“Eyes right,” the Senior Wren all but screamed, “And stand straight woman.”

Catherine came to attention more or less correctly, this time remembering where to place her thumbs.

“You are not in Tonbridge bloody Wells now,” the Senior Wren continued to berate her, “This is the Royal Navy,” she continued.

Catherine Havers felt every nerve jingle and for a moment she even forgot that this was all for a docudrama. For all intents and purposes she was back in 1941 getting screamed at by a battle-axe of a woman sailor.

“March her in,” said a weary voice. Its owner an over-tall stern looking man with steel grey at his temples beckoned from through the open door from his place at his desk.

Captain Jerome Grey was the commandant in charge of cadets and quite frankly he would rather have been at sea. All the shouting was doing little for his headache.

“Hats off,” the NCO said at last as she herself came to attention.

Grey looked up to confront a terrified looking red-head with deep blue eyes. They hadn’t met before so he had to pause to remember his script. He had no idea she would be so beautiful.

“A red head I see, always trouble in my book,” he said grumpily as he stalled for a second. Then he read the charge sheet. “Two ticks this week already and that was before you caught smoking on duty…”

Catherine froze before blurting out “Yes Sir,” her stock phrase this week. Then she remembered that it might be ‘aye sir, or aye, aye sir or… Also she resisted the urge to rub her bottom at the mention of the ‘ticks.’ Earlier that week she had acted out a tick sanction, namely six of the best from her cadet captain.

The punishment had been carried out with a short thin stick that had been laid across her bare bottom while bending. It had hurt far more than she had expected, but she was proud of the fact that she hadn’t yelled out or cried. Not even afterwards.

The whole thing had been filmed in case that had been all that Catherine could handle. Erin had explained that the footage could be used in the extended DVD if she went ahead with the main event.

“All right, leave this with me,” Grey sighed.

“Aye Sir,” the Senior Wren bellowed and with a bare nod to the guard they smartly wheeled about and marched out.

“You know what happens now don’t you Havers?” Grey sighed.

“Yes Sir, I mean aye sir…”

“A COs 30; have you anything to say before we proceed?”

Catherine opened her mouth breathily and wondered that she had any spit left. Then she drew it into a determined tight line and shook her head.

“You must answer,” Grey growled.

“Oh sorry Sir, yes Sir, I mean No Sir, nothing to say Sir.” She managed.

“Please remove your tunic, your skirt and your slip etc… leave your other underwear on until I tell you,” Grey intoned.

As he spoke he stood up and removed his own jacket before retrieving a stiff black cane from the cupboard.

“Oh God,” Catherine whispered as she carefully and somewhat slowly obeyed him.

*

Catherine’s dawdling hadn’t gone down well and the usually calm and serious Captain Grey began barking at her like a headmaster. Quicker than she could have believed she soon found herself standing in her period knickers, blouse and tie.

A flush of red at her cheeks spread like a forest fire and twice as hot as filled her face and encompassed her neck.

“My predecessor was a grab the ankles man, but you girls aren’t tough enough,” he said dropping a chair into the middle of the floor. “So you can bend over and grab the base of the seat.”

“Yes Sir,” Catherine said in a thick voice and all of a fluster made an awkward attempt at bending as if the chair might bite.

“Knickers down,” he barked, not acknowledging that he had forgotten the order, “And then bend over.”

There was a shush of cotton on thighs as Catherine’s bare bottom and legs were exposed to the air and she felt her blush reach her ears. This was far worse than before and bending was excruciating especially when he ordered he ‘right over’ so that her bottom stuck right up.

Grey hadn’t counted on the intensity of the view and suddenly became aware of the hidden camera. A life in the real navy had left him curious about the old days, but trying to retain a professional air when confronted with a fulsome a trim bare bottom was a challenge.

He remembered his brief training: 30 strokes at six to eight second intervals. He eyed the clock, it should take around three minutes.

For Catherine herself time slowed to treacle and with her bottom so exposed it felt like days. The touch of the stick to her bottom was electric and she flinched.

“I haven’t touched you yet girl,” he muttered and tapped her twice more.

Catherine’s breathing was audible but even and she tensed.

As per his training Grey waited a beat and then struck.

The hiss preceded the groan and Catherine jerked, clawing the air and then the base of the seat by turns as she rode out the sting. While across her bottom a sharp line emerged like reconnaissance photo in the developing lab.

Grey waited.

The second stroke was worse and this time there was real pain in her tone as she moaned.

Grey focussed on two scarlet lines across very pale flesh before he landed another cut under them both.

“Ah-yah,” Catherine wailed as she bit so hard into her lip she feared drawing blood.

Too slow, Grey thought and quickly added a fourth and then after a slow five-count a fifth and sixth.

Catherine jerked at each, a whine escaping from clamped jaws at each impact. Someone had put razor slashes across her bum and little devils were rubbing in some salt. Her even breaths were louder and faster now and she took a moment to wipe a single tear from her left eye.

Seven was a bitch and eight, nine, 10 only got worse. By her first dozen she chuckled to a sob and tears were falling freely from her blood-rimed eyes.

Grey took the decision to press on to 15, the halfway mark before pausing. By this time Catherine’s bottom, becoming though it was, had become textured with purple lines with red spilling over the welts to form one angry sheen of red from her thigh-tops to a line level with the top of her bottom cleft.

Catherine was no longer stoic and had taken to indulgent sobbing through ragged breaths.

Grey looked around for an intervention, but as Catherine had not made her signal, an opt out he wasn’t aware of, he turned back to the pain ravaged bottom to complete his mission.

The stroke interval grew until by 26 strokes he was waiting more 10 seconds before caning Catherine. The clock told him it had been four minutes now. Her bottom had become an interesting combination of colours and textures to say the least. Grey wondered if he should stop anyway.

Catherine screamed out at each stroke now and her bucking for several seconds afterwards threatened to tip over the chair.

“Please Sir, how many more,” she croaked.

“Just four,” he said gently. Probably broke character there.

Catherine nodded.

Grey caned in hard and then after a slow count to four did so again. He had to wait for the penultimate but when it came he added the last almost at once.

Catherine’s back was arched and her bottom back-jutting and taught as she vocalised the last impact. She had long since stopped caring about any dignity of her posture.

“Let that be a lesson to you,” Grey intoned and as if it was perfectly natural turned away to pretend to exam some paperwork.

The caned woman got unsteadily to her feet and repaired her uniform to parade ground duty, or some approximation of it. She was till buttoning her tunic when the Senior Wren returned to march her out.

*

“How was it?” Erin was grimacing.

Catherine was smiling through tears whilst unrepentantly clawing at her bottom through her 1940s skirt.

“Hard to do actually, by the end,” Grey put in.

The two of them were facing the camera for a brief feedback.

“I’ll say,” Catherine gasped. “That was… oh God… intense.”

“You say you had a great Aunt who experienced this for real during the war?” Erin asked.

“That was real enough for me,” Catherine’s eyes were bloodshot from crying but she was grinning. “But yes, that’s right… I have always been intrigued.”

“I think I held back… I mean it would have been faster during the real… back then,” Grey said sagely, stopping himself from undermining Catherine’s experience.

“Yes, but remember that that is going by the book. What we explored here was the human element. Don’t you think your 1940s counterpart wouldn’t have felt the same?” Erin suggested.

“I suppose,” Grey agreed.

“Catherine, how do you feel about it now?” Erin asked turning to the dishevelled woman.

“Ask me in a few days, oh God,” her hands countered another burning assault as she wonder if the caning would ever stop.

“I’ll do that,” Erin chuckled.