Eighteen strokes on the bare-My First 18 Strokes

Liz was attracted to this woman. She also felt that the Punishment Officer may have been interested in her. Now her bottom was back to normal. All the welts had healed and the marks faded away. Liz had tried to think how she could have another similar experience without going through the legal process of being sentenced to a Judicial Caning Punishment.

Eighteen strokes on the bare

Eighteen strokes on the bare

This time it was Cadwallader's secretary, Miss Ashoka. She looked at him, desperate to see some sign of mercy. So they then finished their conversation and went to their homes. Addressing Norma Newlove, CSO Karen, slipping out her left, yellow cotton ankle-socked foot to rest the pads of her toes upon the heel of her backless, clog-like shoe, said, "Mrs Newlove, we've just had a phone call from Ms Harmman. The women shrieked Hirsute models pain. And then, so that I wouldn't mess up, I'd learned it by heart. She should have thought of that.

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Barely 18 Eighteej blonde Sarah with little pink pussy 4, You bitch! She began to laugh out loud as my shouting got louder. Each stroke brought a new mountain of pain, each more intense than the one before. Despite my effort to not make any sound. Noone took any notice. It was hard to breath, the straps were so tight. My striped buttocks were still strapped perfectly in position for caning! Bare Twinks Videosbarebackcum getting fuckedcum in ass. Barely Legal Lesbian Thots 9. Her cane moved thr up and Eighteen strokes on the bare, massaging my ass. I strained at my immovable straps. I babbled incoherently to myself. My yelling was obscene Women fucking bowling pin now.

Community Service - Part 7 New Version.

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She waited and felt herself slowly relax and realized she'd been holding her breath. She turned and walked away from the noticeboard.

She passed through the double-doors and hastened away, not daring to glanced back. When she got to the wooden door on the left, she went through it and broke into a jog.

It was early, just after five, only a slight lightening to the east suggesting dawn was coming. She'd done it. She went through the main gates into the street and increased her pace. Even if they caught her now, nobody would think she was doing anything other than going for her early morning run. But why would they catch her? Why would they think it was her? He thought at first it was just one of the usual cheap jokes that the younger pupils sometimes amused themselves with and was about to blunder in and sort it out - there were times when being a prefect was a dreadful bore - when he realized nobody was laughing.

And there were older pupils there as well, male and female. He approached, hating the fact that his position meant he had to deal with this. Usually the pupils would dash off when they saw a prefect approach, but not this time.

He peered over their heads, blinking behind his glasses, and was stunned by what he saw. He pinched his nose. He had a headache and the piece of paper on his desk wasn't helping. He looked at it again, wondering if there was any way he might have misread the notice, or if it could be construed in any other way. There wasn't. It was, quite simply, a denunciation of the school priest.

Father Johal was even older than Cadwallader, nearer 70 than 60, a white haired man with a pinched, ascetic face and a piercing stare. Could it be true, Cadwallader wondered, that he'd abused two of the girls in the school. The denunciation seemed very precise. It gave dates and enough detail to have an air of veracity. He'd known Johal for almost 20 years and never had cause to doubt him, but he had a horrible sense this might be true.

This was awful. He didn't know if the school could cope with the scandal. The governors thought he was vague and out of touch, but he was sharp enough to realize there were plenty who would happily see it closed down, who attacked it as a bastion of privilege in what was, after all, an underprivileged country.

And it was awful too for the girls involved, of course; it was important not to forget that. But he couldn't believe it. Not of Johal. Still, he would have to do something, and he hated having to do anything out of the ordinary. He was tired, and looking forward to retirement.

He would speak to Johal and then, he supposed, to the governors. She'd expected some major reaction, but apart from some gossiping, nothing had really happened. There'd been talk in the staff-room, obviously, but more along the lines that it was a silly game rather than something to be taken seriously. Not that she spent much time in the staff-room. She still didn't feel at home there and tended to spend the time between lessons in her room.

She was in an awkward position, not a full member of staff, but certainly not a pupil any more either. She was 22 and had graduated from Oxford the previous summer. Returning to the International School where she'd studied for seven years while her father worked in the diplomatic service to work as a teaching assistant - basically working with students on their French and Spanish orals, but also helping those who didn't have English as a first language - had seemed an ideal way to pass some time and gain some experience before she decided what she wanted to do with her life.

She'd always liked the school, and she'd done well there, being head girl in her final year and captaining the football team. But four months after returning, she'd discovered proof that some of the rumors that had always circulated around Father Johal were true, that he had molested younger pupils.

Bobby had wondered for some time what the best thing to do was. She suspected the local police would ignore her, and she didn't trust Cadwallader not to hush it up.

She'd contemplated confronting Johal directly, but ultimately had decided that the best thing was to bring the matter into the public domain, so she'd written it the accusations. Her notice had been calm and clear, precise and to the point, careful to make clear it was true without making it possible to identify the girls involved.

Yet it seemed to have achieved nothing. She wondered if there were anything else she could do. Father Johal was fuming, angrily protesting his innocence, demanding that whoever had put up the notice should be punished. Let it ride. The damage it does to our religion is enormous, not to mention Father Johal's good name. The perpetrator should be caned. The argument against caning he was sick of having, let alone this new nonsense about whipping.

Of course sometimes canings were necessary. He probably caned about two dozen boys a year, normally on the hand in his office and in exceptional circumstances, maybe once or twice a year, on the backside in the hall during assembly.

He found it an unpleasant and degrading process, the humiliation the pupil underwent dropping his trousers in front of the school far greater than was warranted even for theft or damaging property. Bobby had always been strong-willed. He'd watched her grow from promising 11 year old to sparky 15 year old to pretty and intelligent 18 year old, and her return to the school at 22 had given him something to think about in the long nights now his wife had left him.

She was a beautiful woman now, slender and graceful, with deep brown eyes, short blonde hair and a mischievous smile.

And she had a clear sense of right and wrong. She'd always had a strong sense of right and wrong, had always been involved in various causes. Of course it had been her who'd tried to expose Johal. That, he had to admit, hadn't come as a great surprise: he'd seen the way the old goat looked at some of the pupils.

The meeting had gone on for almost 40 minutes. What were they going to do with her? Johal, not surprisingly, wanted her handed over to the police, and he was supported in that by Bannerjee. Cadwallader, seeming increasingly out of his depth, just wanted to avoid a scandal. Bryant himself didn't see how they could countenance handing a British citizen over to a police force known to be brutal and corrupt: the poor girl could end up in some stinking, unhygienic cell for weeks waiting for some unreliable form of justice to take its course.

The argument circled endlessly: they all agreed she had to be punished, but the British staff were reluctant to get the police involved. Then Coulthard, having remained largely silent until then, came up with a solution. She's not a member of staff, but neither is she a pupil.

She's a sort of student teacher. So perhaps we could punish her as a student without needing to get the police involved. Bryant saw the eyes of M Dupont, the French master, light up. Did Cadwallader mean cane her buttocks? The thought of Bobby Stafford being caned was ludicrous, but if it happened, he wanted to see it. Bryant could think of only a handful in the past five years. It's in the rules. We don't even have a whip. Bryant wondered if Johal had ever used it privately. Explain the consequences if she doesn't.

Only Mrs Sharma, the youngest of the governors, seemed against the plan. Cadwallader looked at her sternly. And besides, we haven't actually decided on the penalty. We can discuss that if she agrees. She couldn't believe how stupid she'd been. Her heart thumped. That morning she'd been asked to report to his office and, when she'd got there, he and Bryant had been waiting for her.

They'd explained that they knew it was her who'd posted the notice about Johal and that by rights they should hand her over to the police for making a false accusation. But it's not false, she'd wanted to scream, but she knew she had no proof - not if she was to keep the two girls who'd told her what had happened out of it. Then they'd offered her a deal. Accept a school punishment and Johal would let things rest. She'd known then that meant she'd be caned, but she also knew that was a far better option than trusting herself to the slow and corrupt ways of the local authorities.

She'd signed the waiver willingly, and had been told to report back at 6pm to learn exactly what her punishment would be. Surely they'd just cane her hand, wouldn't they? As a symbolic thing.

She couldn't bear the thought it might be on her arse. Her mind went back to a day when she'd been head girl.

It was intolerable! The thick meat young Cooper has needs some tight hole, and his new bareback buddy Zack is more than happy to have his hole stretched out around that dick! Faintly, I heard applause and laughter from the watching ladies. You and the other prisoners! Sign in to remove this from recommended. Noone took any notice. I would do anything, anything, anything at all, rather than have even one more stroke.

Eighteen strokes on the bare

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Community Service - Part 7 New Version. This story is written by David, please send comments and appreciation to voondave yahoo. Community Service Officer Linda's prediction proved to be right. On Monday, Tina Marshall, a Team Leader counter assistant at Canford town's highly popular High Street burger bar, Burger Heaven, was, as a first-offender with a previously unblemished character record, given just a formal warning. But, unfortunately for Tina, Mrs Norma Newlove, who could not be prevailed upon by the local Authoritarian Female Party official to drop her Grievous Aggravated Assault charges, adamantly appealed against what she angrily contested was a too-soft summary decision of said local AFP official.

At the outraged insistence of the sorely aggrieved 'plaintiff' Norma Newlove, supported by her Sock Room cronies Gina Stainham and Cheryl Chubb, the Community Service Liaison Officer, Harriet Harmman, finally succumbed to the haranguing vengeful trio's indignant and righteous demands: that the offender Tina Marshall faces a much sterner retributive comeuppance. And so it was that on Wednesday, regretfully Ms Harmman agreed to revise her original, too-lenient decision, and reluctantly she duly awarded Tina the 'Standard Six'.

Presiding over the punishment proceedings, would me Ms Harmman herself. Waiting on Ms Harmman's expressed instructions, one of the two punishment-detail CSOs would duly administer her AFP-issue whippy bamboo cane to Tina's left, fully exposed bare buttock three times while simultaneously the other CSO would administer her wicked-looking cane to Tina's right buttock.

All over Canford, everywhere to be seen were the hurriedly printed and posted public information notices, billboard posters, and flyers. At such short notice, it was too late to advertise the upcoming historic event in the local newspapers.

But on local radio and TV, during commercial break interludes or at the end of news bulletins, announcements were made pertaining to Miss Tina Marshall's historic public chastisement caning, this coming Saturday at 2 pm. For the first time, under Authoritarian Female Party rule, not just in Canford, but in the whole of the UK, it was a female, who was to be publicly caned. I was finishing my second Monday to Friday working week as a community servant, assigned to work in Canford town's Sock Room where, supervised by CSOs Karen and Linda I was made to earn my weekly Unemployment Benefit by hand-washing, and laundering to a high and exacting standard the females of Canford's dirty socks.

But on Monday, I'd had a very narrow and lucky escape, when Tina Marshall - the heaven, of Burger Heaven - to her own, great detriment, in a feat of daring-do had courageously caused my neighbour from hell Norma Newlove to be hoisted by her own petard - instead of me.

Tina had turned upon Norma, herself, her dastardly day-long 'preparation' of foot dust and toenail clippings, as was exfoliated and clipped from her own, from her Sock Room cronies Gina Stainham and Cheryl Chubb, and from the soles of twenty-plus other conniving Sock Room attending females' feet and toes.

Norma, with the gleeful assistance of her many willing and enthusiastic co-participants - who with their cruelly grabbing hands and painfully digging fingernails had forcibly restrained me and held me upside down upon Norma's black leather recliner - had been about to pour into my mouth, and make me eat, the horrible little mounds of all of their soles-of-the-feet flaky dead skin and all of their many dozens of variously coloured toenail clippings Which was why Tina was now in trouble with the AFP In fact, I'd had two lucky escapes.

My second lucky escape - after Tina had been handcuffed by CSOs Karen and Linda and escorted to the Community Service Liaison Centre to summarily appear before Ms Harmman - was to find my two supervisors' office door left unlocked after I'd made what I'd believed could only be a futile, postponing-the-inevitable, ill-fated run-for-it.

Which was a very lucky escape, indeed. Because there, with the Sock Room temporarily entrusted unto the now seething and even further antagonised Mrs Newlove's care until my two supervisors returned from the Community Service Liaison Centre, I was able to keep myself safely locked in. A refuge, from the wrath of my neighbour from hell Norma Newlove, her Sock Room cronies Gina Stainham and Cheryl Chubb, and the other twenty-plus, almost equally vengeful sock-changing females.

Who, shouting angrily, and violently slapping their hands and banging their fists and kicking their white-socked feet against the white-painted office door, furiously demanded, upon pain of the direst consequences, that I open up at once and come out.

The direst of consequences or not. There was no way I was going to unlock that office door The industrial-sized, open-topped hopper - that was signed: 'White Socks Only! The colour-coded wheelie bins - of which there were now twenty - were all overflowing with dirty socks; the lids left hanging open untidily, on all of them.

And the industrial-sized hot-and-soapy-water prewash soaking tank; the two stainless-steel washing and rinsing sinks; all of the large plastic soaking tubs for non-white socks ; and the four nylon clotheslines outside in the flagstoned courtyard - all fully utilised.

No matter how hard I worked: no matter how hard I toiled, laboured, sweated - no matter how much I slaved! Growing and growing, as a never-ending flow of the town's sock-changing females came in through the Sock Room's doors to deposit their dirty socks, and change into a clean pair.

Some of the Canford girls and women - some of whom I knew personally, and quite well; others, not so well, or maybe just on nodding acquaintance with - sometimes changed their socks more than once a day. Well, why shouldn't they? They didn't have to wash them. It was exactly 24 hours, before Tina - the Heaven, of Burger Heaven - was scheduled to be administered, publicly, the Standard Six. Scheduled to make history, as the first ever female, to be caned under the AFP.

Sitting on my folding chair, I was pulling inside out with my bare hands, because wearing gloves made the horrible distasteful chore too meddlesome, and thereby too time-consuming , yet another laundry basketful of the dirty white socks from the industrial-sized, open-topped hopper that was signed: 'White Socks Only!

Which only demanded more of my effort and time in separating them: effort, that was highly irksome; and time, that I could ill afford. Whether my town's womenfolk did that, purely from pre-Sock-Room days habit, simply because it was what they did all the time, or whether they did it, very deliberately, for the malicious pleasure and satisfaction of causing me some extra aggravation - I thought it was a combination of both.

Either way, certainly there was no practical point to it: I hand-washed the dirty white socks in big batches; many dozens at a time, so it was extremely unlikely that any of the separated pairs of socks would be paired together again, post-wash. Glumly I stared at the white-socked soles of the sock-changing females, who, situated behind the two-barred safety rail on the upper-level of the Sock Room, were relaxing on the row of black leather recliners that overlooked my lower-level work area.

It was a habit I'd fallen into, lately: assessment. Assessing, some of the difficulties and problems that I would be facing, in hand-washing some of the females of Canford's up-coming dirty-socks. On Tuesday, in response to the growing demand, more of the well-padded black leather recliners had been supplied, bringing the number of recliners in the 'Spectators' Gallery' up to ten: five, to each side of the six wooden steps that led down into the unlovely environs of my one-man laundry domain.

Some of the reclining females' white socks, I saw, were grubby, grimy - almost incredibly dirty. A reliable indicator, as to those sock-changing females' penchant for going about shoeless. Which was a habit, I believed, that some of the Sock Room attending girls and women had only acquired, since said establishment's grand opening, two weeks ago.

It was a great challenge, to keep composed and to keep my face neutral, as with bitter resentment and barely suppressed outrage I stared at all of the dirty, filthy, white-socked soles of those mostly careless and indifferent sock-changing females - who, so blithely, caused me so much wholly unnecessary extra hard work! I say 'mostly', because I knew full well that some of these, more malicious-minded, Sock Room attending girls and women, whether motivated by a naughtily playful sense of mischief, or from more spiteful and cruel, urges or designs - dirtied up their socks deliberately.

They loved the idea - just loved it! And much more time-consuming, too: making me spend so much more time - time, that I could so ill afford to waste - on trying to hand-wash clean, in mad-hot soapy water, their purposely, cruelly, deliberately dirtied-up socks. And these cruel-minded girls and women got an extra delicious kick from knowing I would have to hand-wash their pairs of deliberately dirtied-up socks clean enough to pass muster: Clean enough, to pass the nitpicky, hypercritical inspections of my two young cane-wielding and cane-happy supervisors, CSOs Karen and Linda.

Predominantly, these sock-changing tormentresses wore the long, white cotton sport and leisure socks. From preference, yes - but mostly, it was because the soles of white socks showed up the dirt and grime much more dramatically and satisfactorily!

Sometimes, relaxing on their recliners, some of the sock-changing girls and women would take off their socks - or, more often than not, haughtily or bossily summon me to remove their socks for them. So as to display the soles of their bare feet to me. So as to display the soles of their bare feet to me, as I sat facing them on my folding chair as I grimly pulled inside out yet another large plastic basketful of the females of Canford's ever increasing and steadily overwhelming backlog of dirty, stinky socks.

Why did they display to me the soles of their bare feet? What was their underlying message? They wanted to show me, naked, and unadorned, the symbols of my subjugation. But mostly, relaxing on their recliners, the Sock Room attending females would display to me, the soles of their white-socked feet.

Showing me, the soles of their white cotton sport and leisure socks. Sometimes, filthy with an accumulation of days' worth of ingrained dirt; almost black, at the impact points of the heels, the balls of the feet, and the toe areas. Sometimes, yellow-tinged, too, with days' worth of their foot sweat. Showing me, just exactly what they were going to make me hand-wash clean.

Showing me, just how much more needless extra effort they were obliging me to devote. Showing me, the extent of the unspeakable misery they were inflicting upon me. Showing me, the malicious, cruel challenge they were throwing down: Let's see you hand-wash these, clean enough, to pass your supervisors' inspection!

In short: Pitilessly, mercilessly, maliciously, malevolently - gleefully - aggravating me. And why? Because the Sock Room brought out the bitch in them. A movement caught my eye: Mrs Norma Newlove, crossing her ankles. She was relaxing on the nearest of the five recliners to my right-hand side of the six wooden steps. My across the road neighbour from hell Norma Newlove had been giving me hell all week. Ever since late Monday afternoon, when Tina - the heaven, of Burger Heaven - had hoisted Norma by her own petard.

Although from Wednesday afternoon, Norma had eased up on me, just a tad. Because it had been on Wednesday, that, back from her latest visit to the Community Service Liaison Centre, Norma had returned to the Sock Room triumphant.

Buoyant, at finally having managed to persuade Ms Harriet Harmman to punish 'Burger Girl' with something rather more satisfactorily retributive than the mere telling-off that the local AFP official had so leniently originally decreed: the Standard Six.

Jubilant, at knowing that, by proxy, she would also be inflicting great misery, and deeply wounding me, too. Norma, with her Sock Room cronies Gina Stainham and Cheryl Chubb in tow and providing moral support, had demanded proper justice; had finally got it, and now she was looking forward immensely to seeing it being served.

Weren't you? It wasn't just the look on my face that I had to try and keep composed and neutral, but the tone of my voice, too. Since Wednesday afternoon, Norma had been in the ecstatic throes of vengeful anticipation.

She was floating on Cloud Nine. But that was no reason to drop my guard; Norma would still gleefully seize upon the tiniest and flimsiest of excuses to report me to my two supervisors CSOs Karen and Linda. If I had lied to her just now - or at least, not immediately admitted my lie, when challenged - about staring at the white-socked soles of hers, and all of the nine other reclining ladies' feet So why was Norma Newlove floating on Cloud Nine?

Because, in public, tomorrow afternoon at two o'clock, Tina Marshall 'Burger Girl' would be administered the Standard Six chastisement caning, by two punishment-detail CSOs - and Norma would be there to see it.

Of this, Norma had been gleefully reminding me, since Wednesday afternoon. Since, adamant and unrelenting, her determined persistence had ultimately paid off. Norma had finally worn Ms Harriet Harmman down, forced the issue, and secured Tina's painful and humiliating punishment. Since our first date, on Monday, when we'd gone to the cinema, Tina and I had become inseparable.

We'd dated each evening - and news of our being together as 'an item' had reached Norma's ears. To see your girlfriend receive the Standard Six? The punishment she so richly deserves! But, un-balling and then turning inside out with my bare hands another pair of dirty, stinky white socks, I bit my tongue. To voice, any of my resentful, outraged and less than reverent thoughts of Norma Newlove would merely be to play right into Norma's fiendishly manipulating hands.

She would snatch up the internal phone, dial 01 for CSOs Karen and Linda's office, and promptly report my 'offence': that I had stepped outside of the behavioural parameters, expected of a community servant.

Under the 'female-friendly' governance of the Authoritarian Female Party, led by Prime Minister Caroline Flynt, we were living in new, 'Femocratic' times.

Eighteen strokes on the bare