Subject: A day in the country
Date: Wed, 2 Oct 1996 20:35:01 +0100
From: James Stephenson

A day in the country

by James Stephenson

My name is Karen and I'm now twenty years old and in my final year at a
certain university in the North East of England that I won't name
because, as you will quickly realise, I have good reason for not wanting
to be personally identified.
In the past I've always gone home during the holidays but this year I
heard about a summer job going in a small general dealer's shop near to
the flat we rent and I decided to stay up here because, even with the
expense of having to keep the flat on by myself for a couple of months,
it was going to be worth while financially - I can never get a holiday
job back home.  I worked a five day week - although the shop opened on a
Sunday the owner and his family were the only ones in that day because I
think he would have had to pay a higher rate of wages.  My other day off
was supposed to be variable but in practice it usually ended up being
the Monday, which suited me because I preferred having two days
together.
I enjoyed the work, which wasn't very demanding, and in a few weeks I
knew several the regular customers.  Thursday afternoons were quiet and
I was in the shop by myself because the boss had gone off to the cash
and carry to collect some things where we were running short.  Two old
dears who shopped there regularly came in, and I was chatting to them
and serving them at the same time.  The first bought a packet of
biscuits and as I was ringing it in the other asked whether it would be
okay to pay with a ten pound note.  I left the drawer open and as soon
as I finished with the first one I checked that we had plenty of change.
"Yes, that's fine Mrs Potter - what did you want?"
It wasn't a big order - just a couple of tins - and I quickly totalled
the items in my head and gave her the change while we were still
talking.  It was only as they left the shop that I glanced down and saw
that the till drawer was still open and the ten pound note was on top.
The temptation was instantaneous.  Of course I'd quite innocently
forgotten to ring it in but even so the sale had only come to one pound
seventeen so if the ten pound note happened to vanish there would be a
shortage of almost nine pounds.  Unless...
It was so easy really.  The boss wouldn't be back until five o'clock and
even on a quiet afternoon like this it wouldn't be any problem to not
ring in another nine pounds worth of sales while I left the till drawer
open.  None of our customers ever thought to ask for receipts and I
could either put the money straight in or just ring in a smaller amount
- while I kept a note of the differences, it wouldn't be a problem.  I
don't think I made a conscious decision - my shoulder bag was under the
counter, and I found myself slipping the ten pound note into the zip
top.
"I don't think you should be doing that"
I jumped as if I'd been shot and as I stood straight, the note still
held between my fingers, I could feel the colour rushing to my cheeks.
It was Mr Bennet - aged about thirty and quite good looking, he was one
of the most friendly people who used the shop regularly - a rep for a
computer firm he worked from home and often popped in for odds and ends.
I'd missed seeing him come in - it must have been while I'd been serving
just before.
"I er.."
In retrospect I could have bluffed - I could have said something about
having had to lend the money to the till earlier, but I was too numbed
with shock at being discovered to do anything but look guilty.
"I wonder what Mr Brown is going to have to say about this?" (Mr Brown
is not his real name -  for obvious reasons). "I wonder if he knows he's
employing a thief?"
Actually hearing it put into words like that probably served to bring
into focus very rapidly just what I'd been about to do.
"Oh please - I didn't mean to... I mean, I don't know what I was
thinking of.  Don't tell him please."
He snorted, clearly not impressed by grovelling pleas after the event,
and looked me up and own in a way that made me want to crawl into a
hole.  His whole attitude said 'That's what girls of today have come to
is it?'
"Of course it's not the first time Mr Brown's had this sort of trouble
to deal with.  Last time it was a lad he'd employed to do deliveries who
tried it.  He got fined about £50 and put on probation if I remember
rightly.  Of course, being in court and being fined might be traumatic
in itself but it's the other things really - like losing your job, your
reputation, having a criminal record for evermore when anyone else is
thinking of employing you, having your name in all the papers branding
you as a common thief, all your family and friends finding out...
Still, that's the way justice is done today."
Well, I knew he was deliberately trying to make me feel bad, but that
knowledge didn't lessen the effect.  I could already feel the tears
welling up in my eyes as I started to put the note back in the till
drawer.
"Ah ah - that's evidence.  No sneaking it back in now - the police will
need that."  Mention of the police sent another shudder through me.  Oh
God this was awful!
"Personally of course, I think this has a lot to do with the decline in
standards in schools and the way parents discharge their
responsibilities - people like you get away with bad behaviour at school
and at home and go out into the world thinking that you can do what you
like with no comeback.  If you been given a good hiding at home when you
did anything wrong or six of the best when you stepped out of line at
school you probably wouldn't be in this sorry state now."
I think, by now, my jaw must have been hanging open - it all seemed so
unlike the Mr Bennet I thought I knew.
"Speaking personally, I believe that a dose of the cane would do you
more good than a session in court for this present trouble, but
unfortunately for everyone concerned that's not really an available
option is it?"
There was a period of silence - I'm sure my brain must have been in a
slower gear than usual.  Gradually it dawned that the question wasn't
rhetorical - he expected an answer.  Just as gradually I started to see
where this conversation was leading - was he really inviting me to ask
for another way out?  It seemed from the continuing silence that he was
doing just that - what on earth should I do?  Although I was hugely
embarrassed, as well as terrified, by the thought of being caned, I
wasn't so dumb as to not appreciate the sexual overtones.  On the other
hand I couldn't bear the thought of being prosecuted.  I had little time
to think and he was still waiting for an answer.
The following Sunday will be a day I can never forget.  I can still
relive it all in my mind now.....
***
I always get up about nine o'clock on a Sunday.  That gives me time to
have a shower and then to get ready for church.  I usually have a quick
bite to eat but today is different - my appetite has deserted me.  I
still have serious misgivings about what I've agreed to do this
afternoon.  I sit through the service fairly oblivious - I was brought
up in a solidly Roman Catholic family and I've never got out of the
habit of going - besides I like some of the younger people I meet there.
Usually I hang around afterwards for a coffee and chat but today I don't
feel much like being sociable - I've got butterflies in my tummy.  I
rush home and then just sit and stare into space.
If I'm honest, however much I'm afraid of the caning he's promised me,
there's an element of the thrill of danger about that - the real fear is
whether that is all I'll get from him.  I won't be in a position to call
for help and there must be a possibility that he wants sex as well.  I'm
in no doubt that he's turned on by the idea of whacking my bottom.  The
thing is, I might be in a distinctly small minority for girls of my age,
and especially for a student, but I am still a virgin and although I've
begun to think seriously lately about changing that situation, I don't
think this is the way I want it to be.  Besides I don't take the pill or
anything like that - final decision (I think) is that if he asks for sex
I say no - if he insists and has a condom with him I'll probably give
in.
What should I wear?  He said not to wear any good clothes because of
where we're going but my denim jeans are rather on the tight side and
it's not my intention to go out of my way to turn him on.  He also
suggested I didn't wear tights or stockings, which worried me a bit, but
we're going out into the country and he said something about them
catching on bushes.
The final decision is for my old denim skirt - it's not too short (just
above the knee) and the material is about the thickest and most
protective I've got.  A decent pair of knickers is essential - nothing
too thin or skimpy today.  A polo necked sweater with nothing underneath
- well, it's a reasonable sort of day and I very rarely think of wearing
a bra when I'm dressing casually just because I don't like the things.
White ankle socks and trainers complete the picture.  As usual for any
occasion I'm worried about, I'm ready ages too soon - he's not picking
me up in the car until half twelve.
The journey in the car is strange.  He talks about my course at the
university and where he's been for his holidays and trivia like that -
almost like it's a normal day out.  It doesn't take long to get out of
the town and into countryside and he seems to have a clear idea of where
he's going.  I try to relax and join in the conversation but it is a
tremendous effort.  I spend a lot of the time looking down at my knees
and the couple of inches of thigh visible below the skirt line and
wishing I'd worn something longer.
We're in a very small lane and he suddenly turns off into an opening I
hadn't even spotted - after about thirty yards it widens slightly and he
pulls the car to a halt and switches off.  The silence is deafening.
"Right - out we get.  This is where we start walking."
I can't think of anything to say now - it's hard to believe that this is
for real.  I get out of the car and start to follow him along a very
narrow path into the trees.  He was right to tell me not to wear tights
- they'd be laddered in seconds in this dense wood.  We walk for a
couple of minutes and then we're in a very small clearing and he stops
and turns to me.
"Right Karen - this is far enough.  First I require you to remove your
skirt and shoes."  The look of horror on my face must have been obvious.
"That's all I'm asking you to remove - I warned you that if you agreed
to this I would give you a very hard caning and you can hardly expect me
to allow you to wear a denim skirt for it.  Besides, I have to return to
the car to fetch the cane from the boot and I don't want you
disappearing anywhere while I'm gone."
Reluctantly, but seeing that I have no alternative, I unzip the skirt
which falls untidily to the ground.  I bend to pick that up and become
very quickly aware of how small the knickers that are supposed to cover
my bottom really are - they may have been the best I could find but
realistically they're not going to do a lot for me now.  I unfasten the
trainers and hand them all over to him.  The ground, which is covered
with twigs, old leaves and mud feels damp and strange through my socks.
"Good - now I want you to go and stand up against that tree, facing it
and with your hands on your head.  You can spend a few minutes thinking
about your crime and the court appearance I'm saving you from."  Almost
incapable of independent thought now I obey without question like a
naughty schoolgirl being made to stand in the corner.  "You will stay
exactly like that until I return - no looking 'round or moving away."  I
hear his footsteps going back along the path.
I can't think about what he told me to be thinking about.  All I can
think about now is the thin cotton fabric between my backside and the
awful cane.  My bottom and legs feel very cool now as my mind focuses
unwillingly on that part of my body.
Suddenly I imagine I hear voices in the distance - with a jolt I
instantly imagine being discovered like this by some passing strangers.
In seconds I'm peering into the undergrowth in all directions trying to
spot any sign that someone might be approaching.  A twig snaps over to
the right and I drop to a crouch on the ground to make myself less
visible and strain my eyes and ears in that direction.
My concentration on the imagined threat is so overwhelming that I miss
the real threat until it's too late.
"I told you not to move."  As I begin to stand he grabs a handful of my
hair and I'm painfully jerked to my feet.  I squeal and want to try and
explain but he isn't about to give me an opportunity.  He propels me
forward and momentarily I lose my footing and stumble.  There's an
explosive smack and just as I feel the stinging and realise that he's
slapped the back of my right calf, there's a second smack and my left
calf gets the same.  There's a smarting sensation now in both legs as I
struggle to move in the direction he is compelling me to, and suddenly I
find myself pushed hard against the rough tree trunk.
"Now put your hands back on your head like I told you."  I obey without
a seconds hesitation.  I'm thankful that he releases my hair but now his
left hand is on my back between my shoulders pressing me uncomfortably
hard against the tree.  'SMACK!'  His free right hand slaps my right leg
viciously hard - because we're both standing now he can't comfortably
reach my calves like before so now he begins on my thighs.  About a
dozen really hard slaps on the back of my legs and I'm crying my eyes
out.  It's years since I've ever been smacked and I wouldn't have
imagined it could hurt so much.
"This is.." 'SMACK!' "typical.." 'SMACK!' "of your.." 'SMACK!'
"slovenly.." 'SMACK!' "disobedience.." 'SMACK!' "and you're.." 'SMACK!'
"about to learn.." 'SMACK!' "what disobedience.." 'SMACK!' "can cost
you.." 'SMACK!' "my girl.." 'SMACK!' "Now.." 'SMACK!' "stand still.."
'SMACK!' "there and.." 'SMACK!' "if I.." 'SMACK!' "catch you again.."
'SMACK!' "then.." 'SMACK!' "so help me.." 'SMACK!' "I'll have your
pants.." 'SMACK!' "down.." 'SMACK!' "for the.." 'SMACK!' "caning.."
'SMACK!' "and give you.." 'SMACK!' "double the strokes.." 'SMACK!' "as
well.." 'SMACK!' "Is.." 'SMACK!' "that.." 'SMACK!' "quite.." 'SMACK!'
"clear?" 'SMACK!'
Through the crying and sniffling I manage to express the view that it is
abundantly clear and that I wouldn't dream of moving again.  I can't
imagine that I'd dare.  The pressure on my back disappears and I'm no
longer pressed so uncomfortably hard against the rough bark.  That
serves only to help my attention focus all the more on the scorching in
the backs of my thighs.  I can hear him walking away again towards the
car but it never enters my head to glance around.  Oh why did I ever get
myself into this?
Minutes of misery pass by.  He should be back at the car by now - unless
he was just standing, watching.  Thinking about it, he must have been
back there the last time, because when he'd come back he hadn't got my
skirt and shoes so he must have left them in the car.
Gradually the shock of the slapping recedes and my natural curiosity
causes me to start trying to see as far back towards the path as I can
without moving my head.  No sign of him so, although I'm terrified he's
going to suddenly appear again I do turn slightly - being careful to
keep my hands on my head and ready to turn back at the slightest
movement from the path.  Safe for the moment so far as I can tell.
I risk a quick glance down at the back of my legs.  I can see all too
plainly the bright crimson blotches on the back of my thighs.  I move my
right leg slightly and I can see very clearly the unmistakable red
finger marks on my lower leg.  A more considered look at my sore thighs
- I can make out a few distinct finger shaped patches around the edges
of the target area but generally it looks less obviously like a smacking
- not that that's much consolation.  The mottled, glowing, crimson area
extends from a couple of inches above my knees right up to the line of
my pants.
Was that a footstep I heard?  I'm back in position in an instant - the
pose frozen.  Aware of an ache in my arms now from having held them on
top of my head for so long but unable to do anything about it.
I hear his footsteps coming up behind me and then they stop - I wish
he'd speak but he remains silent for what seems like several minutes.
Must be surveying the imprints of his previous handiwork on my bare legs
or maybe ogling at my thinly covered buttocks as he plans what he will
be doing to them in just a short while.
"Very good - I see you're learning something about obeying rules at
last."  I make no reply.  "You can put your hands down now and turn
around."  I gratefully drop my arms to my sides and turn slowly.  He's
standing there with a trace of a smile on his face but it's his hands
I'm looking at - more accurately I'm looking at the long thin bamboo
cane he's holding.  It must be a full metre long and very thin and
flexible towards the one end.  Well, it's too late for second thoughts
now.  Something he said before comes back to me - "Think about your
crime and the court appearance I'm saving you from." - I must keep that
in mind now - I hope I've chosen the right alternative.
"Over here" he motions with his hand and I follow him across to the
other side of the clearing.  Any other time I'd be unhappy about the
discomfort of walking on this slightly damp and twig covered ground in
only my socks but I'm hardly aware of it even.  He stops by an old broad
tree trunk that's fallen many years ago.
"You'll bend across that Karen - I want your toes on the ground this
side, your hands on the ground the other, and your bottom high in the
air.  Is that clear?"  I can only manage a nod.  "Right, before you get
ready, I'll remind you again that this is going to hurt because you
deserve it to hurt.  You'll have heard stories of schoolboys getting
'six of the best' in the past.  Well you're nineteen years old, you've
not just been naughty, you've broken the law, so you can't expect to get
off as lightly as that.  Twelve strokes should serve to teach you a
lesson you'll remember next time you feel tempted, and I advise you to
keep as still as possible if you don't want any extras.  You will get up
only when I tell you that you can, and you will then thank me and tell
me that you'll be a good girl now.  Now get into position ready."
I'm too shocked to move for a second - TWELVE!  Then an inner voice
reminds me that I don't have a lot of option unless I want the police
brought in.  Besides I know that I deserve everything I'm getting - it's
my own stupid fault and I might as well just get it over with.  Bending
over the trunk isn't physically very easy and having managed it I'm very
mindful of my upthrust bottom.  I can feel that my knickers have ridden
further up than they were before so that I have even less protection but
there's nothing I can do.  I can see him coming to stand at my left side
and then I feel slightly sick as he lays the cane across the highest
part of my hindquarters, presumably to get his aim.
Then the contact ceases - I close my eyes and hold my breath.  I hear
the whistle of the cane through the air and then the sharp crack of
impact.  A split second later I feel the searing pain as if my arse has
been stung by a dozen angry bees - I can't stop myself from yelling out
and jumping, and despite his injunction to keep still I would have
clutched my hands to my bottom if it had been practical but it just
isn't a physical possibility from the position I'm in.  I only just hear
the second stroke coming a moment before it lands a few millimetres
higher than the first but although it stings like hell and I yelp again,
it's not quite such a hurtful shock as the first.
Again the thin bamboo rod whistles down but this time at a slight angle
so it crosses the two previous strokes and there's absolutely no
question of that one not truly stinging.  When I've counted six I'm
blubbering my eyes out and my backside feels like it's been roasted in a
furnace.  The seventh and eighth strokes are higher up my bottom where
there is less fleshy protection - strangely they don't seem to sting as
much but, of course, later I'm to discover that the bruising lasts a
good deal longer there.  There's a slight pause while he readjusts his
aim - then a much lower stroke which hurts as much as the last two put
together.  It must have landed below my knickers although they were
doing little to protect more than my modesty anyway.
"Jeez...!"  I can't stop myself exclaiming at the fiery blast across my
bum.  I know I'm wriggling about and kicking my feet about more than he
wanted but I can't help myself.  Before I manage to control myself again
a further stroke lands near to the last one but further around to the
right flank because of my moving, and I yell out again and contort.
He does wait for me to resume the proper position before delivering the
last two.  As he did at the beginning he lays the cane gently on the
target - this time I know it's resting on bare flesh below my panties,
about an inch lower than where the last two strokes landed.  I tense
automatically.  I can feel the smooth cold cane resting on that most
tender province where buttocks become thighs - Christ, but this is going
to hurt!
The cane makes a loud "Whoomph!" as it descends and then lands exactly
where he intended with maximum force.  The hurt is as instant as it is
fierce.  My hands are scrabbling around in the dirt and both feet are
threshing the air ineffectually.  He'd chosen my position well and I
could do almost nothing about it.  He waits a few moments until my
initial animation has receded a little and then delivers the final
stroke with equal force directly on top of it's predecessor.  The next
few minutes are a blur of pain and distress at the ferocious stinging
torment from my devastated and ravaged bottom.
As I finally stop shouting and contorting I'm still sobbing but I manage
to keep more or less still.  Surely he's not going to give me any extra
for moving as he'd threatened?  A full minute or more passes in silence
apart from my crying.
"Stand up Karen"  I struggle to obey and turn to face him.  My hands go
to clutch my seat.  "Hands by your side!  Now what do you have to say?"
For a moment I'm unsure what he's getting at, then I remember the
instructions.
"Thank you Mr Bennet, I'm going to be a good girl from now on."  It
seems an embarrassingly silly thing to say, but then that was presumably
the intention.  He nods.
"You can rub it now if you want."  Gratefully I do try to massage away
the throbbing heat but to little effect.  He waits patiently for a few
minutes before speaking again.
"Come on Karen - let's go back to the car."  As we're walking he puts an
arm around my shoulder comfortingly and although I am aware again of my
state of partial undress and the potential sexual overtones of the
situation, I'm comforted rather than concerned by the contact.
When we get back to the car he opens the boot and throws the cane in -
my skirt and shoes are there but instead of picking them up he turns
back to face me.
"Let's just check the damage before we go home."  For a few seconds I
miss the point.  "Get you knickers off and let's have a check on the
injury situation."  Considering that no man has ever seen me with my
knickers off before it's strange but I obey almost without hesitation.
I suspect that, despite my planning earlier in the day, my present
obsession with obedience would have meant that if he told me to lie on
the ground in the nude with my legs spread, I'd have done so just as
quickly and without protest.
I peel the pants off my bum and down my legs, kicking them off with my
foot.  He runs his fingers tenderly over my bottom while I twist around
to see what I can of the weals.  His hands are gentle and soothing and
it doesn't seem at all wrong for him to be touching me in such an
intimate way.  The combination of his attention and the cool country air
on my hot skin is pleasant.
A few minutes later he takes my skirt from the car and passes it to me.
"You'd better put that back on before you get back in the car - I
suggest you leave the knickers off for now.  It will feel better if you
don't wear anything very tight on your bottom for a little while."  I
have doubts about the reasoning but do as instructed before putting my
shoes on again.  He throws my knickers in the boot on top of the cane
and slams it shut.
The journey home is largely conducted in silence.  He pulls up at his
house, about a mile and a half from where I live and switches off the
engine.
"Do you want to come in for a coffee?"  I hesitate - more rational now,
I'm concerned again about what else is involved besides coffee.
"No - I just want to go home."  He nods without showing any sign of
disappointment and gets out of the car.  I do likewise and he locks the
door.
"Right - you can walk from here."  I'm quite happy to walk.  Not
surprisingly it's more comfortable than sitting, although half way home
I become aware that I'm wearing nothing under the skirt and suddenly
feel very self-conscious, as if everyone can see the tell-tale marks on
my bare arse.  Thankfully I arrive home without meeting anyone I know
and there's an overwhelming feeling of relief as I close the door behind
me.
***
The rest of the day I couldn't settle on doing anything.  I undressed
and took a long shower.  After that I had to gingerly pat my bottom dry
with a towel before inspecting the marks properly with the aid of a
wardrobe mirror.  The cane had left distinct raised weals from every
single stroke, although the top two were already becoming blue bruises.
I counted them all, but the last two were really indistinguishable and
made up a much broader and fiercer weal than any of the others.  The
backs of my thighs were still covered in red blotches from where he'd
smacked me and I could now make out finger and palm shapes.  At least
they didn't hurt any longer but after I'd been home several hours and
had the shower, my bum was still throbbing.
Lastly I noticed with a start the clear fingermarks on the backs of each
calf - the sting from those smacks hadn't been noticeable for long and
I'd forgotten altogether that he'd slapped me that low down.  God, those
would have been visible to anyone walking behind me on the way home, and
they were unmistakable for what they were!  I thought back - so far as I
remember nobody had walked close enough behind me at any time, but that
nagging, lingering doubt will always be there.
I changed into my night-shirt rather than have any clothes fitting too
closely on my backside and spent the evening lying on the sofa, tummy
down, watching the television.  Thinking about what had happened it was
strange - it had hurt like hell and been really humiliating as well.  On
the other hand it was over with - I had no sense of guilt for the
attempted theft because I had been firmly but fairly punished for it.
At least I wasn't going to have to endure the drawn out shame of a court
appearance and the loss of my job as well.
The next morning I 'phoned my friend Kirsty first thing to say I had a
cold and wouldn't be going swimming with her that morning - my regular
swimsuit would have revealed far too much.
At least at work on the Tuesday I could wear trousers, but I still found
myself feeling embarrassed, especially if I had to bend to pick anything
up - it was almost as if I thought everyone knew what had happened or
could somehow see the still-present marks.  As the week went on, the
marks on my legs disappeared and the most of the cane's weals were
turning to faint bruises.
By the Thursday I was thinking less about what had happened and the
events of a week ago that had led to it.  However thoughts turned that
way again when Mr Brown said he was off to the cash and carry, and would
I be all right for a few hours?
I kept busy around the shop - filling fixtures, checking sell-by dates
and so on, and was just bending to open a case of tinned food when a
hand slapped my bottom none too gently.  Indignant, I stood up and swung
around to face a grinning Mr Bennet.
"Still a bit sensitive is it?"  On seeing who it was, I smiled back.
"No thank you - it's still a bit bruised 'though."
"I'm not at all surprised - still, you've learned your lesson have you?"
"Damn right I have.  I won't get caught doing anything as stupid as that
again."  For a second he looked slightly wistful and disappointed.  "Of
course," I went on, hardly believing that it was my own voice I was
hearing "As you said last week, being brought up in a lax atmosphere at
school and home I suppose I'm still going to do some naughty things from
time to time."
"Naturally, well if you ever feel guilty about something you've done and
want someone to talk it over with, I'm sure I could find the time for
some appropriate guidance.  In fact I own a little cottage about 400
yards from that clearing we went to last Sunday, and if you wanted to
come there on your day off sometime we wouldn't be disturbed."
"Hmm... sometime perhaps..."
***
As I said I'm back at the University for my final year now, but I still
work in the shop on Saturdays and sometimes in the evenings when it's
open late.  Last Tuesday night I was working and helped myself to a
packet of crisps without being asked.  Of course, it's hardly major
theft, but I am a bit worried to find that I still have that
inclination.  It's just as well that, next Sunday, Mr Bennet's driving
me out to his cottage for a long talk.