[ part 1 ]

It all began when I rescued my sister from being molested. Except she was not my sister, I did not rescue her and she was not being molested.

Let me explain:

My mother died when I was quite young and in fact I hardly remember her. When I was eleven my father married again to a lady whom I came to call Marge. Marge had a daughter aged seven who was a rather cute kid called Susie. Susie and I got along fairly well, but as there was a four-year age gap and an even more distancing sex difference, I was rather aloof, even though I was secretly attracted to my little stepsister. For her part, she was relentlessly friendly, despite all my apparent efforts to rebuff her.

We lived in suburb of London and our main open playing area was Audley Park, named after some ancient local worthy who had originally donated the land. This was typical of that sort of place at that time – neat beds of flowers with ‘Keep Off The Grass’ signs, a bandstand, a boating pond, a paddling pool, some swings, slide, a roundabout set on hard, knee-cracking concrete and a worn open space for ball games. The whole place was run by indistinguishable grumpy park keepers, known as “parkies”, who would eject any kid who stepped on their precious grass.

Except one, who was friendly, tolerant and therefore popular.

One day Susie went along to the park on her own (kids still did that in the sixties) and when she returned she was obviously very happy and thrilled about something. I was desperate to know what she had been doing to make her so pleased with herself, but I would not lower my dignity enough to ask. In any case, I was sure my little stepsister would not be able to resist telling me her secret eventually and sure enough she did, bubbling with excitement. She showed me a shiny half-crown and said that the nice parkie had offered it to her in return for her knickers! Susie had reasonably decided that a half crown in the hand was worth a pair of knickers one the bum and did the deal there and then. She quickly lifted her dress and without any more ado slipped off her knickers, much, no doubt, to the eye-scorching delight of the parkie.

I must acknowledge that I was a horribly and hypocritically good boy and, without any qualm of conscience, dutifully passed this information on to my father. He, seeing in the episode rather more than I, anxiously told my stepmother.

All hell broke loose.

The authorities were informed and the unlucky parkie lost both his job and his extensive collection of young girls’ underwear. Susie lost her half-crown, which was given to me as a reward for my public spiritedness. Of even more interest to me than the money, though, was that Susie was immediately spanked.

Spanking was unknown to me. My father was much too kind, and I much too good, for it to be known in our house. And I went to an unusually liberal school where, very rare for the times, corporal punishment was never applied. But although I had never seen anyone spanked, I had often fantasised about it. I have to say that this first real experience was even better than my imaginings.

As soon as she heard of Susie’s illicit trading, Marge grabbed hold of her and, after a brief but ferocious commentary on her character, threw the little girl across her lap and pulled her dress up to her armpits. As Susie had sold her panties to the parkie, she was bare between her ankles and her shoulder blades. My eyes stood out on stilts. I could not believe it. Here was a girl – A GIRL – practically naked and about to be spanked. SPANKED!

My father was much too tender hearted and considerate of his young stepdaughter’s feelings to have stayed, and had taken himself off on some supposed business to save both himself and her embarrassment. I, however, had no such finer feelings. I remained in the room, fearful that any moment Marge might dismiss me before she got down to business. No chance of that! Marge wasted no time in spanking Susie’s tiny bottom. She wasted no effort either, swinging her hand like an expert with a great follow through. She raised her hand high and brought it down hard making the air seem to vibrate with the mighty SMACK that resounded around the room. She did not, as I had imagined in my fervid fantasies, slap wildly fast, but steadily so she made sure every slap counted. Susie’s little bottom quickly changed colour from pale cream to bright red. Much to my surprise and admiration, she took the first few heavy-handed smacks in silence, but as the spanking continued in unremitting intensity, she began first to yelp, then to squeal and finally to cry out loudly. At first too, she was comparatively still, but then she began to wriggle and squirm increasingly energetically until she was jerking her bum and lashing out her legs.

For me this was a wonderful experience. Being an only child and very innocent, I had never before seen a girl’s private parts and, as sex education was a neglected subject in those days, I had only the sketchiest notion of their appearance. But now, as Susie wildly waved her legs, her open thighs gave me a very intimate insight into the subject as I repeatedly saw her sweet little slit exposed at every smack.

Marge seemed utterly unconcerned that I was witnessing her daughter’s shameful exhibition. She ignored the fact that I was sitting quite close to the action, behind and slightly to the side of Susie’s kicking feet. She spanked on regardless. At last, though, she paused and I believed the show was over. But Marge kept her crying daughter pinned across her lap by her left hand and calmly said, “Would you please go upstairs to my bedroom, John, and fetch down the wooden hairbrush in the top right hand drawer of my dressing table.”

This brought a heartfelt and even louder wail from Susie, but I eagerly sped from the room on my exciting errand. I suppose a kinder or more principled boy might have felt regret and bad feelings about Susie’s painful position, but despite my praiseworthy reputation, I always put my own interests first. So I quickly collected the required hairbrush, noting with interest that the varnish on the wooden back was somewhat worn, and ran downstairs to my step relatives where I respectfully handed it over to Marge. As Marge thanked me, Susie frantically screamed:

“No, Mummy please! Not the brush! Please, not the brush!”

But Marge said, “Be quiet, you disgusting girl. You deserve everything you are going to get and I shall make sure you do get it!”

She did too. She took the handle of the brush in her right hand and brought the flat back of the business end cracking down on Susie’s tiny and by now very inflamed bottom. The little girl’s bellows seemed to double in volume and her struggles became even more frenzied, but her mother determinedly gave her another five swats with the back of the hairbrush.

At last, the howling child was released and hopped about with tears streaming down her face tenderly rubbing her crimson and, to my eye, rather swollen bottom. But her mother ruthlessly gripped her by her ear and led her off to her bedroom where she remained for the rest of the day.


You might well think that after my cruel betrayal and the painful consequences, Susie would have hated me. I must say I fully expected it. But in fact, even while she could not yet sit comfortably, Susie was as devotedly friendly as she had been before. I must admit I basked in her affection. My introverted personality and solitary upbringing had turned me into something of a loner and although I had some school friends, none was close. Now I was the focus of this child’s undivided admiration and I loved it.

It was not long before I began to take advantage of my young admirer.

Despite, or perhaps because of, my lack of social skills, my father had encouraged me to join the scouts. To my surprise, I rather enjoyed it. Not the company of rumbustious little boys, but the skills that earned the coveted badges. In particular, I loved learning knots.

I easily persuaded Susie that I needed to practise. She was willing to do whatever I wanted so long as I gave her my attention. I began by tying her wrists and challenging her to free herself. I enjoyed watching struggle futilely against her bonds, trying to pull at the knots with her strong white teeth. Then I began to tie her to things so that she had no way of escape until she loosened the rope or I set her free. Occasionally, I would use a granny knot, or tie the rope loosely just to encourage her, but mostly she had no hope of success. As these games escalated, I worried that Marge might disapprove – I always wanted the good opinion of those in authority – but one day when I had Susie kneeling with her hands tied around the dining room table leg behind her back, Marge came in, but when I looked up anxiously she said, “All you need to do now is gag her, John, and we can all have some peace!”

This tacit endorsement and even encouragement of my activities immediately inspired me, and within minutes, Susie was gagged with my none too clean handkerchief. But a lot of the time I liked her to be able to make some noise. For instance, one of my favourite pastimes started when I had her tied by her wrists to that same table leg, but this time stretched out on her back on the floor. Marge was away having coffee with a neighbour and so we had our privacy. This, Susie’s helplessness, and the fact that she was wearing a sleeveless dress inspired me. I knelt down beside her and began tickling her under her arms. It turned out Susie was very ticklish and was quickly squealing and giggling. Excited so much that my little immature penis hardened in my shorts, I moved my hands and tickled her ribs. Her giggling squeals grew wilder. I tickled her chest – it was quite flat – she shrieked with laughter, begging me to stop. I tickled her fat, little girl’s tummy. She rocked from side to side tears streaming as she giggled. I grinned sadistically. Never had I known such a feeling of power. I moved my hands and tickled her just above her bare knees. She threw herself from side to side rocking on her bottom. She drew up her knees to try to escape my ticking hands. I kept on going. Her skirt rode up I moved my hands up with it, tickling her plump round thighs. She screamed with involuntary laughter, almost hysterical. I could see the crotch of her knickers stretched tight over her pubis, her slit clearly defined behind the tight material. How I wished I dared to tickle her there, but I was too timorous of the consequences. I stopped and released her, but she was still red faced and giggling breathlessly when her mother came back.

Susie was a regular sort of kid. She was a normally robust little girl of average height for her age with dark blonde hair that she usually kept in plaits or a ponytail. Nothing too remarkable about her, then, apart from her willingness to join in with my quirky games and the fact that she was smacked a lot.

Hardly a day went past when Susie was not smacked. She was slapped on the backs of her bare legs, or her skirt flipped up for a smack on the seat of her knickers for the slightest reason. Or, so it sometimes seemed to me, no reason at all. And about once a week on average, Susie would get a proper spanking. She would be put across her mother’s knee with her skirt up and Marge’s heavy hand would pound her panties. If she kept her panties on, that is. As often as not they came down to her knees and I saw her tiny cheeks quickly turn red. These spankings were nothing like as bad as that very first one I have described, and Susie did not generally cry, but they were sound enough.

I soon understood that my father did not approve of this harsh disciplinary regime for his stepdaughter, but he accepted that Susie was Marge’s responsibility, and I guess he was not assertive enough to persuade her to go easier on the kid. Also, it must be remembered that what would now be regarded as definitely abusive, was then considered merely rather rigorous punishment.

So the summer drifted on and I, for one, was thoroughly enjoying myself.


A more exciting playground than Audley Park was the garden of ‘The Laurels’. This was a run down Victorian house with a large garden that was just ripe for redevelopment, and later became the site of a small block of flats. That summer, though, it was an enchanting wilderness. Susie and I were forbidden to go there, but despite my goody-goody inclinations, the place drew me to it like iron filings to a magnet. It was the perfect place for my games of ‘Cowboys and Indians’ or ‘Pirates’ the sole purpose of which was for me to get little Susie tied to a tree in the concealing undergrowth.

One day during the long summer holiday we clambered over the wall, with me looking nervously in all directions in case we should be spotted. Once inside, I became more confident and after the brief preliminaries of a sort of hide and seek, I captured my ‘Indian’ and soon had Susie tied by her wrists to the overhanging branch of a tree. I pulled out an old silk scarf that I suppose must once have belonged to my dear departed mother, and used this to gag my prisoner. Then I had an idea for a new twist to our game. I told her I was going away for a short time and she would have to stay there until I got back. Susie became oddly agitated at this point, shaking her head and rolling her eyes as if in distress, but by now she was becoming quite a good little actress in these plays and I assumed she was just entering into the spirit of the game.

I did not plan o leave Susie for long, but events conspired against my good intentions.

The first thing that happened was that an angry adult male voice shouted, “Hey you, get out of there!” I still do not know whether this was directed at me, but I fled from the garden just as fast as I could.” Once outside, old Mrs Eaton, called to me and asked me to go to the shops for something. Being a helpful lad, I was automatically agreeing to do the errand, before I gave a thought to Susie, and I did not want to venture back there for the time being in any case. So I went to the shops and when I returned, Mrs Eaton gave me sixpence and offered my cake and orange squash, which I thoughtlessly accepted. By the time I had consumed these, I suddenly remembered Susie and realised how long I had left her.

I hurried back and cautiously entered the garden. I worried Susie might have been discovered and set free by some interfering adult and a report of my cruelty sent to my father, but when I got there Susie was still tied to the branch, safe and sound. I sighed with heartfelt relief. But as I approached to untie her, I saw we still had a problem

Susie had wet herself. This was nothing like the sturdy little girl and she was upset. I quickly got the gag and ropes undone and she told me that when I had left her bound and gagged she had been trying to convey to me that she was desperate for a wee-wee. Now her sandals, socks, the front of her dress and, unseen, her knickers beneath were all soaked in urine. I glanced anxiously at my watch. We still had more than half-an-hour before Marge’s bus was due back, Susie could get cleaned up and changed, and then we could rinse her clothes and dry them in the summer sunshine. I sighed with relief. There was no need for anyone to know of my cruelty to my stepsister.

I told Susie what we were going to do and she followed me slavishly. We returned to the house and in through the kitchen door. I realised she could not walk through the house to the bathroom and her bedroom in her sodden sandals, so, turning up my nose in repugnance, I bent down to undo them.

Just then, Susie’s mum walked in from the hall. It turned out she had been given a lift back. Her eyes took in the scene and her own nostrils wrinkled from the strong smell of piss.

“You disgusting child!” Marge shouted at Susie. How old are you? – Two!?”

“It was an accident,” Susie protested.

“How did it happen?” demanded Marge angrily.

I was on tenterhooks lest Susie should explain more fully, but she just muttered sullenly, “It was an accident.”

“Accident! I’ll give you accident!” Marge shouted. She advanced angrily on Susie while I hastily got out of the way. She grabbed her daughter under her armpits and swung her through the air and into the sink. “You filthy little beast,” Marge yelled. “Why didn’t you go before?”

“It was an accident,” Susie repeated obstinately. Marge slapped the back of her legs just above the knee. “Ow! Ow!” Susie yelped.

Marge pulled off Susie’s sandals and socks and three them onto the draining board. She then whisked her daughter’s striped summer dress off over her head. Next second, Susie’s sopping knickers were down around her ankles and Susie obligingly stepped out of them. The underwear joined the rest of her clothes.

I gawped in delight, all guilt gone. For the first time in my life, I was seeing a girl naked and full frontal. There was not much to see, to be honest. Susie’s chest was flat and her nipples just little pink dots. Her fat little tummy stuck out indented by her belly button. But beneath this was the bulging slit of her little girl’s bald twat.

Marge turned on the cold tap, grabbed a hard cake of coarse kitchen soap and scrubbed at the lower part of Susie’s little body. I watched entranced as the rough soap slid over Susie’s legs, bottom and immature genitalia, raising an insubstantial lather while her mother continued to call her names and demand an explanation to which Susie repeated the same phrase like a mantra. Understandably, this made her mother even madder. She picked up a cloth and roughly rinsed off the soap. She turned off the tap, twisted Susie around and started slapping her wet bottom very hard while she stood in the sink so that a fine spray flew from her cheeks with every smack. Suzie yelled “Ouch!” and hopped up and down at each slap. She reflexively tried to pot her hands over her bottom but her mother gripper her small wrists in her own left hand and continued to spank her with the right. Susie’s bottom began to get very red.

“John,” Marge said without pausing from tanning Susie’s bum, “hand me over that wooden spoon, please. Yes, just there. No, the largest one.”

I passed over the indicated implement and Marge stopped spanking her daughter long enough to take it from me. Then she began again, but this time using the rounded back of the spoon’s bowl. Susie yelled louder as the spoon cracked across her bare cheeks and then louder still as her mother worked down and up each thigh. It was the severest spanking I had seen Susie receive since the ‘knickers and the parkie’ incident – this one may even have been worse.

At last, Marge put down the spoon and lifted the loudly crying Susie out of the sink and set her on the floor where she hopped from foot to foot in obvious agony until a few seconds later her mother sent her to her room in disgrace with another resounding smack on her sore bottom.

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