EMMA AT SCHOOL 21

The rest of the family

In the morning, Hugh went out early and left the two girls to meet Deborah's elder sister, Margaret.  Deborah was visibly nervous about this meeting and explained to Emma that, while her sister had been away at college, Deborah had borrowed her favourite party dress.  She had planned to clean it and put it back without her sister ever knowing; however, she had suffered an 'accident' which, without going into detail, had left the dress in shreds and covered in mud.  Her dad had insisted on her phoning Maggie to tell her what had happened and the hour of reckoning was now near.

"So... does Maggie spank you too?" Emma asked her.  "Is Ian Paisley a protestant?" her lover replied.  "Daddy always let Maggie punish Hugh and me - ever since she was about sixteen.  She's very well practised."

When the wheels finally roared on the gravel drive, Deborah gave her girlfriend a tender kiss and then followed her outside.  "Hi, Maggie," Deborah chirped, skipping gaily up to the new arrival and hugging her warmly.  "D'you have a good trip?" "I did," Margaret replied with a deep, knowing look into her sister's eyes.  "But I see you haven't got out of this childish habit of trying to escape your just punishment have you.  I see I shall simply have to treat you as a child.  Sam!"

Here, Margaret was calling to the driver who had collected her from the station.

"Sam, put my little sister over the bonnet please." "No, Maggie, please.  I wasn't trying to escape anything, honest!" Deborah shrieked, backing away from the well-built young man.  "Please, I know I must be punished.  Only take me upstairs at least where it's private!" But Margaret had turned to continue to unpack the car and Debbie was left facing Sam.

"Please, Sam.  I'm much too old for this, aren't I.  I'm not a little kid any more!"

"No, that you're not, young Debbie.  But it's your sister as I've to answer to and it's for her to judge when you're too old for a turn over the bonnet.  Now.  Will you come quiet like a good girl, or spit and scratch like the naughty little girl you say you ain't no more?" But Deborah failed to see the hidden entreaty in this short speech and tried to run from Sam's clutches as, Emma guessed, she had when younger.  She also guessed that, as he did now, Sam had generally caught the fleeing minx within his strong arms without a great deal of difficulty (though not without receiving a couple of sharp kicks in the shins) and made short work of the harder task of getting the girl's jeans and knickers down around her knees.

"No!  Sam!  Stop it, please!  I'm sorry!" Deborah wailed loudly, but Emma could see that the time for apologies was well passed.  "Miss Margaret," Sam asked as he held on to her half-naked sister, her pussy on brazen display in the open air, "do I have your permission to deliver a few sharp'ens of me own  for the trouble the cheeky wench has put me too?"

"No, Margaret.  Don't let him - please!"

But Margaret had clearly banished any pity from her mind and replied casually, "Certainly, Sam.  I'll be a minute or two with my bags.  You give her bottom a good warming in advance of what she's still to take from me." So, as Emma watched on, marvelling at this family to which she'd come, the driver pulled the crying girl over the car bonnet to prepare her naked cheeks  and then lifted his rough hand to begin a short, but very loud and painful spanking which Deborah bore with no grace at all, kicking her legs and screeching all the while.

Finally, the heavy splattering sound of male hand on female rump ended and Deborah was left in place to mull over her choice of behavior.  In the meantime, Margaret came up to Emma and asked her name.  "Oh yes, of course.  I've heard a lot about you." She glanced back towards her sister and then added, "And you'll know all about Debbie's difficulty with taking punishment.  I hope you are not troubled by the same?"

"No, not at all," Emma replied shyly.  "I recognise when I need to pay for my misdemeanours."

"Good girl," Margaret petted her, before turning again to the weeping girl bent over the car.  "Sam!  Pull her off the car and strip her.  I intend to teach the scamp a good lesson."

"Right you are, Miss Margaret," the man answered, and in a moment had begun his new task, Deborah continuing to plead, but no longer offering any real resistance to her humiliation.

"Emma, please throw this on the ground for me would you?" Margaret asked, passing a blue checked blanket to the onlooker.  While Emma carried out this instruction, she noticed Margaret scanning her luggage until she brought out a long, whippy cane, the sight of which made Deborah dissolve into tears once again.

"It's not right for you to have me undressed in front of Sam," the younger of the sisters was fretting now.  "I'm too grown up!" "Oh for goodness sake," her elder retorted.  "Sam's seen both of us nude on many an occasion when daddy's had cause to tend to either of us, and not long since either.  Nor has the sun been as warm upon us as it is today.  Look here, you hussy!"

With that last comment, Margaret, to Emma's astonishment, began to remove her own clothing.  It was true, she reflected, that it was quite warm enough under the bright summer sun to do so in comfort and, she supposed, if Sam had seen them unclothed many times as they were growing up, it might not seem as shameful as Deborah was making out.  Yet to strip voluntarily in this way?  The family was full of puzzles for Emma.  "See!" Margaret announced once she'd dropped her knickers upon the neat pile of clothes already discarded.  "I don't mind about Sam seeing me, so why should you.  Sam, bring her here to the blanket and hold her for me.  I mean to thrash her very severely for her naughtiness." And then, as both sisters had been brought up to do, she went on to keep her word.  Deborah was placed on the blanket on her hands and knees so that the twin roundness of her behind was neatly positioned for punishment, and then Emma watched for the second time in two days as her lover's bare bottom was soundly beaten, the marks left by Hugh's recent attention still in evidence, although the more vivid red cuts of Margaret's cane were clearly going to last rather longer.

Deborah wailed and cried quite as much as she always did under correction as her sister applied the cane to her bare bottom, Sam holding her steady by the shoulders as the criss-crosses on the young girl's rump were built up.  The sound of her shrieks, together with the crack of the cane upon her skin, was quite as beautiful as any symphony to Emma's ears, the abstract pattern of the welts as alluring as any Picasso.  Emma stood, transfixed, as the wonderful, naked girl wielding the cane continued her work, her breasts swinging delightfully with each stroke; Sam too, Emma could tell, was not immune (how could one expect him to be) to the eroticism of the scene.  Margaret's body seemed to Emma, as a young girl still coming to terms with the changes in her own, to be as close to perfect as was imaginable: long, slender legs capped by a carefully shaped triangle of light hair, the same hair that streamed in a satiny current down the back of her flawless back almost to her waist.  One might, of course, argue well enough that such measures of beauty should be consigned to the history books; the simple fact is, however, that to Emma, a girl of her time, brought up on a diet of teen-magazines from whose pages glanced smoulderingly the eyes of supermodels, the image of beauty in which she had been persuaded to believe was now revealed to her in the naked form of her lover's sister.

A short time only had passed.  Ten loud, angry strokes had been sharply delivered, cutting through the gentle glow produced by Sam's efforts with bright red trails - yet to Emma it had felt like an age.  Probably it had seemed so also to Deborah.

Her work finished, Margaret got to her feet, dressing once more unhurriedly while Deborah held her position on the blanket.  Only when she had finished and had picked up the last of her bags to bring into the house did she turn back to her sister's battered body.

"You may dress now, little sister," she whispered tenderly, stroking the girl's hair.  "And you must learn to accept the punishment due to you, or I shall despair of you entirely."

Somehow, this undetailed threat had a powerful effect on Deborah and, without moving, she replied, "Yes, Margaret.  I shall try.  But it is no fearfully difficult.  Please forgive me."

"Of course," the older girl smiled, kissing her sister's face two or three times with real tenderness.  "Until next time." Although the incident was over much too quickly for Emma, she had an idea that she might yet get another chance to watch Margaret in action.  In fact, this was to come sooner than she had imagined, though not in quite the same situation.

It was at dinner that Emma first met Mr Sharpe, Deborah's, Hugh's and Margaret's father.  He was a biggish man with a kind face and soft voice, and extraordinary gentle, but huge, hands.  They were about half-way through the meal when he began to ask Margaret about her studies at university.  Margaret seemed a little reticent to discuss her work, but did so under her father's patient questioning.  The reason for her hesitancy came out after a short while though, when he asked about her results in the end of year exams.

"I... I didn't do as well as I expected," was her only answer at first.  "I'm sorry to hear that," Mr Sharpe replied.  "By how much did you not do as well?"

"By... I got 2:2s in everything... everything except statistics." Mr Sharpe's face told Emma that this made disappointing news for him; that it made uncomfortable telling for Margaret was blatantly clear.  "And in statistics?"

"I got... I got a third."

"A third?"  Mr Sharpe's rhetorical question was said with eyes downcast.  He looked up.  "You've always been a straight-A student, if one allows for one or two hiccoughs.  What has been going on this year?" "I guess I've been too wrapped up in societies and my new friends and stuff," she explained lamely.  "I promise I'm going to go back next term and really get down to work."

Emma figured that if she could break up for the summer in early June she'd have no trouble in working harder.  She was anxious for Mr Sharpe's reply, however.

"You will have to won't you, if you're not to waste your entire time at college.  I must confess to being extremely disappointed in you.  And..." At this, Margaret's father paused for a moment and looked across the table at Emma for a few moments before returning his gaze to his eldest child.  "... and I cannot help but wonder whether it might help you to focus better on your studies were you to spend a little time beneath my cane." Margaret's face registered not surprise, nor shock, but solely entreaty.  "Really, daddy," she said quietly.  "I'm sure it isn't necessary.  I really will work harder next year."

"I'm not sure that I am."  Emma blushed deep red as Mr Sharpe turned his gaze on her now.  "What do you think, Emma?" "Me?" she stammered.  "I don't know.  I... I know that being punished by a spanking or strapping does help to keep me properly at my work and... and that I should do less well at school if I were never to have to bend down to be beaten."

She met Deborah's eyes, full of love and desire and felt encouraged for a moment, before Margaret's glare found her and diminished her resolve.  "But I am only fifteen.  I'm not sure I would still need to be dealt with in that way once I was at university."

"Yet it rather looks as though my daughter does require exactly that, does it not?"  Mr Sharpe asked then, waiting for several embarrassing seconds before continuing.

"It certainly looks that way to me.  Deborah, fetch the cane from its drawer for me please.  Margaret, you may begin by removing your knickers, just to have something to remind you of what's to come.  Thank you." This last was spoken to Deborah as she brought the cane which Emma had felt the previous night over to her father almost reverentially.  He took it up wistfully, as if he wished very much not to have been forced into using it, and laid it on the table before him while Margaret dutifully stood up and slipped her knickers off, leaving the tiny white, now-shapeless garment on the table before her, an indication to Emma that the instruction was not unfamiliar.

The rest of the meal was eaten with little talk, Margaret trying hard not to allow a tear to escape her eye.  Before the pudding, Mr Sharpe introduced a new issue.

"Now, while we're dispensing discipline, perhaps someone can tell me what has happened to the vase which usually lives on the landing." Emma felt the blood rush suddenly to her face, leading all eyes to her.

"Emma.  Can you help?"

"Yes.  I'm... I'm sorry, I knocked it off the shelf and it broke.  It...  it's in my room.  I haven't told you yet because I was frightened I'd be in trouble."

"More trouble than you'd be in if I had to find out about your error by chance?"

Emma shook her head.

"Let me tell you that if my children lie to me or withhold information, they can expect to be soundly beaten.  Seeing as how you've been here but a day, I don't feel it would be right to take the cane or strap to you." Emma managed to murmur a thank you, but Mr Sharpe continued.

"However, you shall be punished girl.  Come here!"

Obediently, Emma rose to her feet and approached her fierce-looking host.  In a way, she felt as though her impending punishment would bind her a little more closely to Deborah, and make her more a part of the household.  She did, however, fear a deal of pain might soon be hers.  "I spank all my children upon the bare bottom and consider it the only really effective site.  Do you consent to a proper spanking in this manner."

"Yes, Mr Sharpe," the nervous girl answered.

"Very well.  Lift your dress to your waist please." Emma's hands fell to the hem of her best black dress and raised it as required, exposing her plain white knickers to Deborah's father who, with businesslike efficiency, pulled her remaining modesty quickly to her thighs.

Thus unclothed, Emma stood before her prosecutor while he told her of her punishment.

"You have been not only careless, but careless and deceitful.  For the former, you will receive twenty five smacks with my hand.  Your deceitfulness, I will deal with later.  You will come to my room at bedtime for a taste of the hairbrush.  Understood?"

"Yes, Mr Sharpe."

"Good.  Now, over my knee with you."

In her obedient way, Emma kept a hold of her dress while leaning down across her host's lap, he repositioning her just a little to bring her bottom up a little higher.  Then he punished her.  "Oooh, no!  Please!  It hurts!  Oh!" Emma cried, kicking her legs as blow after heavy blow pounded her bared cheeks, Mr Sharpe deaf entirely to her cries.  Indeed, in as much as he noticed her words at all, it is very possible that her genuine pain may have spurred him on.  "Oh, no!  No more, please!  I'm very sorry, really I am!"

As this last utterance left her lips, Mr Sharpe's final smack landed upon her poor, red bottom and he then allowed Emma to get up, rearrange her clothing and return to her seat where, not surprisingly, she found sitting still rather difficult.  Her bottom was stinging like mad and it took a good deal of mental energy to avoid the thought of her later appointment with Mr Sharpe's hairbrush.

Once the pudding had been eaten and the coffee gulped down, the four diners moved to the sitting room, Mr Sharpe taking the cane through with him.  Emma found herself moistening every time she thought on what was to come, assuming, after her spanking, that Margaret's punishment would similarly be public.  So it turned out.

"Are you ready, Margaret?" her father asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Very well.  I know that you are twenty now and I recognise that you are therefore an adult.  However, under my roof, you go by my rules.  I pay for your university and I think I have a right to expect you to work hard in return."

"You are right, daddy," Margaret said.  "I have wasted a lot of time this year and I do deserve the cane.  I'm really sorry for letting you down." At that, Mr Sharpe walked over to his daughter and kissed her.  Then he told her to go to the centre of the room and grasp her ankles.  Margaret did as she was told and Emma watched with delight as Mr Sharpe lifted her skirt to expose her beautifully proportioned bottom.  She struggled to keep herself from slipping a hand between her legs as he picked up the cane and shuffled unconsciously in her seat as he raised it high in the air.

CRACKK!

"Yeooow!"  Despite her twenty years and long acquaintance with corporal punishment, a caning from her father was always a punishment through which Margaret had to struggle to stop herself from running away from the terrible pain.

With ten or fifteen second intervals between strokes, Mr Sharpe continued to flog his daughter in view of her brother, sister and guest while she, oblivious now to all but the exploding agony of her bottom, screamed with pain and anguish.

"Six," Emma counted under her breath.  "Seven."

"Oooow!  Nooooooo!  Please - no more, I can't take.... Noooooooo!" For an twelfth time, Mr Sharpe raised the cane high above the half-naked girl before him before delivering one final devastating blow.  Margaret kept her position while Mr Sharpe went over to a cabinet to pour himself a drink.  Emma could see the clear welts where each stroke had cut across her fair skin, the markings much more severe than those that she had recently applied to her sister's behind.  Now that Mr Sharpe's back was turned, one hand stole between her thighs to stroke her enrage clitoris for a few seconds, Emma snatching her fingers away when the man turned back towards them.

"When you feel you have recovered, Margaret," he said, I am going to give you four more strokes which you will receive naked.  You may undress whenever you feel ready."

This time, there was no meek protest from Margaret, in fact there was no response at all for a few minutes during which time Mr Sharpe came over to talk to the younger children.  Finally, though, Margaret did rouse herself and begin to prepare for the coming final part of her ordeal.  In front of them all, she pulled each piece of clothing off, brazenly facing them throughout, including when she finally removed her skirt to leave her stark naked before them all.  Once that was completed Mr Sharpe left her to stand that way for a few minutes more before taking her arm and guiding her over to the room's large sofa, the very one over which Deborah had been spanked by Hugh the night before.

This time, however, the offender was to receive no mere spanking.  Mr Sharpe pushed his daughter right over the back of the piece of furniture before returning to collect his cane.  Emma sensed that, although there were only four more strokes to come, this would be the worst part of the punishment.  The welts across Margaret's bottom were now looking extremely fierce and Emma felt guilty about her previous sexual arousal.  Yet as Mr Sharpe lifted the cane above his head to complete his daughter's correction, Emma felt the juices flowing between her thighs once more.  The cane whistled through the air towards its target where the gun-shot sound of its impact was met with a true scream of pain from its victim.  Four times this was repeated.  Four times the cane flashed hotly through the air.  Four times its fierce velocity was subdued by the round curves of Margaret's bum.  Four times, her throaty screeches of pain echoed around the small room.

Finally, her ordeal was over.  Mr Sharpe ordered her to remain in place so that she could "properly reflect on how she came to be in that uncomfortable position" and Margaret duly spent most of the next hour bent over the sofa, rubbing her caned bottom and weeping, allowed to get up only to go to the loo and to make the other four a cup of tea.  Only when the clock struck ten did Margaret finally get her release.  "Bedtime," said Mr Sharpe loudly, at which word Emma's drifting thoughts suddenly came down to earth with a bang.  "Emma, get ready for bed and then come to my room!"

The girl did as she was told, speaking to no one as she brushed her teeth and washed carefully before donning her nightie and walking along the corridor to Mr Sharpe's room.

"Come!" came the male voice from within when she knocked on the door.  Emma pushed the door open and walked in.  There was a big double bed in the centre of the room, on which, Emma noticed as soon as she entered, sat a large wooden hairbrush.  The room itself was warm and pleasant - only the purpose of her visit left Emma shaky and apprehensive.  "Right," Mr Sharpe said with his back to her as he sat at a large mahogany desk.  "Nightie off and lay on the bed please." Again, as Emma stripped to her knickers, she felt a surge of heat to her secret places, a moistening of lips and dampening of knickers.  As she lay on the bed she imagined Mr Sharpe bending down to lick her clit and...  "Wake up!"

Emma opened her eyes to find Mr Sharpe standing over her in a blue terry robe.  She didn't move.

"Let's have those knickers off too then shall we?"

Her body visibly shivering now, Emma moved her fingers slowly down to the waistband of her knickers and then, with steady determination, eased them down her thighs, whereupon Mr Sharpe took hold of them and slipped them right off leaving her naked on his bed.

"Now, roll over, that's it.  This way.  Put your feet through here." Gradually, Mr Sharpe guided Emma into place, her bottom raised up just a little by the turn of a quilt and her feet trapped through the bars at the end of the bed.

"I'm giving you sixteen," he said.  "The same number as Maggie got with the cane, and you can consider yourself lucky to have escaped that.  Deceit is something of which I take a very dim view.  You'll count aloud please." With those last words, Mr Sharpe picked up the hairbrush and went to work.  Down the corridor, Debbie listened with a mixture of sympathy, lust and revenge as the howls rang out through the house, each one presaged by the thud of the hairbrush against skin.

"Five!" yelled Emma as the hairbrush burned her bottom again.  Although she knew that the cane would be worse, at that particular moment, she couldn't understand how.

"Nooooooo!" she screeched, almost forgetting the number afterwards, as Margaret listened from next door with a sense of justice, given the young girl's comments at the dinner table.

Her bottom was still extremely sore from her caning, and she was laying on her bed face down and naked to stop the pain growing.  Concentrating on the noises from next door helped.

"Fifteen!  Ooooooooo!"

"Yeowwwwhh!  Sixteen!"

As he had with his own daughter, Mr Sharpe left Emma there on the bed for a few minutes, telling her that, when she felt ready, she might put her nightie back on, but not her knickers.  She thought of telling him that putting her knickers back on was not at the top of her list of priorities.  However, she did not at that point realise why Mr Sharpe made her leave them off.

When she was standing before his, ready to leave, he reached up to take her hand and pull her over his knee once more.  Then Emma, who never resisted any punishment, found her skirt raised and her bottom bared once more.  "I realise that I implied that your time under the hairbrush would be the end of your punishment tonight," Mr Sharpe said, his large hand falling sharply on Emma's already tender rump six times in quick succession.  "However, I want you to recognise that I am in charge in this house and be sure that you are prepared to take the mark of it if I consider it necessary."

As he spoke, he spanked - not quite as hard as earlier in the evening, yet hard enough to ensure a steady stream of tears from Emma.  "And if that means that I ask you to present your bare bottom to me to receive a spanking, or slippering, or strapping or even a caning, you will do so immediately and without question."

There had been about twenty or thirty smacks by now, and Mr Sharpe helped the girl to her feet.

"Is that perfectly clear, Emma?"

"Yes, Mr Sharpe.  I know I'm sometimes naughty and deserve to be punished.  And if I am naughty, I realise that I must expect the same punishment as Margaret or Debbie, even if... even if that means the cane." "You're a good girl, Emma," Mr Sharpe said gently, stroking her hair.

"Have a good night's sleep."

Emma did sleep well.  In the morning, she could not remember her dreams; dreams of being made to kneel on Mr Sharpe's bed with her knickers round her thighs and holding the cane behind her for an hour while he told her off, and then being placed on all fours by his gentle hands while he lined the cane up across her bared bottom, Mr Sharpe telling her how naughty she was between strokes, and then afterwards, "what a good girl".  She remembered nothing of her dark, damp visions of what followed: Emma slowly undressing first her punisher and then herself and then lying back with her legs back almost to her ears while Mr Sharpe plunged his hardness into her.  She remembered none of this.  But she did wake to find her hand between her legs and a warm glow surrounding her.  And she did think of her girlfriend's father and, for no reason she could understand, smile.

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