Copyright 1996 to <pablo@thetreehouse.net> Please respect this copyright. Don't distribute or archive this story in any way except for personal use without explicit permission. No, it's not in the public domain. Ask first, okay? Thanks.

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[Image of Mr Impossible] New Bottoms, Please!
by Pablo

Mummy didn't seem concerned by the clause - 'Ballgirls may be subject to corporal punishment in cases of serious misbehaviour on court.' - and I guess we do still fit snugly over her lap when we've been naughty at school, but Lucy and I felt uneasy. It didn't help when, the day we all went to collect our purple and green uniforms, we heard whispered rumours of a girl having been spanked the previous year, for swearing at a player.

We were on our best behaviour. Gosh, but it was hard work, though, making sure that the balls were always in the right places, and that we were always in the right places. We were glad of the training we'd had, and the occasional glimpse of Miss Trubshawe in the shadows kept us on our toes.

The only excuse I can make is that it was the thrill of getting through to the final. No-one complains when a player throws a racquet into the air after they've won, do they? The shouting and cheering went straight to my head. As the final point was won, I leapt up, flinging the ball in my hand skyward.

Had Lucy left it alone, or just caught it, perhaps we'd have been spared, but she volleyed it powerfully, flukishly. There were gasps as the ball arced towards the Royal Box, and hit . . . Oh Noooo! . . . and hit the Duchess.

We knew we'd be leaving with bright red bottoms, and we could only nod quietly when Miss Trubshawe asked us to stay behind.

The trophies having been awarded, the crowd having left the court quiet, echoey, we watched as a second umpire's chair was wheeled squeakily on, opposite the first. The lady umpire ascended once more, and Miss Trubshawe climbed into the second chair.

'Young lady, across my knee,' the umpire requested, from her perch. What? She wanted me up there?! Reluctantly, I climbed the steps, and was lifted across the umpire's lap, while Lucy was taken across Miss Trubshawe's. Our pleated skirts were quickly turned up and, after glances to the lone figure in the Royal Box, who responded with a Roman emperor's thumbs-down, our uniform knickers were soon around our knees, our botties bare.

A couple of gentle pats, and then SPANK! on my bum, spank! on Lucy's. SPANK! Spank! SPANK! Spank!

'Fifteen-love!' called the umpire. I wriggled, but not much. It was a long way down.

Another rally of spanks, our bottoms the tennis-ball, then:

'Fifteen-all!'

Curses! It seemed the players were evenly matched. Five deuces followed, by which time Lucy and I were sobbing, sore-bottomed girls.

We curtseyed stiffly to the Duchess, then retreated to the changing room, where we filled washbasins with cold water and sat soothingly.

At home, we expected bottom-smackings and early bedtimes, at least a little anger. Mummy just seemed proud. 'After all,' she said, 'it isn't every mother whose twin daughters get bare-bottom spankings on the Centre Court at Wimbledon, in front of a real Duchess.'

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