Cuckolding in British spanking mags: Hot Afternoons

Ah builders. Big hunky men who spend time in your house while you're at work...

And as muscular working-class types to a man, their appetites will not go unnoticed by your wife and daughters:

Amanda still didn't know whether to believe what Sarah had told her. Had she made it up? Those sort of things certainly happened but they were difficult to believe when it was someone you knew, someone who was your best friend. It had been the man taking out his thing. Unzipping his jeans and taking it out. His big stiff thing with its big purple-mushroom head, Sarah said. And then telling her to hold it.

Could you believe it? Sarah, seeing the disbelief in Amanda's eyes, had sworn it was true, every word. He had taken it out and made her hold it. This man who was there fixing their fence. He had got Sarah to stroke it. Pump it. He had wanted her to have it in her mouth but Sarah had said no. Because she was prepared to do what he wanted with her hand. Sarah had demonstrated to Amanda a pumping motion with her cupped hand. After quite a short time... the stuff had all shot out.

Amanda got up again. She couldn't concentrate, there was no way she could. All these thoughts in her head. Sarah must have made it up. She went over to the window again. The two men were still there, but not digging now, they were resting.
Leaning on their things, the pickaxe and shovel. The young one with his back half towards the house, that really swoony back with those muscles. Amanda suddenly pictured him coming to the house, with some query like the man at Sarah's house. She would let him in and then in the kitchen... he would do what Sarah's man had done. Unzip those chalk-stained jeans. Show it to her. His big stiff thing. And she would take it in her hand.

Among plenty of spanking and screwing, the story 'Hot Afternoons' features two trench-diggers in a suburban garden discussing the ladies of the house...

'They've all started these days, including these hoity-toity ones in big houses.'

Ron, leaning on his shovel, looked thoughtful.
'Actually,' continued Stan, 'I actually rather fancy her mum. She's got a real nice arse too. And a woman that age can really love it.'
'You'll have to go in and ask her for a drink then,' observed Ron.

Sadly neither of them get a taste of the lady of the house (at least not in this story) but they certainly do with her 18-year-old daughter, after she's been spanked and screwed by her English tutor no less!

She found her knickers and pulled them on. At the window she saw the workmen still out there. Could they ever guess what had happened in the silent house on this hot and sultry afternoon? Was it something that one with the muscles wanted to do?

...

He came to the house the next afternoon. Another one of those hot and sultry afternoons. Ron his name was, she found out. The workman with the back, the shoulders. Those muscles. Only now when she went to the back door in answer to the knock he had his shirt on. His shirt and his jeans that were chalky from digging the trench. Did her eyes dart down to the front of his jeans, after her first startled look of recognition? Thinking of his thing. He had an empty Tizer bottle in his hand.
'Uh... we were wondering... if we could get some water. Please. It's really hot again.'
Ron was conscious of his nervousness and the words didn't come out easily. It had been an effort to come and do this but here he was. And here she was. Well, she might not have been in. Not in her uniform today, she had on a blue-and-white flowery dress. Tight-bodiced with a full skirt, it showed off her ripe young body. He could imagine the soft flesh under there – in just brief little knicks and a lightweight bra probably.
Momentarily stunned by his presence Amanda unconsciously ran her tongue over her full lips, then gave a nervous smile. 'Y... Yes of course. Come in...'
'OK. Thanks.' He felt more confident already. Stepping inside. 'No one else in? What's your name?'
Yes his name was Ron and the other one was Stan. He told her this in the kitchen, filling the bottle at the tap. Amanda feeling surging excitement now. Here he was in the house. Just the two of them. Yesterday Mr Tillot, screwing her. And now today this Ron. Had he really just come for that water?
'I... uh... do you want it for a drink? It is awfully hot, isn't it? Because we've got some beer in the fridge. I think.'
'Beer?' he laughed. 'I don't know about beer. Your mum might come back.'
'No. No she won't. She won't be back for ages.'
Amanda met his eyes. She had told Sarah last night. About Mr Tillot. The whole thing. Sarah wouldn't believe her, not at first, but then she did. And now... this Ron, with the muscles. Amanda had told Sarah about him, just that there was this bloke, one of the workmen, with super muscles.
She imagined pulling his shirt off and running her hands over the muscles. And then... pulling open his jeans... Taking his thing in her hand.
'Well thanks, I'll have one if you'll have one,' Ron said.
Amanda shook her head, with a little giggle. 'I don't really like it. Just a sip perhaps.'
They took the can of beer into the sitting room. Ron looked round. 'Nice... Really nice. Can I sit down in these chalky jeans? And are you going to sit on my lap?'
Amanda said a giggly no, but she did. It was fantastic. More exciting than Mr Tillot. Well almost. Squirming herself on his lap. Thinking of his thing under her bottom. His arm came round her.
'I... I could see you out of the window,' she breathed. 'You've got really big muscles.'

...

The other one wanted to do it as well. After Ron told him. Amanda had made Ron promise not to tell anyone, not his mate Stan or anyone, and he said he wouldn't but of course then he did. He told Stan. He said he didn't tell anyone else, just Stan who was his mate. But then of course Stan wanted to do it to Amanda as well. Stan who was older and with a fat beer belly. Another hot afternoon in the house.

She told Sarah about Ron, that was fantastic. Ron with his fantastic body, all those muscles. But Stan... No not Stan.
Amanda told herself it was just the once with Stan. She certainly wouldn't let him do it a second time. It was something she would forget. But of course Stan told Ron he had done it. And Ron then wanted her to do it some more with Stan... He wanted Amanda to do it with both of them. Because they were mates.

One wonders if Amanda's mother ended up getting shared between the two workmen just like her daughter!

I love the bit about 'hoity-toity' ladies in big houses loving it as much as their working-class brethren, if not more. It's true of course, especially when burly working-class men are involved. And it certainly adds new meaning to the phrases 'well-brought up' and 'well-bred'. Because you perhaps might not expect well-brought up, well-bred, middle-class suburban women to act this way. But in fact, this breed of lady is almost trained to cheat, almost without thinking about it, just as her mother and grandmothers were before her and just as her daughters and granddaughters will be after her. After all, they have all been brought up to expect a life of pleasure and satisfaction behind a veneer of respectability!
Who knows, if things get really hot perhaps hunky young Ron or dirty old Stan will end up taking advantage of both mother and daughter at the same time!

 

Cuckolding in British spanking mags: Mother and Daughter

Kane and Blushes both featured different stories with the extremely enticing name 'Mother and Daughter'.

One of my favorite cuckolding scenarios that appears in British spanking mags is when daughters are packed off to disciplinarians while their mothers have some extramarital fun. It should already be clear that middle class ladies misbehaving is a massive turn on for me, plus there's the unfairness of the poor daughters getting their pert little bottoms spanked, caned and strapped, all so Mummy can satisfy her carnal urges without losing her veneer of suburban respectability.
The Blushes version was rather subtle in its description of the mother's indiscretion:

'As you will know, Fiona, I have had your parents here earlier this afternoon. That is always my practice, when I intend to cane a girl... 'Yes. Charming people. And your mother a very attractive woman.' Mr Branton leant forward slightly. 'I can tell you that they raised no objection... They agreed with me, Fiona, that a girl cannot be allowed to make liaisons with local youths'

...

Mr Branton's mantlepiece clock showing 3.15 when Elizabeth had breathlessly entered his sitting room. A visit she had kept to herself, saying nothing to Derek or indeed to Fiona. A visit to plead with Philip Branton. A woman of maturer years but still stunning. A beautiful blonde come to plead; to throw herself on his mercy for the sake of her daughter.

But Philip Branton, though quite clearly not unresponsive to Elizabeth Mayfield's charms, had remained adamant regarding the caning...
...

She stood, gasping and sobbing. On the pretty legs that didn't seem to want to support her. Mr Branton delivering his post-caning lecture. Observing as he did so that striking contrast between what was below and what was on top. Elizabeth Mayfield, of course, had been just the same in that regard.
In the Rover Elizabeth said, 'It was the caretaker. He found out I was seeing this boy. I wasn't doing a lot but it was strictly against the rules. So... I let him do what he wanted. Cane me. On the bare bottom. Does that excite you?'

'Yes.' Derek's hand pushed back in between her thighs. 'You never told me.'

Elizabeth pursed her lips. She was thinking of the principal of Greentops School again. 'He's so big,' she breathed in the awe-filled voice.
Was Elizabeth Mayfield referring to Mr Branton's general bulk and the thought of his cane whipping down across poor Fiona's bottom? Or something else? That she herself had experienced. On Thursday of last week. Face down in the seat of that armchair.

The Kane version is considerably less subtle:

Remarkably enough, at this very moment as Jill lay over the Headmaster's lap, her mother was looking apprehensively at just such an implement which had caused Jill so much distress. A cane, no less. A cane in the hand of that gentleman who she had been so keen to see prosper in his business, Mr Calvino. The two of them were in Fiona Kendall's bedroom once again, Mr Calvino in slacks and shirt, Fiona in a blouse and below her waist not that new girdle which Jill had seen but this evening a black lace suspender belt attached to her sheer dark nylons. No skirt and  no knickers, so that her ripe haunches were fully and splendidly on view.

Needless to say, Mr Kendall was out for the evening — at his Club. Mr Calvino was in the process of describing to the nervous-looking Fiona the exquisite erotic pleasures to be obtained by submitting to a cane — such as the one he was flexing in his hands.
For matters had progressed somewhat between Mrs Kendall and the thrusting young manager of Beautybase. She had now on two occasions had full sexual intercourse with Mr Calvino, the first time being on his very next visit following the one observed by Jill. A fitting session in Fiona Kendall's bedroom as before and Jill's mother again stripped down to blouse and girdle and nylons. And again required to bend face-down over her bed so that Mr Calvino could check that the girdle had the correct 'give'. Only this time it had not been his hand which he slipped in between Fiona's parted thighs.

Fiona had gasped but not struggled to any great extent, and he had slid up into her with an ease which could imply that she had been ready and willing for this to happen. Though this she later denied both to Mr Calvino and herself, putting on the front of a shocked and innocent wife when Mr Calvino eventually finished performing. She had had, though, a full, almost mind-blowing orgasm such as she had never had with her husband.
In any event Mr Calvino was back for a further fitting the next afternoon during the course of which the same thing — sexual intercourse — again took place. And this evening, as daughter Jill argued in vain with her headmaster regarding Major Barker's use of the cane on her, Mr Calvino was back to, this time, use a cane on Fiona Kendall. Because as it happened, full and complete enjoyment of sexual pleasure with a woman for Mr Calvino involved a preliminary use of that same instrument which Jill Kendall had been complaining so bitterly about.
It was to this end, so that Fiona Kendall's magnificent bottom could be fully exposed for the cane, that he had brought, not the girdle, but the black lace suspender belt which, with very little else, Fiona was now wearing.
She was not at all happy with this new development. She had never been caned before and it was a decidedly alarming thought. It would obviously hurt! Mr Calvino said perhaps a little, but the caning of her bottom would undoubtedly arouse her sexual parts to a more exquisite enjoyment of the sexual act... As always with Mr Calvino she had no will to resist.
Fiona's face was down in her bed cover. My God! she thought, What am I doing! there was a pause and then a CRACK!.. as the cane whipped down on her succulent rear.

Fiona let out an anguished involuntary yelp: the succulent rear writhed. The stinging pain was excruciating...
But he gave her six. Wasn't that an old English custom: six of the best? (As it happened it was what daughter Jill had got from Major Barker.) And then Mr Calvino abandoned the cane and proceded to partake of the sexual part of his pleasure. Mrs Kendall, under him, responded with a desperate pleasure of her own.

So matters settled down into something of a routine... 

And Jill's mother? Her somewhat larger rump was getting the same treatment as her daughter's but rather more frequently: at least twice a week. It continued to hurt, to sting like mad, but for Fiona what came afterwards was more than adequate compensation. Because Mr Calvino was a very vigorous young man in that respect. And maybe he was right, the cane did seem to increase that subsequent sexual pleasure.

There was perhaps one bright spot for Jill. Her mother wrote to say that she thought after all Jill was right and she could forget about the girdle. Well, Mr Calvino was such a vigorous young man and Mrs Kendall would just hate to think of him casting his eyes over Jill's ripe young form. And just possibly getting ideas in that direction.

I think 'a full, almost mind-blowing orgasm such as she had never had with her husband' could almost be a slogan that encourages wives to cheat!

Cuckolding in British spanking mags: The Voice at the End of the Line

Picture a cheating wife alone, at home, husband away on business. She's getting ready for a date with her lover.

Why not pick up the phone, dial her number and tell her what a naughty girl she is and how she should be punished? That's what happens to the wife in 'The Voice at the End of the Line', and her caller gets her to spill some things that give a fascinating insight into the psyche of a wife who sleeps around behind her husbands back. But first, we get some nice titillation for those of us with a jewellery fetish:

I've got a choker around my neck – it's about an inch wide, navy velvet – I wear a lot of navy blue – with a Victorian brooch at my throat. I'm wearing a gold watch.' I pause, realising that I've told him all this to cover up my nervousness. 'And a couple of rings. A wedding ring. I'm married.'

'Why are you half-naked at seven o'clock in the evening? Why are you putting on so much make-up?'

'I'm going out. For a meal. With somebody.'

...

'Are you going out for a meal with your husband?'

...

'No,' I tell him. A pause. 'I'm going out with a colleague from work.' A longer, more eloquent pause. 'A male colleague.' Then in a rush: 'My husband's working late and, anyway, he doesn't mind. He knows.'

'Does he? Did you tell him?'

'No. He just knows.

...

'Now tell me about your date tonight.'

'It's not a date. I'm just having dinner with a colleague. There's some business we need to discuss, there wasn't time at work.' It sounds feeble even to me, although when I said it on the phone to Paul, my husband, this afternoon it sounded perfectly plausible. Paul certainly accepted my tale although, to be honest, I made a point of calling when I knew he'd be busy and wouldn't want to talk. In any case, he's out most evenings himself. That's partly the trouble: if he were at home more I wouldn't be looking around for distractions like Donald. I'm not sure I even like Donald all that much. My mind wanders but is brought to heel again by the Voice.

'Don't bother lying to me. I know about Donald Danvers and the quick business talks over drinks and meals. They take place at his home where very little is eaten and I suspect not much talking is done, although probably drinks are consumed and as for business – well we don't want to get vulgar, do we?'

'My husband's gone off me. He comes home late. He ignores me. We don't...' I try again. 'We don't have sex very often. I met Don at work. We get on okay. It's something to do. That's all.'

'What would Donald say if he saw you now, posing almost naked for a stranger? What would your husband say?'

...

'I don't know how Don would react. I don't know him very well really. Paul would probably be angry,' I tell him.

'Only probably? Aren't you certain? Tell me exactly what you think he would do,' the Voice persists.

'He'd be angry with me, that's all.'

...

'I'm growing tired of this conversation. I disagree with you. I do excite you. All men do. You're just naturally promiscuous, Julia, and Paul knows it. You are a wanton, easy slut and need to be brought into line. Do you understand?' His tone has become sharper, authoritative, like a Victorian master addressing an erring scullery maid.

Ah the classic cries of the faithless wife. 'He doesn't mind', 'he doesnt satisfy me anymore'. It's all rot of course, as the upstanding gentleman on the other end of the phone line makes clear. Julia's hubby could shag her senseless every night and she'd still stray given half a chance. That's the trouble with these modern career women, they want it all. Her husband's to blame too of course. If you don't give your wife the stick to keep her in line, she'll be off with other men getting a very different kind of stick!

'Let's get down to business. You've been behaving like a whore ever since you got married, and probably before, but I won't concern myself with that. How many men have you slept with since marrying Paul?'

I'm beyond lying or arguing. 'Five,' I reply. 'Or six. I'm not certain. Six I think. Yes, six.'

'Six! And you think Paul doesn't know?' He sounds incredulous.

'I'm sure I've been discreet. Anyway, he wouldn't mind.'

'Wouldn't he? Well, I mind! It's obscene the way modern women flout their wedding vows. They mock the institution of marriage itself. Just because you go to work, it doesn't mean you can forget your station in life. You're a woman and your function is to serve and respect men in general and support and obey your husband in particular. You seem not to understand this, Julia, so I'm going to help you learn. Go and put some shoes on. The high-heeled navy blue mules, since it's your favourite colour.'

Just because a man is enforcing the sanctity of other people's marriage beds doesn't mean he can't appreciate a pair of nice heels! Of course this powerful man is able to convince her of the error of her ways and make her agree to submit to punishment, all the while reminding us of the sordid details of her naughtiness!

'Even if Paul chooses to ignore your infidelity and disrespect, someone has to bring you to heel. You make your husband a laughing stock and act like a bitch in heat. It's time you learnt some humility and self-control. Spread your legs wider. Let your arms and belly take the weight. I want those legs really stretched and that bum wide open and displayed. That's good. How many of your lovers have seen you like this? You're really quite an exhibitionist aren't you? I'm sure you're enjoying our talk more than you'll admit.' I groan; I'll admit nothing to this pervert.

'You are an immoral slut and are about to be suitably chastised. Stay still. I'm taking off my belt. It's wide; thick leather made supple by age. It's got a very heavy buckle. Take your punishment well and I won't use the buckle end on you.

...

You are right to be worried. My belt is going to warm up that backside of yours. I think six strokes, one for each of your lovers.'

I struggle to regain control of myself. 'I've slept with other men since I got married; I've not respected my husband,' I recite...

'I deserve to be strapped and caned on my bare bottom'.

Yes she does. And yes she is! Though six strokes per lover seems a trifle lenient. Though after the cane and belt a tawse is brought out and no limit is set on the number of times it will visit her naughty little bottom!

British spanking mags: confessions of cuckolding lead to canings

While wives have turned screwing around behind hubby's back into an art form, sometimes they might come across men who still care enough about society's morals to thrash them soundly!
In 'Victoriana', it is the guilty wife herself who seeks out her much-needed punishment...

'You mean a wife could expect a severe whipping if she was in any way unfaithful?' She was almost trembling yet seemed driven by a determination to have her questions answered.

'Yes,' he replied. 'A wife could expect the severest punishment for disloyalty.'
'How many strokes would having an affair merit, do you think? Say on a young wife, about my age, who like me had been married for only just two years and who still loved her husband dearly.'
He looked at her carefully. He could sense his reply was going to be very important for her.
'Twenty four strokes, I would say. That was an average number for a really serious offence,' he replied honestly.
She bit her lip. 'As many as that? Even though it was the first time she had been unfaithful and it was only a one night stand?'
Suddenly, as if a dam had burst within her, she began to talk rapidly, the words pouring out.
'What if the wife had just gone out once with someone at the office where she worked when her husband was away on one of his frequent trips abroad and she was lonely and she had a little bit too much to drink and had rather stupidly gone to a party with this work colleague and things had gone too far....

'And what if she knew that if she told her husband he wouldn't spank her silly little bottom like she deserved? What if this wasn't the Victorian age when she could look forward to a deserved thrashing and then got on with her marriage but 100 years later when her husband would never dream of caning her but would be dreadfully hurt if she told him the truth about what happened? What could a young wife like that do?'
'You're right,' she said with sudden anger. 'It was easier for the Victorians. They didn't have to live with this terrible guilt.' She seemed on the point of bursting into tears. Taking a deep breath she continued in a quiet voice. 'What if she loved her husband TOO MUCH to tell him? Couldn't the twentieth century wife go to a man who lived nearby who was interested in the Victorian age and how Victorian wives were punished? Would he do that as a favour to her do you think so that she could solve her dilemma and save her marriage?' Her blue eyes were full of pleading.

'Yes,' he replied quietly. 'If that was what she wanted.' She drew the cane quickly out of the umbrella stand and placed it firmly in his hands.
'It is,' she whispered urgently. 'My husband will not be back until the end of next week. He will never know. Cane me here, now, this afternoon, please.'

Whereas Mrs Elena Solari in 'Under a Mediterranean Sun' is a Catholic and is required to confess her adultery to absolve her sins. Elena is the kind of gorgeous, curvaceous older lady that every man (and his milkman) hopes his wife turns into...

But when she takes her engaged daughter Maria to the priest to be punished for frolicking with boys, we soon learn where Maria gets it from!

Her mother watched impassively, remembering when she herself was 18. Maria was just like her. She had also received the belt from her father and a whipping from the priest and her schoolmaster, but none of it had ever stopped her going out with boys.

Elena waited, listening for the inevitable sound of anguished cries.

And after the daughter's punishment we find out Mrs Solari hasn't left her wicked ways behind...

Elena had a penance of her own to do. The priest's cane had not yet finished its work.

Don Stefano gave a muttered instruction and Elena went to re-lock the door. At 35 she remained a very attractive woman, a somewhat more mature version of her daughter, but with face still handsome, shoulder-length hair still glossily chestnut, and ripe breasts and buttocks still taut and firm. A ripe and responsive body which, it seemed, could not always be controlled and kept strictly for the sanctity of the marriage bed. It was that implacably burning sun, Don Stefano told himself, forever heating up a woman's loins. That pagan sun and the Devil.
In Elena Solari's case – her most recent case – it was a tourist she had chanced to meet on a country road. An American who, without any great difficulty it seemed, had been able to persuade the 35 year old matron to walk with him to some nearby woods and there engage in the act of sexual intercourse.

As she now stood in front of him in the little room Don Stefano made Elena repeat all the details – what the man had done, what she had done, the precise position they had adopted for their illicit coupling. Unblinking eyes on the scarlet-faced woman, the priest felt his blood stirring. The Devil never slept. When he had got the last detail out of her he told Elena to take all her clothes off.
...

She now stood naked apart from stockings and shoes, full, firm rosy-nippled breasts pointing at the priest.
Eyes firmly fixed on the nude body, on the jutting breasts and the thickly tufted mons veneris, Don Stefano delivered his homily – on the sin of adultery and fornication. Elena heard it as she had heard it before, standing straight and still, hands at her sides. She tried to concentrate but she was thinking now of the American greedily thrusting hard into her – and then of Don Stefano's cane which would shortly be searing her bottom, as it had Maria's.

Though her husband would no doubt be furious if he found out, he does get some benefit from his wife's adultery... Though not as much as she does!

Once at home she grabbed her husband, Franco, and pulled him into the bedroom. Without speaking she locked the door then pulled him down on the bed on top of her. They made love, Elena with that fierce desperation which the cane always induced in her, though she was careful to ensure that her husband did not get a look at the state of her backside. 

Afterwards Franco asked about Maria. Fastening his trousers he said, grimly, "Well she's in for a belting this evening!"

...

Elena heard her daughter's anguished cries – spaced at about 30 second intervals. Eight in all. She gave a shiver. If Franco found out about the state of her own bottom and then discovered the reason, it would be she who would be ordered upstairs – and getting something which would make what he was meting out to Maria seem like love taps. Elena's safety lay only in her husband's ultra-conventional approach to love making. 
He was a good man but..... she sighed and then shivered again. She thought of the stranger at the bus stop who had fondled her bottom and wondered if he would be there tomorrow. 

Tomorrow when, as always, that infernal sun would be beating down producing the stirring in her loins she could not resist, just like her daughter and all the other women. But Don Stefano would be there, as ever, doing his best to stem the tide.

I love how these spanking stories often show married ladies playing around to be somewhat hereditary, with the mothers just as eager to have fun with the boys as their daughters!

Cuckolding in British spanking mags: Practical Experience

We all know how arousing spankings and canings are, for both the spanker and the spankee, both during and after! There's just something about posh English ladies getting thrashed (and more). Especially when they are also interfering do-gooders like Mrs Sarah Broadley:

She has the nerve to interview a headmaster as part of an article she is writing against caning. He thinks the best way to inform her is to show her a senior schoolgirl getting caned. And then soon after he and his sadistically lovely little assistant Mary take advantage of the fact that there's something about the cane that lights a fire in stuck-up middle-class ladies...

Sarah moaned, 'Oh-h-h,' very softly, trying to imagine how the wretched girl must be feeling now. Her own plump cheeks clenched rigidly in sympathy, and a wickedly erotic tingle ran through her, to her amazement.

...

'That was a punishment. There are other ways to use the cane. I can show you quite quickly, if you like.' He took Sarah's arm and began to lead her to the old settee!
'Oh! But, I don't want to be caned!' Sarah protested loudly. And again that highly erotic tingle shot through her at the thought! And again Mr Marr sensed this instantly, and knew she was an ideal subject.
'Any writing is best done from experience,' he said gravely. 'I take it you have never been caned, Madam?'
'No,' Sarah shook her head. 'Never!' she admitted, still tingling.
'Well, then...' he urged Sarah gently towards the settee '...how can you possibly write on the subject. You may enjoy it; many ladies do, once they have had the experience.' He smiled knowingly.
Sarah wondered if she'd been missing something worthwhile all those years... And again that hot tingle! This time it ran through her nipples and lingered, making her feel quite breathless. A novel experience for her.
She allowed herself to be led to the settee without another word.

First the plump, well-dressed Sarah is given a light spanking to warm her up...

Poor Sarah lay there totally confused. Panting to breathe. Gasping furious objections no-one was taking any notice of. Jerking and rolling and kicking awkwardly. Bottom tingling hotly, and the sound of sharp slapping loud in her ears adding to the stinging sensation rapidly. Also, experiencing electric tingles internally that were well beyond any previous experience. Her buttocks felt far too big for her dress, and her bra was far too tight suddenly. And she couldn't do a thing!

Mr Marr was slapping the undercurve of her cheeks gaily.
Mary was sure Sarah was responding nicely. The fight was going out of her already. She was nowhere near as frantic now, though still she struggled vainly, ruining her elegant casual hairstyle.
When Mr Marr stopped spanking her Sarah was too breathless to object. She was too busy trying to deal with the fact that her nipples were madly sensitive and her pussy aching warmly. She moaned softly into the soft leather cushion her face was resting upon, indignant and confused.
Mr Marr glanced at Mary, a silent query. 'But, first...'
Sarah cried, 'NO!' as he quickly drew the hem of her dress up to reveal a pale green slip with a deep lacy trim. He took no notice as he did the same with her slip. Sarah realised what was going on and wailed 'No! Damn it!' not knowing she had surprised Mr Marr.
He hadn't expected French knickers...

And then the cane does it's work, heating up this married lady front and back and turning her from a refined, well-spoken society wife into a writhing, horny alley cat desperate for a fucking!

SHWITT! Mary swung with years of dislike in her stroke, and laid a fierce white line diagonally across the five Sarah already had, 'gating' her perfectly. Sarah squealed 'OW-w-w-w!' and tried to leap vertically up from the settee. This was impossible for a lady of her size and weight, of course. But she tried. Purely a reflex action, of course.
She then surprised them once again! Ladies of her undoubted high social standing do not pound their fists into the seat cushions of old settees. But Sarah did! Her expensively styled hair was a total wreck. But this was her last concern. She clamped both hands over her punished pink cheeks and rolled about wildly, moaning softly. Her main concern was to try to control the hot stinging sensation in her buttocks. She arched her back and raised her head, biting her lower lip as her weight pressed her taut breasts into the cushion beneath her. A fantastic electric sensation ran from her nipples to her toes and back to her hot pussy, leaving her gasping, confused. There was a faint tang of female arousal!

Mary excuses herself and then the headmaster shows himself to be quite the expert at teasing and tormenting married ladies:

Mr Marr guessed what Sarah's problems probably were now, from long experience of caning ladies. He began to search for some cream in the cupboard, giving her a chance to regain her composure and get her breath back a little. She did look a little harassed.

Sarah gasped as he stooped to apply the cream gently to her very attractive cheeks. She tried to wriggle away from his careful fingers awkwardly. But not for very long. She sighed and submitted thankfully.
'You'll feel much better in a moment, soon, Madam,' he said, in a soft, soothing voice. 'This cream will work wonders. Keep still, please.'
He went on applying cream to Sarah's ample buttocks, very gently.
'There!' he said, a few minutes later. 'How do you feel now?'
And yet again Sarah surprised him! She turned her head and glared up at him and said: 'You bastard! I feel hot and awkward, and as randy as hell – you know it.' Not a trace of her cultured accent now. She was furious, snapped, 'Well! What are you going to do about it? Don't just stand there, staring at me! You got me like this.'
Sarah turned her head away in disgust. Mr Marr glanced down at the base of her cleft and saw she was pouting beautifully. He was never a man to miss any opportunity, but he never took unfair advantage of any lady, either. He said: 'I'll put a little more cream on you.'
'Hmph!' Sarah wriggled as he did, then said, 'Oh-h-h!' as he put some cream expertly where it would do her the most good. Sarah spread her legs wider apart moaning softly deep in her throat, anticipating more attention. And getting it, expertly delivered. She was thrilled!
He smiled as Sarah began to respond wildly, still moaning softly. But not complaining. Panting a little now. His smile faded to a look of satisfaction. He had known Sarah would make an ideal subject as soon as he saw her, and he was rarely wrong. She was a live one, for sure.
Confidently now he reached under her breast with his free hand.
Sarah raised herself on one elbow to make it easy for him. She had sprung free from her light bra long before, and was almost out of her low dress by now. He gave her breast a friendly squeeze that wrung a low 'Ooh!' from her. Not surprise – appreciation. She was loving it!
He cupped her warm, moist pussy and gave it a nice gentle squeeze, to another low 'Oh-h-h' from Sarah. And some slow erotic wriggling. She made another low sound of pleasure as he found her nipple, firmly erect. She was very sensitive there. Each touch brought a low cry and an almost instant response between her legs. She became more moist.
There was only one possible conclusion, and it didn't take Sarah too long to reach it. She became rigid, moaned, and climaxed lustily!
Mr Marr, like the gentleman he was, made absolutely certain she was completely satisfied in every way possible. It was well after five p.m. when he walked her out to her car.

And even better, an oblivious Mr Broadley calls the next day, fully approving of his wife's 'punishment':

'Poor Sarah. Gated perfectly. She's a credit to you, sir. She was a bit reluctant to show me last night, at first. I put a little cold cream on it for her. She was most appreciative, later.'
Mr Marr stopped himself from saying, she was with me as well.

He even arranges for his friend's well-to-do wife to pay Mr Marr a similar visit!