meeting, Cadets Coolidge and Welsh, when I shall be able to address you as “constable”, knowing your bare bottoms have tasted the cane. We call you raw recruits,’ said Inspector Proudie, ‘and not without reason …’

Sgt Cunningham took charge of Jean and Coretta for the rest of the morning; after luncheon in the canteen, they would join the other four raw recruits in basic training. The police station had seemed compact from outside, but within proved to be a labyrinth of chambers and passages, where the two girls crossed paths with the occasional bustling WPC. All carried the same black rubber scabbard at their belts, but the WPCs wore pale blue shirts instead of the officers’ white.

Contents

POLICE LADIES

1

Stranger Spanking

2

Late for Duty