TheCane Is No Joke! By Alex

Marissa Jamieson was happy. This had been a real fun day. At last the on-off and again on-off-on planning of the last three months finally seemed worthwhile. Perhaps she was actually going to herself during the next 10 months.

10 months ago, a little after her 18th birthday and not long after her high school graduation, she had been expecting to go to the local Community College near the distinctly up-scale coastal town in Connecticut, where she lived. Then her dad had been offered a really interesting transfer to France in the coming year. This had created a crisis. Marissa had a rather stormy relationship with her parents, a somewhat peculiar couple. Her dad came from very strict, Southern Baptist, roots, while her mother came from a distinctly carefree Brazilian family. Marissa, not surprisingly had grownup as a very disobedient young woman. Her dad usually threatened dire retribution and, when she was still in Junior High, had whapped her bottom with a slipper on a few occasions. But her mother's more generous manner had generally intervened between them during her high school years. When it came to the present crisis, however, her dad's much stricter standards had ruled. No way was he going to trust his daughter if they were in Europe and she was still in the U.S.. He did have a sister in Georgia, but Marissa hated her so much that she refused point blank a suggestion that she might start in a Community College down there.

Her mother had the bright idea that Marissa could go to college in England for a year, close enough to her parents for supervision. Rather surprisingly, Marissa had been granted an exchange student place at Sussex University. But the start of the academic year would leave a month's gap after her parents' arrival in France where, unfortunately, the nature of her dad's activities excluded Marissa's company. He had then located an English cousin also named Jamieson, a retired school teacher about 70years in age, who lived with his wife in a small Sussex village.. They had agreed, somewhat reluctantly, to accommodate this never-before-met American cousin for a month.

She had now been there for two weeks and the arrangement had mixed results. The couple tried their best to be welcoming, arranging for her to spend time with other young adults around the village, and even offering the use of their car under very specific conditions.

"We know it is usual for children in America to have their own car at your age, but that is not so here. Nevertheless, since we have very few buses through the village, we will lend you our car for trips of strictly limited distance and duration."

Marissa had gratefully taken advantage of this offer. The couple, however, were very formal and rather strict, indeed, cold in Marissa's eyes. Altogether too much like her dad. Marissa, disobedient and somewhat impertinent by nature, and not in the least inclined to courtesy, soon started to argue with them. They were becoming increasingly upset. Then they discovered that she had used their car to visit a certain Mikey Yates, a young man who was regarded as a bad hat by most people in the village. Marissa was a young woman of slightly exotic looks and exceptional allure, with her Brazilian mother's blood. Her hair was nearly black and her figure just slightly on the voluptuous side, with a fullness to her breasts and bottom combined with the small waist and firm.belly of a young and active woman. The young man had at once decided to go after her. But her guardian hosts, guessing as much, had been forthrightly angry.

"We have agreed to your staying with us for this month out of respect for your parents, and we have a very serious responsibility to them in regard to your well-being. You may not use the car henceforth!"

This was a disaster! Two weeks confined mostly to pedestrian activities in this wretched village would be completely unbearable! With the help of a new friend, she managed to see Mikey again, and he persuaded her that she should take the risk of borrowing the stupid old couple's car for a day, and they could drive down to the nearest coastal town and have a cracking good day. "What can they do to you, after all? They'll just yell and scream ... and they'll do that anyway!"

So she had done so, and indeed the two of them had enjoyed themselves to, or even past, the limit. They'd found a hidden field for making out. He'd persuaded her ,easily, to have sex, an activity in which she was already well practiced. After they'd both thrown off their clothes, he'd kissed her in every possible place. The sight and feel of the small, dark, neat patch of fine pubic hair on her mons had made him desperate to "get right in there," in his words. She'd responded by doing what she had discovered would drive any young man crazy with urgency, turning over onto all fours with her shoulders to the ground, her legs wide apart, and her bottom stuck right up, inviting him to enter her from behind. She almost went as far as telling him to try her arsehole. She'd done this with a couple of guys before, finding she enjoyed her sense of power over their frantic gasping, wriggling, thrusting and helpless cries, as they exploded against her bottom. But she didn't really know this young man well enough. . He had, however and as expected, come explosively and deeply in her welcoming pussy, and then practically collapsed, draped exhausted over her up-thrust rear end. When he'd recovered, he'd delighted her by asking for her lipstick and drawing a bright red heart on her right bottom cheek, adding initials, MY at the feathered end of the conventional arrow, her initials, MJ, where it merged from the heart, and then continuing the shaft in a sharp curve, inwards around the crease between cheek and thigh and then curving up the inside of her thigh, to end pointing into her pussy. She'd had to use her vanity mirror, held between her legs, to admire this artful device. When she'd finally her short, summer dress back on again, she laughingly commented that she'd have to be careful that no strangers saw up her skirt, or they'd probably take the design as an invitation.

So the day had indeed been a lot of fun. Maybe this trip to England was going to be blast after all! She'd just dropped Michael off at his home. Just before they'd got there, and even while she was still driving, he'd reached up her dress, pushed inside her panties and wriggled his fingers into her crotch. She'd opened her thighs wider to let him in more easily and felt his fingers pressing into her pussy, ":"Jesus!" he'd exclaimed, "You're still all wet and sticky down there!" "What do you expect?!" she'd retorted, "That was quite a load you shot up me!! Now you'd better get your hands out of there before I crash the car!" Mike did as ordered, looked at the glistening goo on his fingers, and chuckled at the memory. He got out of the car and came round to the open driver's window, "We're going to do this again, right?" "Sure," she smiled, and then added on the spur of the moment, "Sure, and there's another hole down there, if you're interested?!" For a second he looked non-plussed, before a huge smile spread over his face. He was about to say something, but she drove off before the words could come out of his mouth. She started smiling to herself, but now she was headed back to her hosts' house and her expression suddenly changed as, at last, she started seriously to wonder what their reaction would be. She'd have to give them some apology, something about this being quite normal back home. They were sure to scream and yell, but she would just let it wash over, as she did with her dad.

She parked the car in the driveway and got out. The front door was unlocked and she went in, now getting nervous. From the hall she could see that the couple were standing in the living room. They must have heard the car. She almost went straight upstairs, but thought she'd better get it over with immediately. Mr. Jamieson was standing looking out of the window, with his back to her, hands behind his back. She could only see him as a dark shape to begin with, because she was looking into the late afternoon, shining straight through the window. His wife was standing to one side, facing her, and Marissa could see her clearly, clearly enough to see that she was very angry.

Marissa was searching for the words of an apology, but Mrs. Jamieson spoke first. "This is ... absolutely intolerable ... and we have already taken action." Marissa tried to say that she hadn't even given her explanation, so how could they know what was intolerable. But Mrs. Jamieson cut her short again.

"We know exactly what you've been doing ... gallivanting around the town with that terrible Mikey what's'isname ... you were seen by at least two people, both of whom called us on the telephone. There is no purpose in your saying anything at all. We have already called your parents and told them that we cannot put up with this behaviour. They have asked us, in turn, to allow you to stay here if it is at all possible, and your father has told us that we may take any disciplinary action we deem appropriate to make that possible. They have also told us that you can return to an aunt in Georgia, if it is impossible for you to stay here, and that you could go to college there. We have already telephoned the airline and found out that you may use your return ticket tomorrow, if we wish it."

Marissa was entirely dumbstruck, realizing that she'd fallen straight into an appalling mess of her own making. While Mrs. Jamieson was inexorably opening this trap, Marissa had been glancing at her husband, who still stood facing the window. As her eyes became accustomed to the light, she noticed that he was holding something in the hands clasped behind his back. It was long and thin. She had never actually seen such an object before, nevertheless, perhaps arising in a universal lore of school children, she intuitively knew what it was. It was a cane! Oh my God!, She also knew what it was used for. Mr. Jamieson, now slowly turned to face her, transferring that long, thin, object in his hands as he did so, so that he now held it with both hands, horizontally in front of himself.

"My wife has explained everything and I see no point in prolonging this by a discussion with you. You may choose to leave to go back to America tomorrow, or you may stay with appropriate disciplinary action on our part and when you leave for the University in two weeks we will give you all the documents which your parents have entrusted us. Which is it to be?"

"I ... I long do I have to decide?"

"You have no more time. You must decide now. Having spent an entire day in this extraordinarily dissolute fashion and clearly with some planning in the past, you have forfeited any time that you otherwise would have had. I think one minute is enough."

He looked at his watch, and stood there. Marissa could barely think, let alone speak. Go back to that totally awful aunt and stay with her for months? No! She simply couldn't do that. Stay here? What was going to happen? They still hadn't said, but for sure it had something to do with that cane he was holding! It was years since her dad had used a slipper on her ... how bad could this be? Probably quite bad, but surely she could stand it? She was vaguely aware that her usual rebellious self had somehow just evaporated, she didn't know how or why.

"I ... I guess I'll stay here."

"Very well, then we know what we'll do, and we'll do it now. As you are aware, I was a schoolmaster all my life, and in that capacity I had a great deal of experience in dealing with disobedient children, although I must say you are rather extreme in this regard. The appropriate punishment was the cane. Not surprisingly, I also had a great deal of experience in administering it. I did not expect to continue such a duty after I had retired, but you have brought that about. You will receive a caning, after which I hope you will apologise and correct your behaviour."

Marissa felt paralyzed by this rapid unfolding of a world which she had formerly heard about only in vague rumour. Why couldn't she scream? Or run? She didn't know. Mr. Jamieson sighed deeply, then stepped slowly to wards the center of the room. He pointed to a spot on the carpet with that long, thin, cane.

"Come and stand here," Marissa shuffled to the spot as if she'd become a puppet. "Now turn around and face the door ...Now bend over, right over, and touch the floor, further ... you are young enough to do that easily."

Marissa could indeed do exactly that, and she now suddenly found herself looking at the carpet, about a foot from her face. She felt tapping on the insides of her ankles and looked to see that he had placed the tip of his cane there, tapping it to and fro.

"Get you feet apart ... more ... like that ... stay in that position."

The tip of the cane move to the of the back of her dress, caught it, lifted it back and up, and deposited it folded above her waist. Her bottom, protected only by panties, was now completely exposed. There was a sudden gasp and then complete silence. Events had moved so quickly that it was only now she remembered. Oh God! Mike's fancy artistry with her lipstick! The shock was so awful that it at last brought her out her daze. This was both a good and a bad thing. At least her mind was working again now, but there seemed to be absolutely nothing she could do about the situation.

The silence seemed go on forever. The late afternoon was flooding the room with golden light and even Marissa, young and somewhat uncouth though she was, was not insensitive to its effect. She found herself amazed at the contradiction between the beauty of her surroundings and the view she had of it, looking back and up between her legs, Mr. Jamieson's feet and the tip of the cane visible a little behind her and Mrs. Jamieson's feet and legs a bit further away.

The silence was at last broken by Mr. Jamieson. He coughed.

"I fear that this situation is even worse than we feared ... Deidre, I think that you should pull down her ... whatever one might call those excuse for knickers. ... they're hardly fit for a bedroom, let alone a public place."

Marissa saw his wife's feet advance to close behind her. This disaster was rapidly going from bad to worse. She felt fingers fumbling at the waist of her panties and then that flimsy garment was pulled gingerly down to her knees, stretched taut between her parted legs. More gasps and another stunned silence. Mrs. Jamieson broke it this time.

"This is unspeakable! I'm afraid, Arthur, that you are absolutely correct. This is far, far worse than we had feared . . the disgusting signs of what she and that dreadful Mikey have been up to are still appallingly apparent. I think we need to reconsider the appropriate response."

"I fear you are correct dear!' Another pause, then, "Marissa, get up!" Marissa did so red-faced but thankfully, pulling up her panties as her skirt fell back into place. "You had better go upstairs and clean off all this disgusting mess, then come down here again."

Marissa almost fled from the living room, ran up the stairs, into her bedroom, slammed the door shut and threw herself on the bed. What a totally unbelievable screw-up! She wanted just to lie there and cry, but she knew that, whatever fate awaited her, it depended on that horrible couple downstairs, and that she had better try not to make them even angrier. So she threw off the clothes and got in the antiquated shower. At least the hot water felt good. She soaped and rubbed all over, but with especial intensity between her thighs and around her bottom. The lipstick proved a little difficult to remove. Sticking her bottom out at the mirror and looking back over her shoulder to see whether she had been successful, pressing her fingers into her bottom cheek, it finally dawned her what Mr.Jamieson was threatening to do. He was going to cane her! The idea of some old guy beating her bottom with a stick, that he had actually told her to bend over and present her bottom so that he could do this, seemed beyond weird and gross. Her dad had whacked her with a slipper, but that was years ago, and he had just grabbed her in a rage and bent her over his knee.

She had to get dressed and go down stairs again. What was going to happen? Maybe they'd send her back to the States after all? But absolutely anything would be better than that, even Mr. Jamieson and his cane? Maybe they'd have calmed down by then? She slipped on a T-shirt and jeans ...maybe, if he did cane her, the jeans would help?

When she reentered the living room it was obviously not going to be any better. In fact, things looked almost the same as when she had first come back to the house, except that Mrs. Jamieson was now sitting in an armchair, as furious as ever. . The golden light of the sun was somehow coexisting with a frozen silence. Mr. Jamieson was once again standing looking out of the window, hands clasped behind him, although at least he was no longer holding the cane. He heard her come into the room and slowly turned around. "I see that at least you have clean clothes on, not that that is going to be relevant at this particular moment." What did that mean? Marissa soon found out.

"Take all you clothes off ... you can put them on that chair over there."

"I ... I'm sorry, Mr. Jamieson.... What did you say?"

"Are you deaf as well as extraordinarily disobedient Marissa? I said take all your clothes off .... You evidently did something like that for an extraordinarily bad reason earlier today ... you can now do it for a much better reason."

"I ... I ... I don't want to do that ..."

"WANT?!! This is not a matter of what you want, it is a matter of what is required. Let me just educate you a little, since it is evident that you are lacking in that area ... when you are to be punished for disobedience, you do exactly what you are ordered ... exactly, with no further disobedience, ... until your punishment is finished, with no argument. If you argue, then your punishment will simply be increased. Is THAT what you want?"

Marissa still did not really know what her punishment was going to be, but she certainly did not want it to be any worse. It was slowly dawning on her that Mr. Jamieson had an obsession with disobedience, and that what she regarded simply as her own choice, he regarded as disobedience. "Uh ... uh... no, Mr. Jamieson. I'm sorry"

"Good, and I am relieved to know that you know the word 'sorry' ... not that it will mean much until there is actually something for you to be sorry about. We are about to see to that. Now do what I asked you. Take off your clothes, all of them, and leave them on that chair."

Marissa felt herself once again overwhelmed by disbelief. She stared helplessly in the direction to which Mr. Jamieson had pointed, swallowed hard and moved over to the chair, a rather ugly wooden one. As she did so, she noticed something else that did not bode well, even in her ignorance. A small, heavy, square table, which usually lived against a wall, had been moved to the center of the room. And on it lay the cane.

She started to take off all her clothes, feeling oddly clumsy. Her sandals, her T-shirt, her jeans, her bra, and finally her panties. As she looked down past the swelling and the nipples of her breasts to the neat, dark patch of pubic hair at the base of her young, firm belly, the memory of Mikey's fingers and tongue working on these parts of her body seemed peculiar, to say the least.

She was now completely naked. A disinterested observer would have marveled at the beauty of the swelling curves, dark hollows and the smooth skin of her young body, aglow in the evening sun, but the cold faces of Mr. and Mrs. Jamieson seemed far from such admiration. He now strode to the repositioned square table, picked up the cane, and rapped the hard wood surface, "Come over here, stand by that side of the table, not quite so close, back a bit, get your legs apart, a little further, now bend over, further... get right down on the table, that's better ... grasp the edge of the table ... more tightly, your hands are not to leave it, now look straight ahead .... Press your waist down again and keep your bottom up."

Marissa felt the tip of the cane pressing into the small of her naked back. "You are not to move from that position until your caning is over" You will receive twelve strokes ... prepare yourself.'

Things had moved so quickly again that her brain could scarcely keep up. Twelve strokes ... was that a lot? It didn't sound it ... her dad must have given her thirty or fourty whacks with the slipper. This was all awful, but perhaps it wouldn't be quite as bad as she had feared. She felt a thin, hard line of pressure across her bottom cheeks. She wanted to look back at him, but he'd told her face ahead. The line of pressure lifted, returned, lifted and returned again. There was a threatening silence and she found her mind .transfixed by the sense of her bare bottom, sticking up behind her, with that thin hardness across its center.

She barely heard the swish of the cane and the thwack of its impact across her cheeks. All that she was aware was an explosion of fiery pain that suddenly erupted at the base of her body and then engulfed her brain.

For a few moments she was conscious of nothing else at all. Then the excruciating pain began slowly to ebb back into her bottom and she was able to open eyes, already filling with tears, to find herself half-upright, staring into the momentarily strange space of the Jamieson's living room, while her hands were clutching desperately at her still burning bottom cheeks.

A realization of her situation slowly returned to her mind. Mr. Jamieson had just delivered a first blow with his cane across her bottom, and her whole world seemed to have exploded. She let out a huge breath that she found she'd been holding, gasped for air, and then slowly turned to look back at her host. Mr. Jamieson seemed not only quite unmoved, but even satisfied. He was holding the cane in both hands, slowly bending it to and fro.

"This is your first and last chance. Resume your position and keep it. Otherwise you will receive extra strokes for every transgression."

Marissa took a huge breath and turned to face the front again. Somehow she managed to obey his order. Eleven more times his cane hissed and thwacked across her proffered cheeks. Eleven more times her bottom lifted, clenched, opened and twisted in agonized response as the fire of each successive stroke flared and then slowly melted into a massive, burning ache.

Finally it was over. "Stand up, get your clothes, and go to your room. There will be no dinner for you tonight."

Marissa, by now sobbing loudly with tears running down her cheeks, did so, one arm grasping the bundle of her clothes and the other.clutching the pain in her bottom as she stumbled up the staircase.

In her room,the first thing she did was to go to her mirror to look at her bottom. The sight horrified her. Her entire bottom was burning red and a mass of deep crimson bruises with purple splodges spread across the crown and lower cheeks. In the center, symmetrically on either side of her strangely pale cleft, the marks criss-crossed in an angry pattern On the outside of her right cheek the darkening blue ends of individual strokes splayed out, plainly visible. Just as horrifying was the discovery that all these marks were swollen, hot and puffy.

Marissa had finally learned, not only about the notion of disobedience, but also about the purpose of her bottom. She did not even want to go down to supper that night, but stayed in her room, as the hot aching slowly dulled, the bruises grew even more colourful, with crimsons, blues, greys, even yellows, and the swollen ridges hardened. For a long time, lying on her stomach, she tried to comfort her aching bottom with her hands, until finally her fingers reached into the creases and folds of her pussy and she became moist with the returning memory of how Mikey's visit there had preceded Mr. Jamieson's cane. Her hips began to jerk convulsively in a strange melding of their action under the attentions of both, so different and yet so close. So hot.

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