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  ‘Stay still, you little bitch!’ she swore, and twisted my arm harder still, even as she applied the third swat, the hardest yet.

  A fourth followed, laid full across my bum cheeks, and a fifth, lower, catching my thighs as well as my bum. With that I lost control completely.

  I’ve been spanked a lot of times, by a lot of people. Marjorie Burgess was one of the worst, really hard, merciless. Her big arm was going up and down like a piston – smack, smack, smack – until my screams had turned from outrage to pain and my overriding emotion from humiliation to a burning self-pity. It hurt so much, every blow slamming into my poor bare bottom, to jam my body into the sink. My buttocks were wobbling crazily, my tits shaking to the same rhythm, with a mixture of cream and water dribbling from the bare one. My feet weren’t even on the ground, but high and wide, kicking in a frantic, futile response to my pain. With the men watching from behind me, I tried to stay knock-kneed, to keep my pussy and anus hidden from them. It didn’t work, the pain was too much, and I gave what must have been a thoroughly dirty and undignified show of my whole bottom, every detail.

  I don’t know when I burst into tears, but it was long before the end. I usually cry when I’m spanked, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t. I do love being punished, but that doesn’t stop it hurting, and this time it wasn’t even supposed to be erotic, but a genuine punishment. I had every right to cry. My tears didn’t stop her, she just carried on – smack, smack, smack. She might not even have noticed, with her anger and the way the water was cascading down over my head, but she must have heard my cries change in tone; the broken catch, and the snivelling, miserable gulps that came between my screams.

  By the time she finally stopped I was completely broken. She let go and I sank down, to my knees, no longer caring for the blatant display I was making of my bottom. After all, they’d seen everything, and there was no possible doubt that they had wanted to.

  I’d realised it was a set-up from the moment she’d told me my panties were coming down. If my spanking had really been given in anger she’d have left them up. After all, they weren’t very big, and left most of my bum cheeks sticking out at the sides anyway. Even if she had been determined to get me bare, she’d only needed to have tugged them down, or just pulled them up into my bum crease. People who tell a girl her panties are coming down for a spanking are getting a kick out of doing it, a sexual kick.

  There were other things too. The Colonel’s lack of resistance when he found his wife beating me, Graeme’s knowledge of how to make me angry. They knew what I was like. I had no idea how, but they knew. They’d done it well too, because I was in that glorious state of utter, wanton submission that comes only after a really good spanking. Even if it had been genuine I’d have masturbated, although obviously not in front of them. As it was, it was only fair I give them the rudest possible show.

  All three were there, Marjorie standing over me, slightly out of breath, the men further back, at the edge of my vision. I could barely see through my tears, and I was still snivelling a little, with mucus running down my lip. So I gave them a little wiggle to show that I was OK, and to express my thanks for the spanking. None responded, just watched, which was fine by me. Pushing out my bottom, I found the wet crevice of my sex, and began to masturbate.

  I must have looked a fine sight, kneeling there, one cream smeared tit hanging out of my wet dress, my hair sodden, my bare bum stuck out, both cheeks smacked red, my anus on show in her little nest of hair, my sex lips showing and my fingers busy between them. It certainly felt good, and my need to make a real display of myself rose with my pleasure.

  There were parsnips on the worktop, left over from the neeps, big ones, fat at the top, and tapering to narrow ends. It was too much to resist. I snatched up at them, pulling three down. The fattest went up my pussy, stuffed in, big end first. I was so wet it slid up on the second push, to leave me stretched and gaping, with half of it sticking obscenely out of my hole. The second I put to my bumhole, thin end first, easing it into my little sweaty ring, and up, until it began to hurt. Well plugged, I went back to masturbating, now in a squat, thighs wide, sat on the parsnips so that I could push them slowly deeper as I frigged.

  As soon as I touched my clitty I knew it wasn’t going to take long. I began to rub, my other hand going to my chest. I pulled out my covered breast, smearing cream across the sensitive skin and pinching the already hard nipple. With the orgasm rising in my head I began to buck and wriggle, squirming my bottom on the intruding parsnips, alternately snatching at my slimy breasts and the hot, rough skin of my smacked buttocks. I began to mumble, thanking them over and over again, until at last it hit me and I screamed out in pure, uncontrolled ecstasy, my whole body going rigid as I came.

  I held it as long as I could, and collapsed, purring happily to myself, thoroughly content, my eyes closed, my mouth set in a happy smile. Remembering Graeme’s argument, now obviously designed to wind me up, I laughed, and spoke as I turned to look at him.

  ‘I think that proves my point, don’t …’

  I trailed off. He wasn’t smiling, he was staring, open mouthed. So was the Colonel, his face set in an expression of absolute outrage, one muscle twitching in his cheek. Above me, Marjorie Burgess was also staring, her face frozen in astonishment.

  I realised that the punishment had, after all, been genuine.

  INTIMATE INSTRUCTION

  Arabella Knight

  About the Author

  Arabella Knight is one of our most evergreen authors, whose tales of dominance and discipline have delighted Nexus readers for a few years now. Her wayward young characters are taught how to behave and soon develop an appetite for the pleasures of punishment. In this extract from Intimate Instruction, her latest Nexus book, young Emma Wyndlesham arrives at Lament’s Hall, an institution to which the upper classes consign their wayward daughters for discipline, and ends up as the victim of a painful case of mistaken identity …

  Also by Arabella Knight

  THE ACADEMY

  CONDUCT UNBECOMING

  CANDY IN CAPTIVITY

  SUSIE IN SERVITUDE

  THE MISTRESS OF STERNWOOD GRANGE

  TAKING PAINS TO PLEASE

  BROUGHT TO HEEL

  THEY WERE IN a spartanly furnished study. A desk, good Adam period chairs, a patterned carpet. A large blue vase of early daffodils and, incongruously, framed photographs of fifties and sixties female tennis stars, softened the hardness of the room. Orange flames flickered in an open hearth, their dancing light reflected in the polished walnut of a chest of drawers.

  Emma stood before a desk. It was littered with open files and scattered sheets of paper – the only note of discord in the neat room around her. Seated at the desk, gazing at Emma steadily, was a handsome woman in her early forties. Her steel grey hair was swept back into a severe chignon. She wore a crisp blouse, pearl buttoned, with a small cameo fixed at the throat. The woman’s pale blue eyes scanned Emma unblinkingly as she asked for some identification. Emma, giving her name and the purpose of her business at Laments, produced her driving licence.

  The grey hair gleamed as the woman bent her head down to study the licence. Emma caught the whiff of jasmine perfume across the polished leather of the desktop.

  ‘And what did you say your purpose at Laments was?’ The pale blue eyes gazed up unblinkingly. The lipstick-free mouth was resolute, suggestive of a firm, dominant personality. The sensual lips were pursed.

  Emma explained once again, producing the paperwork she had been assigned to serve and handing them across the desk.

  ‘Ah, the Wigmore girl.’

  Emma frowned. Clearly this stern woman could be no relation of the Right Honourable Rebecca. Emily’s thoughts stole back out on to the terrace to the scene she had glimpsed through the leaded window. Had it been Rebecca receiving the severe spanking? Emma felt a little confused.

  ‘You’re wet, girl.’

  Emma, her panties soaked after witnessing the spanking, blus
hed.

  ‘Slip off your Barbour and shoes and take a chair by the fire.’

  Wet. Raindrops glistened on her Barbour as she peeled it off. Suppressing a fleeting grin, Emma accepted the invitation, obediently kicking off her shoes and making herself comfortable by the blazing fire. She turned her face and hands towards the heat. Sniffing delicately, she savoured the slightly pungent aroma from the pearwood logs crackling in the hearth.

  ‘You shall see the Wigmore girl in a few minutes. This matter must be dealt with at once. There must be no delay, and no scandal. The girl’s parents are out in Tokyo,’ the silver-haired woman added, tidying up the files on her desk. ‘Sir Joseph and Lady Wigmore are launching an important business deal in Japanese television.’

  Those Wigmores, Emma thought, recognising the name. The family owned several theatres as well as a growing media empire.

  Emma grew impatient. ‘Are you Rebecca’s aunt?’ she asked politely, knowing that the woman at the desk certainly wasn’t.

  ‘In loco parentis. And you may rest assured that I will see to it that the account is settled and that the Wigmore family name is fully protected.’

  Emma replied that was exactly what NVK always strived to achieve.

  ‘I am so very glad to hear you say so, my girl.’

  Brushing aside the mild annoyance of ‘my girl’, Emma struggled to decode an elusive clue the woman had let slip. In loco parentis. The phrase stirred in her brain.

  ‘Laments,’ the stern woman continued, rising from her desk, ‘is an institution which takes in young ladies who, like the Wigmore girl, require guidance and training.’

  A private school. A girls boarder, Emma thought. ‘I see. Private, I mean public school?’ Emma smiled.

  ‘An institution,’ the suave reply cut in, ‘where the emphasis is placed on appropriate training. Training,’ she continued, patting her chignon, ‘and correction. The girls come to us the despair of their parents. Conventional methods have frequently proved profitless. They are wayward, spoiled and badly in need of discipline.’

  Discipline. The nude blonde, bare bottomed, being given a hot, red bottom in the drawing room. Emma gulped.

  ‘Laments, of which I am the Head,’ the woman continued, approaching one of the framed photographs of tennis amazons on the wall and straightening it affectionately, ‘provides such girls with a very strict regime, a bracing lifestyle along with what I deem to be the undoubted benefits of intimate instruction.’

  Intimate instruction. Emma’s thoughts returned swiftly once more to the bare-bottomed spanking in the drawing room. Its fascination haunted her. Just one remembered glimpse of the firm palm sweeping down across the suffering, upturned cheeks was enough to juice her prickling slit. Intimate instruction. So. Little miss hot-cheeks was a pupil here at Laments, benefiting from a little spot of one-to-one tuition.

  ‘Felicity Flint,’ the Head said, approaching Emma, extending her hand.

  Emma rose, smiled and shook hands – wincing slightly at the firmness of the other’s grasp.

  ‘We’ll have the Wigmore girl in now, I think.’ As she strode back towards her desk to use the intercom, Emma noted the athletic, tanned legs. Powerfully thighed, tautly muscled. The Head, she observed, wore white ankle socks and white laced-up pumps. As Emma watched the Head bend down to speak, she fleetingly wondered if any of the naughty girls ever felt the fury of a supple white pump across their bare, quivering buttocks. Probably.

  ‘Miss Watson.’

  ‘Yes, Dr Flint?’ a metallic voice replied.

  ‘Come to my study.’

  ‘Yes, Dr Flint.’

  Moments later, there was a polite tap at the door.

  ‘Enter.’

  A slender, soberly dressed woman came into the room. Emma spotted the cruel mouth at once – and the narrowed, green eyes behind the flashing lens of horn-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘Miss Watson, my secretary. Absolutely invaluable.’

  The green eyes widened and the cruel mouth slackened to a simper.

  ‘As good as a second pair of eyes and ears to me.’

  The glasses flashed as Miss Watson inclined her head, bestowing a curt nod towards Emma.

  ‘Winkle out the Wigmore girl from whatever she shouldn’t be doing, will you, Watson? Bring her straight here.’

  ‘The Wigmore girl? Early Bed, I believe. Late for French from showers. Is anything the matter, Head?’ Miss Watson asked, shooting a suspicious glance at Emma.

  ‘Nothing that cannot be settled here and now. The Wigmore girl, if you please, Watson.’

  ‘At once, Dr Flint.’ She scuttled away.

  The Head fingered the cameo at her throat, then slowly undid the single pearl button at the cuff of her right sleeve.

  ‘How many girls do you have here at Laments?’ Emma asked, feeling somewhat obliged to make conversation. How do you administer their punishments, she really wanted to know. A cane? A real yellow length of bamboo whippy cane? A whippy cane that would bite into their peach-cheeks, leaving pink stripes across the proffered buttocks and stinging salt tears in their sorrowful eyes?

  ‘Eighteen,’ she heard the Head’s voice say. Emma concentrated on what was being said. When Dr Felicity Flint spoke, it was wise to listen, Emma felt. ‘With a staff of five. Under strength at the moment. With such a generous SSR –’

  ‘SSR?’ Emma interrupted, instantly wishing she hadn’t.

  ‘Student-to-staff ratio, my dear. It allows for the intensive tuition I mentioned earlier, and of course the girls’ parents are both willing and capable of paying for this unique provision.’

  Emma felt a response was appropriate. ‘Your girls are very priviliged.’

  ‘Possibly, but I fear that they do not always appreciate that fact.’

  Remembering the shiny-sore red bottom in the drawing room, Emma suspected that Felicity Flint was perfectly correct in that observation.

  ‘How old are you, girl?’

  Emma, startled, answered at once. ‘Twenty two.’

  ‘Hmm. Five years older than our youngest, three years above our oldest girls, of which the Right Honourable Rebecca Wigmore is one.’

  The door to the study opened.

  ‘And here she is.’

  Miss Watson entered, shepherding a dark-eyed nineteen year old.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Watson.’

  The secretary, eager to learn more, hesitated at the door.

  ‘Good night,’ Dr Flint added, the note of finality unmistakeable.

  Scowling resentfully at Emma’s fleeting smile, Miss Watson withdrew, closing the door behind her. She’ll listen at the door, Emma thought, recognising the prying type. Hadn’t the Head mentioned something about eyes. And ears.

  By the desk, the Right Honourable Rebecca Wigmore stood, head bowed, her long dark hair curtaining her pale face. But Emma saw the gleam of the dark, wary eyes. The girl shivered, scantily clad in a tight, white vest and tiny shorts. The vest, short sleeved and deeply scalloped at her bosom, rode the swell of the firm breasts with a taut stretch of cotton. The peaks of her prinking nipples were clearly defined beneath the soft fabric. Emma’s tongue slowly thickened as she noted how the tiny shorts sculpted the young girl’s delicious pubic mound.

  ‘In bed, already?’ the Head barked.

  ‘Early Bed, Dr Flint. A half forfeit.’

  ‘A half forfeit, eh?’ rejoined the Head, feigning a note of surprise. ‘What for?’

  Rebecca stubbed the toes of her right foot into the patterned carpet. Emma, privy to the answer to the Head’s question, wondered if the girl would risk a lie.

  ‘I’m very much afraid that an Early Bed is far too lenient a punishment for such slacking. Late for –’ Dr Flint paused briefly ‘– let me see. Friday evening. Why, French conversation.’

  ‘Yes, Dr Flint.’

  ‘An Early Bed from Mme Puton?’

  ‘Yes, Dr Flint,’ Rebecca whispered, delicately tracing a fraction of the floral pattern in the carpet with her toes.
r />   ‘I shall speak to her tomorrow on the subject.’

  The Head turned towards the flickering fire and briskly introduced Emma and the purpose of her presence. Emma rose, eager to see the transactions completed.

  ‘NVK work this way to spare you any –’ she began.

  Dr Flint broke in sharply, taking charge.

  ‘I understand that you have been using this credit card, the existence of which I was wholly unaware, and in addition to this you actually had the temerity to exceed an agreed credit limit by some two and a half thousand pounds and,’ the Head concluded, her stern voice rising in anger, ‘no arrangements have been made for any repayment of the accumulated debt. Is this correct?’

  Crushed by the tirade, Rebecca merely nodded and bowed her head in shame.

  ‘You actually broke your credit agreement and failed to make any attempt at repayment?’

  Rebecca’s silence confirmed her guilt.

  ‘But you know the rules perfectly well, girl. You seem to have been flouting them pretty freely. We will go carefully into the exact details of when and where you used, or rather abused, this credit card in a few moments.’

  What kind of hornet’s nest have I stirred up here, Emma wondered. Were the girls here at Laments gated, forbidden to visit the nearby villages and towns? If so, poor little Rebecca was really in the shit.

  ‘May I say, Dr Flint –’ Emma began.

  Again, the Head curtly ignored her. Emma, hovering uncertainly by the fire, was now anxious to complete the business and get back into The Beast and on the road to London.

  The Head took her seat behind the desk and spread out the NVK paperwork, smoothing it down against the polished leather desktop with her broad palms. Summoning Rebecca towards the desk with an impatient snap of her fingers, she instructed the shivering girl to read and then sign them.

  ‘I will see to it that Miss Watson makes an immediate payment of one thousand pounds on Monday morning. These papers,’ the Head continued, retrieving her fountain pen from Rebecca’s nervous fingers, ‘will be forwarded to the family solicitors. In the absence of Sir Charles and Lady Wigmore, I believe that to be the most prudent course of action. Epsom, Epsom, Darkling and Epsom, isn’t it girl?’