Educating Sandra

Story from Blushes Supplement 01.

Educating Sandra

Louise Bracknell, Headmistress of Southwood Comprehensive, smiled al the girl standing in front of her. 'It is a great honour, of course, Sandra. For you and also for this school; and I'm sure it's going to be a marvellous experience. But don't imagine it'll be a path strewn with roses all the way. There will be problems, but problems in life are there for us to overcome, aren't they?'

These suitably headmistress-like utterances were directed at Sandra Clayton who was 16 and about to become the first girl taken on at Southwood College, the local boys public school. She would join the Lower Sixth for the coming summer term. Naturally the prospect was very exciting.

'I'm sure I can cope, Miss Bracknell.'

Sandra was a very pretty girl with shoulder-length blonde hair and big blue eyes and a nice shapely figure of about average height. She was also very bright and level-headed and sensible. Louise Bracknell was sure Sandra would make a success of this, and then if all went well she would be joined by two other girls next year.

'Generally speaking you will find the staff there very nice,' she told Sandra. 'But as in any little community it does have its reactionary elements; those individuals who are reluctant to move with the times and who need convincing that a change is for the better.'

'Anyway it has been decided that the best way to deal with this is for you to visit these particular gentlemen individually during the vacation. Just an afternoon visit so they can get a look at you and see that there's nothing to be frightened about.'

Miss Bracknell smiled at her little joke and Sandra flushed slightly. The Headmistress handed Sandra a strip of paper.

'These are the gentlemen concerned. You can ring them up and make the arrangements yourself. I have also put the Headmaster on the list – not that he's one of the awkward ones. But see him first, Sandra.'

Miss Bracknell wished Sandra good luck and said that they would naturally keep in touch. Sandra turned to go. She had reached the door when Miss Bracknell remembered something else.

'One thing, Sandra. As I expect you know they do use corporal punishment at Southwood College. I don't actually know what Mr Newberry is planning for you in that regard but whatever is decided clearly the best thing is for you to simply accept it. Of course it may well not come up, if you don't get into any scrapes etc.'

* * *

Sandra saw Mr Newberry a week later when she cycled over to his house in the afternoon. By this time she had got her uniform and was wearing it: a girl's version of the regular Southwood College outfit. The blazer was the same – grey with the red Southwood crest – but under this was a white long-sleeved blouse and a full pleated knee-length grey skirt.

To complete all this Sandra had on light brown nylons fastened at mid-thigh with a white suspender belt, plus brown medium heel shoes. The nylons were Mr Newberry's idea. As he had said to his secretary, girls always used to wear them and wasn't it true that they were coming into fashion again?

Sandra found Mr Newberry's red brick house without any trouble; about two miles from her house and a similar distance from the College which was just outside the town boundary. The door at Mr Newberry's was opened by a pleasant-looking middle-aged lady who said she was Mrs Newberry, She ushered Sandra into her husband's study and said she would bring in some tea later, then went out.

Mr Newberry was tall and silver-haired, fiftyish like his wife, and seemed very friendly. He said Sandra would be very welcome at Southwood College and it would be a big thing for the school to start having girls. Mr Newberry also said the uniform looked very attractive, the school outfitter had done a good job, and in addition Sandra was a very attractive girl as well.

Yes he seemed very friendly. As he stood next to her by his desk Mr Newberry's hand came round and palled Sandra's bottom in a friendly way. And then gave it a squeeze.

Sandra flushed, but Mr Newberry's hand let go as he went to sit on his settee. He asked if she had the nylons on. Sandra said yes Sir.

'Good. I rather like nylons. Takes me back to when I was a lad. Come here, m'dear, and let me have a look.'

Sandra was made to stand in front of him and then lift up the front of the grey pleated skirt. Exposed to Mr Newberry's keen gaze were the sleek brown nylons with their darker welts, and the slim while suspender straps crossing softly rounded thighs. Sandra gave a start as Mr Newberry's hand reached out. His fingers stroked her thighs, and fiddled with the suspenders.

As he fiddled about he started telling her about Southwood College's code of conduct which they were very proud of. If anyone had a problem it was sorted out in the school, no one ever took their problems home or to anyone outside. You went to your form teacher or to Matron or to him, the Head. Everyone would naturally be watching to see that the first girl at the school was able to conform to this code of conduct.

Sandra, still holding her skirt up and sweating slightly, said yes she understood. While talking Mr Newberry had continued his fiddling about. He had unfastened one suspender clasp and then done it up again. Sandra wondered vaguely what you did if you had problems with the Headmaster.

He finally took his hands away and Sandra was told she could drop her skirt. Then she had to take off her blazer. Mr Newberry, standing now, looked Sandra up and down, in particular casting his gaze over those firm quite full breasts which were bulging out the front of Sandra's crisp while blouse. He told her to turn around, gave her bottom a slap, and then said turn again. Then Mr Newberry said that if Sandra had any problems with boys at school she was to come to him or Matron.

'You know what I mean,' he said. 'Boys with grabby hands and that sort of thing. Because naturally they won't be used to having a pretty girl in their midst.'

As if to illustrate what he meant Mr Newberry turned Sandra once more, so that she was facing away from him. And his two hands calmly slid under her arms to come round and lake hold of her two breasts, in that nice new thin blouse which had only a thin while bra underneath. Sandra gave a shocked gasp and her own hands automatically shot up to Mr Newberry's. He didn't take them away, though, just squeezed...

Fortuitously at this point the door abruptly opened and Mr Newberry did take his hands away. It was Mrs Newberry with a tray of tea. She smiled sweetly as she put the tray down.

'How d'you think your going to like it, Sandra?'

Sandra, hot-faced, said something but she wasn't quite sure what. Mrs Newberry went out and Mr Newberry and Sandra had tea. She didn't really feel like eating though, because this really was turning into something of an ordeal.

There was, perhaps inevitably, more to come.

'The subject of punishment,' said Mr Newberry portentously, draining his cup and putting it down. 'That is something that we have to be clear on. It is in that area that some senior members of my staff have expressed misgivings.'

These would be the masters Miss Bracknell had referred to, the others on Sandra's list. According to the Headmaster they were concerned that, if they had to have girls at Southwood, there might be a slackening of disciplinary standards. Mr Newberry said he could see their point on this. The school's reputation had to be maintained.

He leaned across to Sandra as she sat opposite him and put his hand on one nyloned knee.

'So, Sandra, I have agreed that they can use the cane on you, if and when necessary. I want you to agree that you'll accept this and I also want you to agree that no mention of this will be made outside the school. Remember the school's code of conduct.'

The hand on Sandra's knee squeezed. 'Caning a girl is of course quite legal but it is something which in certain quarters would cause raised eyebrows, and worse. Is that understood and accepted?'

Sandra was sweating again. The hand on her knee made her feel uncomfortable but what Mr Newberry was saying made her feel a lot worse. Miss Bracknell hadn't actually mentioned the cane.

'Of course we may well not get into a caning situation,' Mr Newberry went on. 'But I want a solemn undertaking that if necessary you will accept it, without argument, and you will then maintain silence as to what has happened.'

Somehow Sandra heard herself agreeing.

'Good!' said Mr Newberry in a hearty voice. 'That's settled then. As for myself, Sandra, I can say that I do not intend to use the cane on you – although of course I do use it on boys if necessary. My own feeling is that caning a girl's bare bottom is not the best way of dealing with her – while nonetheless accepting that others have their own views on this. No, Sandra, what I intend, if we get into a situation where some form of corporal punishment seems desirable, is to give you a spanking. A good spanked bottom.'

As he said this the hand which was still on Sandra's knee gave a firm squeeze. Eyes shining, Mr Newberry asked if she had had her bottom spanked recently. Sandra unhappily shook her head.

'Well I must admit that I don't get to spank many girls myself at present. There was my niece a few years ago but she's now married and moved away. Very unfortunate! So perhaps it might be an idea to try things out – just to see there're no snags.'

Sandra gave him a bewildered look. At least the hand had now left her knee. The Headmaster spelled out what he meant.

'Come here and get over my lap, Sandra. Let's have a look at that pretty bottom of yours.'

Sandra's look was now one of disbelief but he clearly meant it all right. Desperately she glanced over at the door in the hope that it could open and admit Mrs Newberry. But the door remained closed.

'Come on, my dear; snap to it!' urged Mr Newberry in sterner tones. 'At Southwood College we learn to respond immediately.'

Sandra got up. Not looking at him she moved to Mr Newberry's side. He pulled her down across his lap. Immediately she felt her skirt being lifted and then the Headmaster's hand was stroking the backs of Sandra's thighs above the stocking tops, and her tightly knickered bottom. Her knickers were quite skimpy, blushing pink, and they were also, she thought hotly, partially transparent.

But transparent or not didn't really matter because Mr Newberry simply inserted his fingers in the waistband and pulled them down. Two firm tugs and Sandra's bottom was bare!

He proceeded to give that ripe 16 year old rear a number of firm but not hard smacks – and then Mr Newberry's hand was running caressingly over the silky smooth flesh.

His voice said, 'Yes, I think we shall manage, Sandra. Don't you?'

Sandra couldn't think of answering; it was so desperately awful. There was some more fondling and a few more smacks and then she was told she could get up. Her face was crimson as she scrabbled her knickers back up under her skirt.

'No need to be embarrassed,' Mr Newberry assured her. 'I've seen girl's bottoms before, you know.'

The interview went on for a while longer but Sandra didn't really take anything in, her mind was still centred on the enormity of being over Mr Newberry's lap with her knickers down. He checked the list Miss Bracknell had given her and agreed that those were the masters to see. And that was it.

Mr Newberry helped Sandra on with her blazer. As he did so his hands quite deliberately felt her breasts again. If he wasn't Headmaster of Southwood College you could be excused for thinking he was just a Dirty Old Man, Sandra thought. Cycling back home she had plenty to think about. And she hadn't met the 'problem' masters yet!

* * *

The first of these was Mr Wilmot, Senior History Master, who was a bachelor and had a flat in the College itself. Sandra arranged to see him three days later. Mr Wilmot certainly sounded somewhat curt on the phone and after that traumatic visit to the Head she was feeling decidedly apprehensive as she cycled the four miles to the College.

It was very impressive, old grey stone buildings, ivy-covered in parts. At the moment naturally it was deserted and it was kind of eerie with all those blank windows seemingly watching you. Yes, it was impressive but scary – especially when you thought of that now central mind-boggling fact: the cane. Sandra found herself half hoping that perhaps Mr Wilmot might have forgotten her appointment and not be in. And then somehow she could forget the whole thing and go back to Southwood Comprehensive next term.

But that was not to be as a caretaker-looking man came up and enquired if she was Miss Clayton, and then told her where to go.

Mr Wilmot was a tall man, like the Head, and also about his age, but with gold-rimmed glasses and a thin dour face. He said, 'Hello; so you are the famous Miss Clayton, eh?'

He didn't sound very welcoming but he led her into his room which had leather armchairs and a settee and books covering a good part of the walls. He indicated an armchair that Sandra was to sit on and he himself stood opposite, leaning against his desk. Sandra perched tensely on the edge of the leather seat as Mr Wilmot fixed an unblinking stare on her.

'Ever had the cane, young Miss?' he queried in precise tones.

Sandra experienced a hot flush. Mr Wilmot wasn't even going to lead gradually up to it. She shook her head.

'Every pupil at Southwood is liable to the cane, Miss Clayton, and I have the Headmaster's word that you are not to be excluded from this. You are aware of that, I presume?'

Sandra nodded dumbly.

'First caning with knickers retained but all subsequent ones with your knickers off. The cane on your bare bottom, Miss Clayton, that is what we are talking about.'

Sandra sensed he was trying to scare her – and he was certainly succeeding. She felt sick in her stomach.

'And at Southwood College, Miss, no one goes home crying to mother. You keep the matter to yourself. Has the Head told you that?'

Once more Sandra nodded. She could now feel tears in her eyes. Mr Wilmot suddenly left his desk to go over to a cupboard. He came back with a wicked-looking cane in his hand. In front of Sandra's eyes he bent it almost into a circle, then let it spring back. She shuddered.

'So, Miss Clayton, shall we carry out a little lest? Shall we have those knickers down – or I should say right off.'

Sandra could scarcely believe it. She stuttered, 'I... I haven't done anything.'

Mr Wilmot gave a dry little laugh. 'A test, Miss Clayton, does not require you to have done anything. I merely want to be assured that you can take a caning like a sensible disciplined 16-year-old, that's all. I understood the Head had explained this to you.'

Mr Newberry hadn't, there had been no mention of being caned for nothing. It was quite impossible. Two fat tears rolled down the pretty cheeks.

'Do I actually see tears before the cane has even been raised, Miss Clayton? That indeed says very little for discipline!'

His mocking voice became suddenly hard. 'Stand up, Miss, and take those knickers off, and be sharp about it!'

Silently weeping, Sandra obeyed. Standing, she reached up under the grey skirt. A pair of white nylon knickers eventually appeared and were slid on down shapely nylon-clad legs. She stepped out of the knickers and, as directed by a pointing finger, put them on Mr Wilmot's desk.

'That's better,' he told her, whipping the cane sharply through the air. 'And now please bend over the arm of that chair. Head right down on its seat and bottom up.'

Still weeping, Sandra got over the arm of the chair. Mr Wilmot pushed back her blazer, then flipped the grey pleated skirt up over Sandra's back. He gazed – and licked thin dry lips. The girl's ripely rounded bottom seemed to gleam in its sudden nakedness. A decidedly stirring sight, even for a confirmed bachelor. Perhaps especially for a confirmed bachelor. The cane twitched in James Wilmot's hand and he felt something else, the front of his tweed trousers, twitching as well.

Boys were not caned bare-bottomed at Southwood College, they were allowed the considerable protection of underpants and trousers; but James Wilmot and the three other masters who had objected to the presence of a girl in the College's hallowed halls had forced the Head to agree that with a girl it could be different. If she was coming she was very much on trial and had to be tested thoroughly. If she couldn't take it then they would be rid of her. If she could, her acceptance of the school's code would ensure it was kept quiet. And wasn't caning a girl's bare bottom much more stimulating then with her knickers on?

Yes indeed! Mr Wilmot savoured that rare tightness in his trousers and gave the cane a couple of anticipatory cuts through the air.

'Legs straight, Miss; and try and keep it nice and still.' He aimed the cane and without ceremony whipped it down.

THWACK!...

Squarely across the ripest curve of the round cheeks. There was a gurgling gasping yelp from the seat of the chair. The stricken bottom did a frantic dance.

James Wilmot waited, letting her feel the pain, then: THWACK! The cane landed once more, two centimetres above its first line. This time the yelp from the depths of the chair was louder, more urgent, and the bottom's writhings more frenzied.

At the third THWACK! Sandra's hand came desperately back to clutch at her red-hot rear. Only to have the clutching hand immediately feel the sting of Mr Wilmot's precisely aimed cane.

'No hands, Miss Clayton! That is not the way we do things at this school. I want your bare bottom quite unencumbered.'

The smarting hand retreated to the chair seat. And after a suitable period Mr Wilmot's cane whipped down once more across Sandra's clenching bottom.

THWACK!... To leave a fourth double red line.

He gave her eight in all. By the end of this time Sandra was clearly in some distress and Mr Wilmot had no wish to overdo it. He placed his cane on the desk and observed his handiwork. The red-striped bottom was twitching and trembling and there was the sound of uncontrolled sobbing. As for James Wilmot himself, his whole body was glowing, with the exercise and also with a quite intense excitement. In particular he had a very stiff erection.

Sandra struggled to her feet. The pretty face was rather a mess, red and blotchy and tear-stained, and she was still sobbing.

'Sting a bit, did it?' enquired Mr Wilmot.

Sandra tried to say something but all that came out was a 'Nnggghh' sound.

Mr Wilmot moved close and took hold of Sandra's arm. 'Going home with a sad tale to mummy now, are we?'

Eyes blinking to try to stop the tears, Sandra glanced up at him, then looked down. She hesitated. Then she shook her head.

James Wilmot experienced a tingle of relief. An awkward parent could cause trouble and in spite of his obtuseness at times he would rather avoid that. He put a reassuring arm round the unhappy girl.

'Good! That's what I like to hear. No one will be more pleased than I if you do prove able to accept our rather strict regime. But you can see that you must be properly tested. Now then, perhaps I can find some biscuits, and a cup of tea. You may put your knickers back on.'

As at Mr Newberry's Sandra didn't feel like eating anything, all she could think of was her dreadfully sore bottom on the hard leather chair. Mr Wilmot, now he'd caned her, was more amenable, talking about the school and asking if Sandra liked history.

Eyes glinting behind those gold-rimmed glasses, he said that perhaps they were going to get on all right after all. Then, after he'd had his tea, he said he thought he had better take a look at her bottom before she went. So once more Sandra was made to bend over the arm of the chair. Mr Wilmot pulled her knickers down himself this time, to the tops of her stockings. His hand went over her still glowing rear like a giant-sized creeping spider.

At home her mother enquired brightly how she had got on. Sandra managed a normal-sounding 'OK' and went quickly up to her room. She took off her knickers and looked at her bottom in the mirror. For the first time Sandra saw the bright red stripes and it was all she could do not to burst into tears again.

What she wanted to do was go to her mother and to Miss Bracknell and tell them she had decided to call the whole thing off. She didn't want to go to dreadful Southwood College with its horrid caning and horrid masters like Mr Wilmot. But if she backed out Sandra knew she would be letting everyone down and would simply be seen as inadequate. She didn't know what to do. Changing into T-shirt and jeans she decided that maybe the best thing was to go and see Miss Bracknell.

Sandra didn't mention the Headmaster and the fact that he had taken her knickers down, but she did say that Mr Wilmot had caned her on her bare bottom and for no reason at all.

Louise Bracknell bit her lip. She had been expecting something like this and had tried to give Sandra some general warning.

'Well, it wasn't exactly for no reason, was it, Sandra? He was testing you, as he told you. We may consider it was a very unfair and unpleasant test, but that is what it was. And if you can't take the test then he will be quite happy because he's silly enough not to want girls there.'

'What if he keeps on testing me?' asked Sandra miserably.

Miss Bracknell put her arm round Sandra. 'Let's look on the bright side, dear. I can't believe Mr Wilmot is a complete sadist; and by being brave you show these few obstinate characters just how wrong-headed they are.'

Sandra wiped away some tears that had started to come. Miss Bracknell said some more encouraging things and also said, of course, that if Sandra didn't go through with it she would be letting everyone down.

Then she asked if Sandra had made arrangements to see the other three masters yet.

Sandra saw Mr Cutler, Head of Geography, a week later. He lived in the town and he had a wife but she conveniently went out to do some shopping when Sandra arrived. Mr Cutler didn't look like Mr Wilmot, he was shorter with a black moustache, younger probably, but he sounded very much the same. Brusque and curt and not very welcoming.

'So you've seen Mr Wilmot?' he queried. 'And did he put the cane across your backside? I understand he was planning that to see how a girl could cope with it.'

They were in Mr Cutler's sitting room, standing by the fireplace. As with Mr Wilmot, Mr Cutler was starting right out on the subject of caning. Sandra nodded, feeling that sinking sensation in her stomach.

'Bare bottom?' She nodded again, flushing pinkly.

'And were there tears?' Another unhappy nod of the head.

'You look a bit as if you're about to cry now, Miss. An unhappy memory no doubt. But at least you took the caning?'

'Yes Sir.'

'And you are aware of our code of conduct regarding tales outside? You followed that, I hope?'

Sandra had told Miss Bracknell but that didn't really count. She said 'Yes Sir' again.

Mr Cutler left Sandra to go to the cupboard. He came back with a sardonic look on his face – and a three-foot-long, whippy cane in his hand. He raised it and brought it thwacking down across the arm of a chair.

'So, Miss Clayton, if we are to have you at Southwood I don't see why Mr Wilmot should have all the fun, do you? I'm sure you would agree that I should carry out a little testing of my own.'

Sandra said nothing. What was there to say? She felt her knees trembling.

'Yes Miss. Sandra, isn't it? Well, Sandra, please take off your blazer. And then your skirt. And then your knickers.'

She stood, paralysed, as the words gradually sunk in.

'Come on, Sandra dear. Get them off. That nice Miss Bracknell wouldn't like to hear we were having problems, would she?'

Tight-lipped, Sandra took her clothes off. It got increasingly difficult and after removing her skirt it needed a superhuman effort to take off the white nylon knickers in front of Mr Cutler. But she made herself. She stood in front of him in blouse and tie, suspender belt and nylons, and her brown shoes. With one hand covering her blonde bush.

'Both hands at the sides, Sandra. We mustn't be shy with a master, must we?'

Crimson-faced, Sandra dropped the hand.

'Very nice, Miss. Very nice indeed. If we have to have a girl then clearly it is best to have a pretty one, is it not? And one who is indeed pretty all over. Just turn round, would you, dear; so I can see your bottom. That's it. Yes, very nice indeed. And now what we have to do is give that pretty bottom a little touch of the stick, isn't that right?'

The 'little touch of the slick' proved to be six breath-stopping cuts as Sandra bent herself over the back of an upright chair with her head down in its seat. Mr Cutler's thin whippy cane made transverse cuts across the full meat of Sandra's bottom, landing in very much the same area as Mr Wilmot's cane had a week earlier. The pain was absolutely sickening but somehow Sandra managed to hang onto the chair legs and keep in position.

When it was over Mr Cutler said, 'Not bad, Sandra. Yes, you did quite well. Passed the test with flying colours one might say.'

She stood up, sobbing and aching with the smarting pain. Mr Cutler came up behind her and cupped Sandra's red-hot bottom in both hands.

'Not a word to your dear mother, of course; or to anyone else. This has simply been a private test for our new girl.'

* * *

There were two more masters on Sandra's list, Mr Parkinson, Physics, and Mr Morris, English. Somehow she forced herself to visit them. Mr Parkinson caned her on the palms of her hands, two hard cuts to each – before making her take her knickers off and proceeding to give her six equally unpleasant ones on her bare bottom. Mr Morris caned Sandra's bare bottom and upper thighs – after making her lie spread-legged over a stool.

After all this, in some desperation, Sandra went to see Miss Bracknell again.

This time Louise Bracknell had considerable difficulty in persuading Sandra that she should go through with the proposed transfer. The Headmistress had to pull out all the stops, pointing out that Sandra really was in an historic position being the very first girl to be taken in by this noted boys public school. In years to come Sandra would look back on these days with a very proper sense of pride.

'I just can't take those canings,' Sandra wailed tearfully. 'And also h...having to take my knickers off for them. That's just as bad.'

But somehow she was persuaded to be brave and carry on. As Miss Bracknell pointed out they had been testing her and she had taken it, and once she actually started at the College things could well be a lot easier. And she would, she said, have another word with Mr Newberry.

Louise Bracknell did phone Mr Newberry to say that she hoped they weren't being too hard on the poor girl. She could not be too specific because their prized school code meant that Sandra was not supposed to have told her about the canings. But she did say that she hoped Mr Newberry would remember that Sandra was not used to the cane.

In his rather superior manner Mr Newberry merely observed that if Sandra was to have the privilege of becoming a member of a noted public school she must certainly accept the rules and regulations as she found them.

Louise felt like pointing out that Sandra had been caned by four masters on her bare bottom and as far as she knew no boy was caned in that manner; but to say that would certainly lay Sandra open to the charge of talking out of school. So she confined herself to saying that could he please remember that Sandra was a girl, and a sensitive one.

'Of course,' said Mr Newberry. 'But anyway I can now tell you that I have good news to report. By her excellent deportment Sandra has been able to win over those more reluctant members of my staff. They are now quite happy to accept her.'

Happy to put the cane across her bottom, Louise Bracknell thought bleakly.

'Yes, our policy of introducing her individually has been a great success, Miss Bracknell. And with this success we can now look forward to taking more of your girls next year. Two girls I should think.'

Louise said, 'Yes Mr Newberry, of course.'

'Two like Sandra would I think do very nicely. Good brains of course, and well-mannered girls. And also... well, attractive. Yes, attractive young ladies.'

With nice attractive caneable bottoms, thought Louise Bracknell. But what she said was, 'Yes, I'm sure we will find two suitable ones. And naturally it will be a big honour for them.'

So Sandra Clayton duly started at Southwood College. It certainly seemed an excellent school, thought her mother. During the first week Sandra was kept behind four afternoons out of the five, for half an hour or so, for extra tuition from one master or another.

Head Girl

Story from Roue 18.

Head Girl

AS THE singing died away she got up from her seat among the school prefects and walked, clip-clop on the medium high heels which the Head allowed for Sixth Formers, along the front of the hall and then up the short flight of steps onto the stage. All eyes — well, all boys' eyes at least — focussed on those flexing bare calves beneath the thin summer uniform dress, for Gillian Blair, Head Girl at Greenfields Comprehensive, undoubtedly had a very shapely pair of legs. She stood in the centre of the stage ready to read out the various day's announcements as was customary at the completion of morning assembly.

For most people the business of standing up there in front of the whole school would be quite an ordeal: all the eyes upon you — the girls, many of them envious, and the boys, well, undoubtedly quite a few enlivening the boredom of assembly by indulging in varied lustful thoughts about Gillian, for her physical attractions did not stop at those shapely legs: she was shapely all over, not least those swelling breasts pushing out the front of that crisp blue-flowered dress. And she moreover had a pertly pretty face to go with all this. But lustful or envious looks did not perturb Gillian, for she was a notably self-possessed young lady: poised, confident, intelligent, a sure prospect for university. No, speaking at assembly was purely routine.

Well, that is to say it normally was. But today for some reason things were inexplicably different. She started off in a most un-Gillian like halting manner; then was seen to glance at the Head, sitting in his customary position on the left of the stage, and then she dried up completely. She stood there desperately for about half a minute, her face getting pinker and pinker, and then blurted out: 'I... I'm sorry, I seem to have forgotten...' She stumbled off into the wings of the stage. The Head quickly followed her. Those near enough to see said she was crying and the Head was heard saying:

'Really Gillian, you're just going to have to try and forget about it.'

What a drama! The whole school was naturally agog. What had happened? What was happening? Who knew? Nobody seemed to know anything. Somebody must, though. The Head? And then the word spread round that something odd had been going on the previous day: Gillian and the Head going off in the afternoon on some mysterious errand. This only deepened the mystery, unless you were prepared to listen to Robert 'Nose' Parker (Five B): 'It's obvious. The Head took her out for a fuck and now she thinks she's got one in the oven.' This theory followed naturally from the premise, commonly stated by Parker-type elements in the Fourth and Fifth, that all girl prefects were 'fucked' by member of staff and that was how they got to be prefects. But the Parker theory and its premise were not widely believed — not even by those boys who eagerly repeated them. No, it must be something else.

The Head knew all right, though both he and Gillian fervently hoped that no one else ever would. To Mr Kendall, Headmaster of Greenfields Comprehensive, it had been a most unfortunate, deeply regrettable, happening. And that of all people it should be Gillian Blair, one of the best girls the school had ever produced. Unbelievable, though of course this kind of thing did happen. The papers had cases all the time — including the most prominent people — but that didn't make it any easier to deal with. Roger Kendall, 40 and young to be Headmaster of a large comprehensive, shook his head. He had told Gillian to go and work in the library: he would have another talk with her in half an hour when he'd dealt with his morning's correspondence. But try as he might he was unable to concentrate, his thoughts persistently returning to the unfortunate events of the previous two days.

* * *

It had been Wednesday lunchtime when it had all started and really it was still almost impossible to believe that Gillian of all people had done it. But there was no doubt that she had. In Carter's, the old family firm of office suppliers and stationers in the town centre. Where Gillian had been seen by one of the assistants to pick up an expensive Parker pen and after nervously looking around had slipped it into her blazer pocket. The assistant told Mr Carter and as Gillian walked out of the shop she had been apprehended.

As Gillian had tearfully told the Head later, she had just no idea what impelled her to do it; she had never even thought of such a thing before, and if she really wanted the pen she could easily have bought it, for she had a not-ungenerous allowance from her parents. A fresh outburst of tears at the thought of her parents and what they would think if they heard about it. And not just her parents of course but the whole public humiliation.

Because Mr Carter wanted, if not blood, then certainly full and proper retribution. According to him shoplifting was halving his profits and now he had caught someone red-handed he had every intention of making an example of the culprit, whether or not she happened to be Head Girl of Greenfields Comprehensive. 'It's just another example of the way this country's going to the dogs,' he ranted at the Head. 'And you in your position, Kendall, are personally responsible.'

For sure, Wednesday afternoon had not been the easiest time of the Head's career. First the turbulent meeting in his study with Carter, then the phone calls, followed by both of them driving over to the home of Major Fortnum, Chairman of the local magistrates. A further harrowing meeting at which he pleaded desperately about Gillian's position: the coming A Levels, the possible effects on her whole University career. Not to mention the position of the school itself. And finally he won his way. The incident could be treated confidentially — hushed up, in other words. At a price of course.

The price? Paid the next day, Thursday, yesterday afternoon in fact, at Major Fortnum's. Tight-lipped and not liking what had been decided or his role in it one little bit, the Head had driven Gillian over there for the 2 o'clock meeting. She was naturally in a bit of a state, wondering what would happen; for she had not yet been told, only that the Head thought they could probably keep it quiet. 'You will not find it pleasant, though.' She bit her lip, with difficulty holding back the tears. That morning, after assembly, she had broken down, weeping, when he had lectured her on what had happened. At assembly itself it had fortunately been the turn of the Head Boy to perform and not Gillian — for really she was in no state to do it.

The drive over to Major Fortnum's house, neither of them speaking, and neither of them speaking as they stepped out of the car and were ushered in by the housekeeper, was all a bit like attending a funeral. The Head for some reason was carrying his overcoat, in a funny kind of way, almost as if it were concealing something. But Gillian was too preoccupied to reason it out.

They were led into the Major's study where he and Mr Carter were already waiting. The door closed quietly behind them. 'Right, young lady,' said the Major. Then to the Head: 'You've brought it, I assume, Kendall?' And then the Head shamefacedly drew from his folded overcoat what had indeed been concealed there — a longish thin whippy cane.

Gillian blanched. She knew that the Head had a cane; but it was used only rarely and then of course only on boys, never girls. Surely they couldn't possibly propose to use it now... on her...

She looked to the Head for words of reassurance but he was rather pointedly gazing out of the window. Fearfully she turned to the other two men. Mr Carter, who of course she'd already encountered — middle-aged, balding, who had ranted angrily at her yesterday. Yes, he was quite capable... But Major Fortnum — 60 perhaps, tall and distinguished-looking with silver-grey hair? He was Chairman of the Magistrates and there were rules, and therefore surely he couldn't agree to such a thing.

What had been proposed by Mr Carter, was indeed highly irregular as the Major knew only too well, and if it were ever to get into the papers (Magistrate Canes Teenage Girl) well, it didn't bear thinking about. But the whole object of the exercise was to avoid publicity. If she chose this rather than the due process of the law, well, so be it. He gazed impassively back at the frightened-looking girl in the thin summer dress and blazer. His eyes said nothing. His thoughts said that here was a very tasty young piece: his task was going to be... highly stimulating.

'Your Headmaster has explained the situation to you, Miss Blair?'

He hadn't, of course. He just hadn't felt able to tell her, it had been bad enough having to bring the cane. 'No, I... I thought it best if you explained the options, Major.'

The Major glanced briefly over at the Head (a look which clearly said that he had shirked his responsibility), then placing the cane carefully on his desk and assuming a bland neutral expression he led off in his best Chairman-of-the-Magistrates voice.

Shoplifting — or more simply theft — could not be condoned, he said. Those who indulged in it must accept the full consequences: due process of the law. The Magistrates Court. The inevitable attendant publicity. All this was unavoidable if Mr Carter pressed his charges as he was fully entitled to do. However Mr Carter and he, the Major, were aware of the very unfortunate effects which the publicity could have for Gillian at this present time. And in the light of this Mr Carter would be prepared to drop the charges if a suitable alternative punishment was meted out.

All eyes at this point were directed automatically at the cane lying ominously on the desk. There was no doubt what form the proposed alternative punishment would take. 'Yes,' said Major Fortnum, a suitable alternative.' The three of them were agreed that then the matter need go no further.

Gillian stood immobile, head bowed, only her hands fiddling nervously with her blazer betraying her emotion, as what he had said sunk in. She knew, though, that she had no option but to accept. Her head still bowed, she said faintly: 'I... I'm to be caned then?' She stopped toying with the edge of her blazer and unhappily rubbed her hands together.

Gillian's unconscious gesture was not lost on Major Fortnum: 'Yes, you will be caned, Miss. But not on your hand: on your bottom.'

He paused to let this statement sink in, and then added: 'With your knickers down.'

There had been a deathly hush, Gillian unable to believe what she had heard and indeed the men, including the Major, just a little stunned at the prospect.

The Major broke the silence: 'I should perhaps say that if you accept a caning and then subsequently feel inclined to divulge what had happened we would all of course deny it, and I think it unlikely that you would be believed. Also if you don't accept and feel like revealing that the option of a caning was made to you we would deny that too. Anyway, as I say, it has to be your own choice. And that is the option.'

He repeated, with emphasis: 'The cane on your bottom with your knickers down.'

Gillian started weeping silently. At this point Mr Carter decided to intervene, perhaps afraid that sympathy for the girl might make the others look for some other, lesser, punishment. 'Well come on! I haven't got all day. If she agrees to it let's get it over.'

'Right then, Miss Blair,' the Major said. 'If you agree please take off your jacket and we will proceed.'

And proceed they did, for Gillian obviously had no choice. Abjectly she removed her blazer, to reveal the clear shape of those firm rounded breasts, contained in only a thin bra under the summer dress, which at Greenfields Comprehensive were so much admired by the boys, and indeed by most of the male staff. A slight pause as the eyes of both Major Fortnum and Mr Carter likewise registered admiration, then the Major indicated that she was to bend over his desk. She stepped forward and his hands guided her down until her face (and those breasts) were flat against the top. She was made to stretch out and grip the other side with both hands.

Then the skirt of that blue flowered dress was ceremoniously pulled up and with it the white lace-edged waist-slip underneath. Long slim bare legs; and as the skirt and slip were pulled further up, up over her back, the rounded thighs and then the white nylon knickers tightly enclosing the rondures of her bottom. The Major's hands at the waistband of the knickers, fingers inserted, easing them down, down over those bare thighs to just above the knees...

A tense silence fell in the room as three pairs of male eyes focused intently on the full pale rounded cheeks, the deep dividing cleft, the glimpse of brown curling hair at the confluence with the thighs. A tense, electric silence... finally broken by the sound of the Major, now redfaced, clearing his throat as he reached for the cane. 'Kindly keep still, Miss. You will receive six strokes.'

He stepped to the side and laid the cane testingly across the fullest part of her buttocks, making them jiggle. Then smoothly he raised it and brought it down with, to the Head's ears at least, quite a sickening Thwack! The girl gave a strangled gasping cry and jerked up off the desk. A bright red stripe had appeared across the centre of her bottom.

'Hold her down please,' the Major curtly barked. Mr Carter sprang forward to push Gillian back down and this time keep her there with his hands pressed onto her back.

'Good!' Unruffled he continued: Thwack!... a second stroke and a second stripe appeared across the bottom of the now sobbing girl.

Thwack!... a third stripe across those desperately squirming cheeks...

Thwack!...

The Head looked on, feeling definitely sick. He had never caned a girl himself, and never even a boy on the bare bottom and what was now happening... Well, it was just sickening. But nonetheless he found he couldn't look away, couldn't take his fascinated eyes off that soft pale flesh and the angry red stripes which one by one were being systematically imprinted on it.

At last there was the stated complement of six. Major Fortnum put down the cane; Mr Carter relinquished his grip (then moving round behind the still bent-over girl was seen by the Head to quite deliberately slide one hand over her bare glowing behind). It was over. Gillian, sobbing, averting her eyes, got up, fumbled her knickers back up under her dress.

Yes, it was over. Mr Carter had had the satisfaction of seeing the Head Girl at Greenfields caned on her bare bottom, and Major Fortnum had had the further satisfaction of actually doing it. The account was paid. The Major's clipped tones: 'Well, I think that concludes matters.' He looked at Gillian: 'And I'll just repeat that nothing of what has taken place here this afternoon will ever go beyond these four walls.'

It had been a quarter to four. Silently, not knowing what to say, the Head had taken Gillian out, then driven her to her home where fortunately no one was yet in. He made her a cup of tea and stayed until she seemed at least to have got over the worst of it; then he left, telling her to phone him if she felt it would help. She had not phoned so he had assumed she was all right. But this morning's performance in assembly clearly indicated that she was not.

* * *

He finally finished his correspondence and sent for Gillian to come to his study. It was the first time he had really had a chance to talk to her since he'd left her at four o'clock yesterday, and it was clear that she was if anything in a worse state than she'd been then. He put his arm round her waist in an avuncular manner and tried to reassure her. The caning was over and best forgotten. No one was ever going to know about it. But this merely precipitated another outburst of tears through which he could just about make out her saying: 'It's not just that.'

He persevered, his arm still round that delectably slim waist, telling her that the only way, if she was worrying about something, was to talk about it. Finally, wiping her eyes, she said haltingly: 'Well all right. Talking won't make it any better, though. But... but last night I... I did something... really awful.'

Mr Kendall was naturally at a complete loss. What now? Had she gone on a round of house-breaking or something? Gradually he coaxed it out of her. It wasn't housebreaking, but it was something just as completely out of character...

* * *

After the Head left her following her caning, Gillian had just sat brooding, doing nothing, letting what had happened go round and round in her head: the actual awful shock of that cane on her bottom, and perhaps even more the sheer humiliation of at 18 being bent over a desk and having her knickers taken down in front of three men. She brooded, and of course said nothing to her parents when they came in; and later barely touched her meal.

She had been due to go to the cinema with her boyfriend, Kevin Goodall, but she just couldn't face him and rang to call it off saying she had a migraine. (Kevin, also in the Upper Sixth at Greenfields had queried her absence from school that afternoon and she invoked a migraine for that as well, saying she had gone home.) She went back to her room to sit once more just staring at the wall.

But after a while she just couldn't stand it any more and felt she had to go out, and happened to see in the local paper that there was a disco on that evening. Discos were something neither she nor Kevin normally ever went to, but perhaps because of the mood she was in it had an appeal. Yes perhaps she would go there for an hour...

She changed from her school dress into a skirt and blouse, and put on the pair of nylons and suspender belt she had recently bought (they were now, after years of tights, to a certain extent being worn again as something 'different'). She brushed her hair, then some lipstick, her high heels, and a coat; and went out. Unfortunately, though she didn't realise it, she had no knickers on: she had taken off the ones she had been wearing but in her distracted state had forgotten to put on another pair.

However, what happened was not simply the result of having no knickers on: for with Gillian's state of mind it would in all likelihood have happened anyway. A state of mind in which together with the sense of humiliation there was the feeling that she had let everyone down; and together these combined to produce a state in which she didn't much care what happened to her. And so, in a distracted sort of way, she had let it happen... the two men, sales reps on an overnight stay, who happened to have turned up at the disco... not actually encouraging them but not discouraging them either, just acquiescing, numbly saying 'All right' when really she must have known where things would lead. Undoubtedly, though, the absence of knickers had an effect; an added stimulus to them when they realised, in the course of dancing with her, that she had none on. Well, a pretty girl, going alone to a disco and not wearing any... the conclusion was obvious. They could scarcely believe their luck.

It had actually happened on the Common, a local lovers' haunt just outside the town, where they had driven Gillian after leaving the dance. Saying they would drive her home but first, as it was a warm evening, why not go for a little drive? Where was a nice quiet spot? Gillian, in the back seat with one of them, her mind further numbed by several drinks and weakly protesting at what her companion was doing, gave directions: she had been to the Common more than once with Kevin, on their bikes. Though definitely not to do what she was now to do with these two men nor indeed to allow what a hand was already doing to her in the car. For she and Kevin, unlike many teenagers, did not mess around indulging in sexual experimentation.

Yes, Gillian was a virgin all right and had planned to stay that way until marriage. But clearly that was not now to be as they got out of the car and she was persuaded to sit, then lie, on the blanket which her companion produced from the car boot. A minimal amount of foreplay (a continuation of what had been happening in the back seat) and then he was on top of her; a firm sharp painful thrust, and Gillian was a virgin no more.

Afterwards, when they'd finished, they drove her home. She went numbly to bed and it was only when she woke in the morning, with the worst of the shock from the caning now over, that she fully realised what she had done, or what she had allowed to be done, the night before.

* * *

Haltingly, tearfully, Gillian reluctantly told all this to the Head (or almost all, for she omitted the fact that she'd had no knickers on). He listened in silence, and when she'd finished just did not know what to say. Well, what could he say? As she continued crying he put one arm, then both arms, round her. And then he did think of something to say: the crucial question. Did she think she could be pregnant? Gillian shook her head. She had carefully understood and remembered her Sex Instruction Class. She was pretty sure it was her safe period. Well at least there was not that to worry about, thought Mr Kendall, as he did his best to comfort the unhappy girl. But as he did so, feeling her body, her breasts, soft but firm against him, he realised to his alarm that he was beginning to get an erection.

Hastily he turned away and went to sit at his desk — where his errant organ continued its unfortunate enlargement, but at least did it unobserved. It was a development which really was most unfortunate, as the Head would have been the first to admit. The trouble was that she was such an attractive girl and what she had just recounted, while it was truly regrettable, was also, well, definitely arousing. He had very clear visions of Gillian, her long legs parted, underneath first one and then the other of those unprincipled men. And he also had vivid memories of earlier yesterday: her full pale bottom being caned over Major Fortnum's desk. Yes, it was all too much: a most unfortunate reaction indeed.

He did his best to ignore it, as he continued to make sympathetic sounds. There was no point worrying about what had happened and she mustn't blame herself. It was not the end of the world. She would soon forget it, as she would likewise soon forget the caning. No use crying over spilt milk etc., etc. But while he was saying all this his hidden organ was remaining obstinately erect. And that part of his brain which had caused this by savouring the recent happenings was also producing most unfortunate thoughts. Really unacceptable ones.

To the effect that what had happened in the last two days had placed his delectable Head Girl completely in his power. To do with as he wished. And what he wished, these thoughts were saying, was to do exactly what those two opportunist men had done last night. To fuck her, in fact.

The decent, headmasterly side of his brain fought back. Such thoughts were disgraceful: it was quite deplorable that he should even contemplate having intercourse with his Head Girl. But that other side of his brain immediately countered: Don't be foolish, Kendall, you know you want it and you know she'll have to let you. And remember that Angela (his wife) will be going off to her mother's this weekend. There's your golden opportunity. Strike while the iron is hot.

The Head seemed to be sweating somewhat. Still seated at his desk, (still in fact in a state of full erection) he mopped his brow: 'Gillian. Look, what you need is a good... I mean what you need is a change of scene. Why don't you come round to my place tomorrow afternoon. We'll have a nice chat... and some tea... I'm sure it'll make you feel a lot better.'

He had said it in spite of himself. He hadn't really meant to but it had just come out. Perhaps she would decline, though.

But no. Gillian looked doubtful and then, pushing back her hair from an unhappy face said: 'Oh, all right Sir. Thank you.' For one thing there was no one except the Head she could talk to about any of this. Not Kevin, not her parents, not anyone. And the Head was, well, very sympathetic. 'When should I come round Sir?'

It was a question Mr Kendall did not hear as he was busy listening to the thoughts whizzing around in his own head. Thoughts as to how he would best accomplish his goal. A drink first, of course. Two drinks. And then should it be the settee. Or, let's face it, it would certainly be more enjoyable to actually do it in bed...

Whatever he decided, he must use the rational approach. Point out that what had happened was not really such a dreadful thing: girls not infrequently started doing it at her age, or indeed younger. But once she had started it was advisable to continue, at least at a certain level of frequency. For the sake of her health, otherwise she could get very tense. At the same time it was not a good idea to think of starting it with her boyfriend — Kevin Goodall, was it? It could very well distract him from his studies.

No, what she needed was an understanding, older man. That was the line to take. And if she wasn't convinced, well, he would just have to use a little pressure. Remind her (if she needed reminding) of what had happened these last two days and how unpleasant it would be if Kevin or her parents got to know about it all. Yes, that would certainly do the trick. But she was a sensible girl and probably he wouldn't need to much of this...

'Sir?'

'Oh... er, sorry Gillian. I wasn't really listening.'

'I said what time should I come round, Sir?'

* * *

Gradually all the excitement died down and by lunchtime Greenfields Comprehensive was more or less back to normal. Gillian herself, after her talk with the Head, though definitely not back to normal was putting a brave face on things, trying not to think about it all. The word had gone round that she simply hadn't been feeling well. Not that characters like 'Nose' Parker were going to be so easily put off. 'Morning sickness, I suppose,' was his comment on hearing this. 'Just goes to prove what I said. Old Kendall has got one in her oven.'

It goes without saying that Parker was not Kevin Goodall's favourite character, for Kevin was all too familiar with the kind of dirt that individual liked to spread around. 'Really, I don't know why we can't get rid of shits like him,' he said angrily on hearing Nose's latest quote.

Of course the school was stuck with him: the only thing you could do with such people was to ignore them, but it naturally made Kevin's blood boil to hear his girlfriend spoken of in such a manner — especially when she was such a super, decent sort of girl. The last girl in fact to get involved in anything at all. She and Kevin had discussed all that sort of thing — sex, emotions, etc. — in a sensible way and had both decided that sex was something properly kept for marriage. They naturally smooched a bit but only within strict limits. Yes, Gillian was just a super, sensible girl and when Kevin heard that Parker had come up with another of his prize statements, well, he felt like going and punching his head. Except that as a senior prefect you had to set an example.

He had to admit, though, that Gillian's illness was a bit of a mystery. Because when he saw her at break she was very vague about it, although he could see that either she was still not feeling well or something was bothering her. Also it was decidedly unusual, when she hadn't been feeling well yesterday, for the Head to take time to personally drive her home, as he had apparently done. And now this business about tomorrow. He and Gillian had planned to go together on the local archaeological dig, as they had each Saturday for some weeks past; but now Gillian said she wouldn't be going. Naturally he could understand if she thought she might not be feeling well; but when pressed about it it turned out she was going round to Mr Kendall's, who had offered to help her with her French.

Well it was unexpected, that was all. And if that turd Parker heard about it the news would be all over school, with the immediate Parker interpretation. Kevin bit his lip, imagining all too easily that unpleasant character's words: 'Kendall had Gillian Blair round to his house again on Saturday. For another cosy fuck.'

* * *

Saturday afternoon, warm and sunny, the sky a cloudless blue; the sort of day when you should not have a care in the world, thought Gillian, as she set off on her bicycle for Mr Kendall's. Naturally after the last three days she was hardly quite in that happy state herself but she was in reasonable spirits as she pedalled along, bare thighs flashing under a skirt which refused to stay down.

She had been round to Kevin's house in the morning and it hadn't been too bad. Of course she had felt desperately guilty, especially when they were kissing on the settee, but she managed to control herself and stop the tears coming. Because she knew she was just going to have to live with what had happened. She would have liked to be going with Kevin now: it would be really nice out at the dig on an afternoon like this but on the other hand another talk with the Head would probably do her good. Mr Kendall was right of course, there was no point crying over what had happened. She had been foolish, dreadfully foolish — and twice over — and none of it could be undone. But at least it was over and done with. She gave a sudden grab at her skirt as she noticed the look on the face of a man she passed. The gentleman in question was left gazing after her, blinking, still seeing in his head a sharply defined picture of bare creamy thighs and brief pink knickers.

Anyway, blinking gentleman or not, we must hope that Gillian was right in thinking that it was over and finished with. As we know, though, she could at this moment be cycling towards more that she expected at Mr Kendall's house: because if the less admirable side of his character has gained the upper hand, as yesterday it seemed quite likely to do, then Gillian will be getting more than just tea and good advice.

And there are additionally a couple of other as yet unseen clouds on Gillian's horizon. Small insignificant things, but the trouble with clouds is that you never know how they will develop. One such is that phone call to her home just a few minutes ago asking for her. From a certain Major Fortnum. On hearing that Gillian is out he has told her mother not to worry, he will call again later. Well, it could be nothing at all. Or it could on the other hand be that the Major so enjoyed caning Gillian on Thursday that he has in mind a repeat performance. (On reflection, six is definitely not sufficient for an 18-year-old girl. Another six. Kendall and Carter need not be present of course.) Well, we just don't know.

That is Cloud No. 2 (No. 1 of course is Mr Kendall.) And there is also a Cloud No. 3, this one involving no other than our friend Robert Parker. Robert, or 'Nose' as he does not particularly like to be known, is this afternoon going out with his girlfriend. Quite a new girlfriend as he only met her a week ago. She is Mandy Brown, aged 16. Mandy just happens to work in Carters, Stationers and Office Suppliers, and moreover just happens to be the assistant who started everything by noticing Gillian put that Parker pen in her pocket.

Things are not as bad as they might be because Mandy does not know what happened to Gillian after being caught, only that the whole affair seems to have been hushed up and she herself has been instructed to say nothing to anyone. So our friend should remain in ignorance. But it is a fact that 16-year-old girls are not always noted for keeping secrets, and there is also the obvious connection of a Parker pen and Robert Parker which just might trigger something. If he did find out, well, he is unfortunately the sort of person quite capable of using the threat of disclosure to blackmail Gillian into something decidedly unpleasant.

Looking on the bright side though, the Parker cloud, and the Major Fortnum one, could well develop into nothing. The first cloud — Mr Kendall? Well, it must be admitted that this one does look a bit more ominous and it is now decidedly close. Gillian, not yet at Mr Kendall's house, can still see nothing of it; but she is quite rapidly approaching, pedalling and tugging at intervals at her skirt. Overhead the sky is still a clear light blue.

Pauline's First Week

Story from Roue 15.

Pauline's First Week

The continuation of the story "Governor's prerogative"

It was Saturday morning, the end of Pauline Duncombe's first week at St. Angela's, and with some free time before lunch she was sitting on the garden seat near the tennis court. She was supposed to be reading her History textbook but found she was more interested in the impromptu game of tennis which three girls were playing in front of her. They had invited her to join them and she would have liked to, except that.... unfortunately she had no knickers on.

It is easy to laugh. Not again! those readers already familiar with Pauline Duncombe (Roue 12) will think. Surely Pauline not again without her knickers! But needless to say it was no laughing matter for Pauline. And indeed the whole of her first week at St. Angela's could fairly be described as no laughing matter. Ever since that first lesson from Mr. Fowler, on Tuesday, only her second full day at school.

Yes, Mr. Fowler who as we know had a thing about nylon knickers. And it may be recalled that Pauline's outfit, bought for her by the generous Mr. Grimsley, had unfortunately included nylon knickers and not the cotton ones which were the official St. Angela's wear. This had in fact been an honest error on his part: he was not deliberately trying to create problems for his new protegee. But he had forgotten that cotton was the correct type and possibly also was confused by the fact that one could in any case certainly come across nylon knickers in wear at the school.

So Pauline had arrived with five pairs of white nylon knickers but no cotton ones and had started wearing them in blissful ignorance. With any kind of luck she would have learnt of her mistake from another girl, but unfortunately she did not get that luck.

It had been her very first lesson from Mr. Fowler, on Tuesday, and he had asked her to stay behind at the end of the lesson intending simply to have a friendly word with the new pupil and certainly not suspecting anything about her knickers. Well, it was almost always the older girls who attempted to get away with it and Pauline, brand-new to the school and particularly innocent-looking, did not fit that bill. Not the type at all. But, as he liked to do when he had a girl standing at his desk and really it was quite an automatic response, he had, while they talked, slipped his hand up her skirt. To her bottom. And there quite unmistakeably was taut nylon where there should have been cotton.

Mr. Fowler had reacted like some minor volcano going up, his anger especially aroused by the thought of this young and apparently innocent girl now openly flouting the rules. Poor Pauline's tearful protestations of innocence fell on very stony ground. 'Be at my room at beginning of Prep this evening, young lady, and see that you're not one second late!' And when he'd got her there he made no allowance whatever for the newness and inexperience of the young transgressor. Girls had to be taught a lesson if they were unable to follow rules. 'Knickers down and get over the seat of that chair, if you please.' Wide-eyed, fearful, Pauline fumbled her knickers down and got over the chair. 'Further over! Head down and bottom up. That's better.' Her skirt pushed up round her waist. 'Now, legs straight and keep the bottom still, Miss.....' And Pauline's firm ripe rearquarters were given their first taste of the cane: six real stingers on the bare bum which left her sobbing wretchedly.

The nylon knickers were confiscated as was Mr. Fowler's custom. 'And you will go without knickers for a full week, my girl, that is 7 days from today, to complete your punishment. And just in case you cannot be trusted you will report to me here each morning before classes commence. So that I may check that you in fact have none on and are not cheating. Is that clear?'

Well it was all a terrible shock, both the caning and the confiscation of her knickers, on just her second day at school: and that night she just cried herself to sleep. And in the morning waking up to remember that it wasn't over, that she had to report back to Mr. Fowler first thing. She washed and nervously dressed, remembering to leave her pants off. 'What, no knicks!' quipped a dorm-mate, noticing, and on being told the situation, 'Oh, a visit to the Foul Fondler!' Which didn't make Pauline feel any better.

Yes, as any girl at St. Angela's could tell you, Mr. Fowler, sitting at his desk and beckoning Pauline to come and stand close at his side, would check on the absence of knickers in a very predictable manner, by sliding his hand up her skirt. And proceeding to fondle her bare bum while he unctuously spoke at some length of the need to abide by rules. Finally saying: 'Yes, that's how we become good citizens, Pauline,' he took his hand out of her skirt and stood up. Her ordeal was over, she thought thankfully. But then as she turned towards the door Mr. Fowler's hand suddenly, like a darting snake, came back up her skirt, this time at the front, running up the front of her bare thighs and just for a moment took hold of her between her legs, his hand on her bare private part, cupping it, for just an instant, and then darting out again. And Mr. Fowler, ignoring her involuntary gasp and looking as if nothing had happened, simply saying "Off to your classes then. Mustn't be late, must we?'

Well, it had been such a shock and he had done it so quickly that she found herself wondering afterwards if it had actually happened, or if she had imagined it. But the next morning there was no doubt as it had all happened exactly as before. The fondling hand at her bottom for some minutes and then as she was about to leave, and Mr. Fowler saying 'I wonder if it will rain today', his hand darting back up her skirt to briefly but firmly grasp her hair-covered mound. And the next day just the same. It was really awful but what could she do? She told a girl she had got to know a bit, Wendy Thomas, who was sympathetic but said 'That's just the kind of thing you get here, worse luck. But if you go to Matron she'll just send you to the Head for telling tales. And you don't want to go to him if you can avoid it!' Pauline agreed that she didn't, although not having been to the Head yet she didn't really know what he was like. He couldn't be worse than awful Mr. Fowler, she thought.

So what else? She would desperately like to write home asking to be taken away from this place: but her Mum would only say it was homesickness and she would settle down. And anyway you had to take your letters to your form-master, unsealed, so that he could check what you had written. So there was just nothing she could do about that awful thing Mr. Fowler did.

And what Mr. Fowler did was not the end of it. For apart from his daily assault on her person, which at least at 9 o'clock each day was over with, there was the more general humiliation of having to go without knickers all the time – all part of her punishment of course. And during the week several other masters had become aware of her predicament and had been making her stay behind after class, ostensibly to discuss some point of work but in fact to slip a hand up her skirt and fondle her bare bottom, like Mr. Fowler. That was unpleasant enough, although at least they had not tried to feel anything else yet, but it also meant that she would be in trouble from the master of the next class for being late.

Yes it was all an awful start to her new school, she thought dismally as she watched the other girls darting about on the tennis court. And none of it her own fault. And Mr. Fowler and the other masters with their nasty hands up her skirt had not been all: there had also been Miss Davies, the Gym Mistress....

It had started in Pauline's first gym lesson – a lesson she had looked forward to, not least because for once she would be wearing the same as everyone else, just the gym top and tight shorts under which no-one was allowed to wear knickers. And the lesson had been quite enjoyable except that from the beginning Miss Davies did seem to take a special interest in her. Perhaps it was just that she was a new girl, she'd thought. But then when the class had finished changing after the lesson she called Pauline back into her little office and to Pauline's surprise said would she like to come round to her room for tea after lessons that afternoon. Taken a bit aback Pauline stammered that she would and Miss Davies said 'Oh Good!' and had put her arm round Pauline's waist, squeezing.

Well it was nice to find someone being friendly – friendly, that is, without them wanting to put their hand up your skirt on your bare bum. Well, that was what she thought before she went to Miss Davies'....

She had given Pauline quite a nice tea in her rather cozy room, at the same time asking all about her, her home etc., and it was all very nice and friendly except, well, she had looked at her in rather a strange way, kind of staring with those bright eyes. She was quite attractive, Miss Davies: older of course but not that old – Pauline thought maybe late 20's. And she had a very good figure; shapely and firm, like gym mistresses did have with all that exercise.

But then when Miss Davies was showing her the pictures she had on the walls.... they were both standing looking at them, and she put her arm round Pauline's waist. And squeezing her she asked if she had a boyfriend. Pauline said No & well, she hadn't, and Miss Davies said, laughing 'I don't blame you. They're only after one thing anyway.'

Pauline had rather foolishly said 'What?' – if she had thought for a moment she would have realised what the gym mistress was referring to. But Miss Davies pulled her round so that they were half-facing and said 'This of course, silly!' And her other hand, not the one she had round Pauline's waist, went down to Pauline's you-know-what.... between her legs.... taking hold of it and squeezing....

The hand was outside her skirt, not on the bare like Mr. Fowler, but nonetheless Pauline had jumped like a scalded cat, it was so unexpected. The gym teacher hadn't kept her hand there, just the squeeze and then took her hand away: but she kept her arm round Pauline's waist and laughed a kind of forced laugh as she said 'Now don't be shy: its just between us girls.'

And then, as it must have dawned on her from what she'd felt 'Hey! Haven't you got any knicks on?' And Pauline had blurted out the whole Mr. Fowler episode, and feeling sorry for herself had sniffed a bit, though not actually crying. Well, at this Miss Davies was all sympathy, pulled Pauline round to face her again and then pulling her close, putting both arms round her, stroking and fondling as she made sympathetic noises.

She said 'Those awful men, they're always trying to pull something like that,' and before Pauline knew what was happening Miss Davies was kissing her on the mouth. She could feel the whole length of the gym teacher's strong body pushed hard against her – the firm breasts, and especially her pelvis which she started rubbing up against Pauline while holding the girl firmly against her with a hand cupping her bottom, squeezing. And the hand, really just as those awful masters did, then went down to the hem of her skirt and up again inside to now hold Pauline's nude bottom. Miss Davies was groaning and saying things like 'Oh, you're such a sweet kid' and then her mouth was back on Pauline's, this time pushing open the girl's lips. And Pauline felt Miss Davies' hot probing tongue invading her mouth....

But all this had been abruptly interrupted by a providential knocking at the door, arresting the gym mistress' ardour in full flight. She jerked her head away from Pauline with a rather desperate look 'Oh God! Of course, its Thursday....!' Shouting 'Just a minute.' she started frantically straightening herself up, then doing the same to Pauline. 'It's... it's an appointment which I completely forgot about. Look Pauline, you'll have to come round again, of course. I.... I'll let you know when I'm free...'

She went to the door where Tina Chidwick was found to be waiting: 6B and like Pauline a new girl, although naturally she'd arrived at the beginning of term rather than half-way through. And, well, she was rather similar to Pauline blonde, with a fresh innocent-seeming appearance. Miss Davies had greeted her with a rather guilty look and Pauline was sent on her way.

She was not sorry to go though, her head in a complete whirl from what had happened. She was pretty much innocent in matters of sex but she knew enough to realise that the gym teacher obviously 'fancied' her: although what that might fully involve was something she didn't want to think about. What had happened already was enough to make her knees tremble. But on the other hand, with her other problems at St. Angela's the fact that Miss Davies obviously liked her.... well, in a way that was nice. And what she had done wasn't really unpleasant.... In fact Miss Davies kissing her.... like that... hadn't been unpleasant at all. It was the first time Pauline had been kissed in that way – french-kissed – and it had been a shock, sending tingles all through her. But definitely not unpleasant. Miss Davies' tongue.... oooh...!

But for the gym mistress the path of true love (or desire at least) was not to run particularly smoothly. She had managed a fleeting meeting with Pauline yesterday, suggesting that today (Saturday) they could go for a drive in her car after lunch. But by then Pauline had been given another appointment so that fortunately she could not say Yes. Miss Davies' face, when she was told, had registered obvious disappointment. Still, perhaps she could take Tina Chidwick instead.

Yes Pauline had another appointment this afternoon alright, and as she sat there by the tennis court it was difficult to keep her mind from continually returning to its dread possibilities. For on her visit to Mr. Fowler yesterday he had said right at the end and after his now customary grope at her private region: 'Oh Pauline, I suppose you're free tomorrow afternoon?' There were no classes Saturday afternoon and girls were normally free unless something extra had been arranged. 'Good! Well, in that case I'd like you to come round here after lunch. I want to have a talk with you...' With an awful sinking feeling Pauline had said 'Yes, Sir.'

Yes, that was what was in store for her on this nice sunny day which otherwise after lunch she would have had to herself – or of course could have taken up Miss Davies' offer to go for a drive. Another visit to Mr. Fowler! And now she saw that the other girls were finishing their game: 'Time for din-dins, Amanda!' 'Ugh! Pigswill you mean!' And looking at her watch she saw that it was indeed almost lunch time. She would have to go although she was sure she could not manage to eat anything. Not the way she was feeling....

Pauline did manage to drink her soup but that was about all. And then at 2 o'clock sharp was outside Mr. Fowler's door, knees trembling. She had no idea what she had been summoned for but she was sure it was going to be unpleasant. Hesitantly she knocked....

'Ah Pauline. Yes.... come in, please.' She went in and the door was closed behind her. The sound, outside, of the key being turned in the lock....

-o-O-o-

Outside – outside Mr. Fowler's room with its locked door and, one would see if one walked by his window, its drawn curtains, for he was a master who liked his privacy – the afternoon progressed as a lovely sunny Saturday afternoon at St. Angela's might be expected to progress. Being Saturday the afternoon is 'free' – unless you have been unfortunate enough, like Pauline, to have its freedom curtailed for some reason or other by a member of staff – but other than that girls free to do what they wished. Some writing home or reading in a sunny or shady spot in the grounds. The tennis courts again in full use. A number of girls sunbathing, some in swimsuits, bikinis, others in uniform blouse and skirt but with these garments unbuttoned, pushed back, to expose youthful limbs to the hot sun. Some others, those with a Pass, have cycled into the nearby town to do some shopping or, over a Coke in the cafe, to complain, as schoolgirls will, of the iniquities of school life. And perhaps inevitably, it being St. Angela's, there is, about 3 o'clock, a caning in progress: in the Head's study Julia James bent over his desk with knickers lowered to mid-thigh, her bare bottom thrust reluctantly out to receive Mr. Payne's stinging cane. She has had four with a scheduled four more to come but the way her nicely rounded bottom is now wriggling and squirming, to Mr. Payne's annoyance ('Julia, will you keep that bottom still!'), this number could well be increased or at least be followed by a further spanking over his lap.

Yes, all this varied activity, some enjoyable and some obviously less so; and in addition one other which normally must not be mentioned in polite conversation, although we all know that inevitably it takes place in a community, such as St. Angela's, which contained a large number of girls and especially during a period of 'free' time. Inevitably on this afternoon there are girls doing it and others having it done to them. It? Yes 'it' – 'the stimulation of the genital organs to achieve sexual pleasure' as the dictionary has it, or in other words masturbation.

There is for instance Susan Rhodes in a quiet corner of the dorm, lying on her bed and thinking pleasurably of her boyfriend Kevin, her hand down the front of her knickers fondling herself.... There is Charlotte Lawson in a deserted changing-room half-lying on a bench with her knickers off, a rapt tense expression on her face as she uses that illicit instrument of pleasure, a vibrator. (It is quite definitely an illicit item at St. Angela's, possession of which, if found out, will bring immediate and particularly severe punishment. So you do your very best to ensure you will not be found out and Charlotte has placed a chair behind the closed changing-room door so that she will get sufficient warning if she is suddenly disturbed.)

Of course not all of these acts are solitary. For instance there are Paula Fletched and Anita Gray who have wandered off into the woods just south of the school grounds. They are known to be close friends but fortunately no-one – certainly no member of staff – knows just how friendly.... They are standing up against a tree-trunk, embracing and each with her hand up the other's skirt. Paula: 'Let's take our knicks off.....' Anita: 'Are you sure it's alright? I mean if we get caught with them off....' Paula: 'No-one's going to come out here.' And she starts slipping Anita's knickers down. Yes this would certainly rate along with use of a vibrator in the ranking of heinous crimes at St. Angela's.

And those familiar with St. Angela's will by now not be surprised to learn that there are also examples of this type of activity taking place involving members of staff. For instance there is Mr. Gray who just earlier has happened to come across Brenda Holmes sunbathing – in her uniform but with her skirt pulled up to reveal her knickers as she lies on her back in the sun. Brenda is inevitably getting aroused by what the master is doing although at the same time she does not like the fact that he is doing it: and there is also the possibility that someone could come along and see. Talking quietly, Mr. Gray is suggesting that they find a secluded corner where he could take Brenda's knickers off. Brenda does not want to, but she knows he could quite easily make up some excuse to take her knickers down for another reason – a caning. Of the two alternatives, well.... After a while they get to their feet and walk off.

Miss Davies, of course, is already in a secluded spot, out in the country, having driven down a quiet lane and then walked with Tina Chidwick across a field to where they will have their picnic. The picnic things are not yet unpacked and are placed, together with two pairs of discarded knickers, to the side of the blanket on which Miss Davies and Tina Chidwick are now lying side by side in close embrace. The gym mistress has her tongue deep in Tina's mouth and her hand between the girl's parted legs. Tina is moaning and shaking convulsively and is obviously moving rapidly towards an orgasm.

Yes, on this warm and sunny afternoon there was quite evidently a lot of it going on. So that what was happening in Mr. Fowler's room behind those drawn curtains was not particularly unusual; although to poor Pauline, sexually innocent, it was the culmination of an unbelievable week. For Mr. Fowler was doing 'it' to Pauline although, devious master that he was, this was under the guise, the pretence, of 'Sex Instruction'.

-o-O-o-

It had been a truly traumatic hour, ever since her hesitant knock at his door and his prompt 'Ah Pauline. Yes.... come in, please.' He had locked the door and then immediately gone to draw the curtains and turned on all the lights. And then....

'Yes. Well Pauline, I suppose you'd rather be outside on a day like this but I did think I should see you. Because all the other new girls had Sex Instruction at the beginning of term and, of course, you missed it. And at 16 it is important that you do not remain ignorant in these matters I don't suppose you had anything of this sort at your other school?'

Pauline shocked and stunned at what Mr. Fowler had said. Sex Instruction! 'N...No, Sir.'

'Hmmm. Many schools are very remiss in this regard. 'And then he did what he did every morning: his hand went up the front of her skirt and took hold of that hair-covered bulge at the top of her legs. 'No-one has told you anything about this?'

Pauline squirming, flushing: 'N...no, Sir.' This time it wasn't the quick in-and-out grab – his hand was staying there....

'Keep still, girl, there's no need to be shy with me.' The hand took its time, squeezing, feeling, before finally letting go.

'Yes, well then it is indeed high time you had some guidance. You seem to be a well-developed girl and certainly now quite capable of having a baby. And you will find that all kinds of unprincipled men, and boys too, are going to be after this now.' His hand back up to give 'this' another squeeze.

And then another bombshell: 'So, Miss, if you'll just take your clothes off....'

She just stood with a horrified look on her face as he repeated: 'Yes, your clothes please. Come along! Take them all off....'

Miserably, with no option, she had done as instructed: her blazer, her shoes and socks; then, turning away trying to hide herself, her blouse, her skirt, her slip, finally her bra. Mr. Fowler had a short towelling dressing-gown for her which she frantically got into. It only came to the tops of her thighs but she desperately wrapped it round and tied the belt: only to have Mr. Fowler immediately undo the belt and open the dressing-gown, to expose that well-developed bush and those equally well-developed pink-nippled breasts. His hands grabbing, groping, at both these regions as he said musingly: 'Mmm, you're certainly getting to be a well-developed young lady. All the more reason, of course....'

That had been the start, and then still in the opened dressing-gown having to sit with him on his settee and watch a short film on sexual intercourse. A short explicit film in which a young wife had intercourse with her husband, shy lying over the side of the bed with her legs spread and her feet on the floor – this position presumably adopted so that the action, and the actual penetration of the husband's large erect penis, could clearly be seen. To poor Pauline it seemed just enormous – how could it ever go in that young woman? And yet... it did, and quite evidently she enjoyed it.

'There!' said Mr. Fowler when it was finished and he had turned the lights back on, 'I'm sure that was most instructive. And when you leave school and get married you will now know exactly how it's done.'

And it was then, after the film, that Pauline had 'it' done to her. Mr. Fowler said that as a supplement to the film he was now going to do something which would give her some idea of what sexual intercourse was like and it was nothing to be nervous about; and then he made her lie across the settee with her thighs up over the arm.

Pauline's hand had automatically shot down to cover herself but that naturally was not what Mr. Fowler wanted. He firmly removed her hand ('Now then, we mustn't be shy!') and replaced it with his own. 'Now I'm just going to stimulate you a little....'

And that is what he did, in very much the same way that, about this time, Miss Davies was doing to Tina Chidwick and Mr. Gray was doing to Brenda Holm.

The Punishment Book

Story from Janus 14.

The Punishment Book
by Tom Horner

'THERE'S YOUR TEA, Mr. Conrad.'

The pretty dark-haired young woman plonked the cup down on the desk, and with a flick of her hips, turned and left the room.

Seated at his desk Anthony Conrad watched the swing of the tartan skirt as she left, and sighed. Then he looked slowly and carefully round the room, taking in each object in turn: the leather armchair, the glass-fronted bookcase, the low oak chest, and the clock ticking quietly on the mantelpiece between two brass candlesticks. It was as if he were looking at each of them for the last time. As indeed he was, for this was Anthony's last day as Head Master of St. Edmund's School for Girls. After 25 years it was unlikely that he would ever really forget this room, but nevertheless he wanted to savour its atmosphere one last time. For he knew that it would never be the same again, even if he were invited back to the school from time to time, as he was sure he would be. He had already heard something of his successor's, Mrs. Palmer's, plans for his study — her study. Most of the furniture would remain, with the exception of the leather armchair, with its peculiarly worn back. But the heavy blue velvet curtains would be replaced by something light and flowery; the patterned Persian carpet by a plain beige Wilton; the candlesticks on the mantelpiece by fresh flowers; and the smell of pipe tobacco by Mrs Palmer's discreet perfume. It would become a headmistress's study, not a headmaster's.

Anthony sighed a deeper, even heavier sigh. He had just finished clearing out his own possessions, filling three waste bins with rubbish, and packing the rest in a suitcase which now stood on the floor beside him. Only three items remained on the big mahogany desk with its leather inlay. These were a crook-handled rattan cane, a leather tawse, and a large, red, leather-bound book, with gold lettering spelling out the words PUNISHMENT BOOK. In that Book was the record of 26 years of well-caned girlish bottoms. There were inscribed the names of all the girls who had passed through his study and lifted their skirts to receive their just rewards across stretched knickers. In some ways it was also a record, perhaps the only one there would be, of Anthony's career as Headmaster of St. Edmund's. For the cane had played an important part in life at the school. Anthony's predecessor, Miss McDonald, a formidable Scottish spinster, had been the first Headmistress back in the 1930s, and her aim had always been for strict discipline, combined with academic excellence. Miss McDonald had achieved both by means of a strong brain, a strong will, and a strong right arm, all of which she had applied wholeheartedly to the job. So that when Anthony took over from her St. Edmund's had an excellent reputation, and there was immense competition from all over the country for the 60 places offered to girls each year.

Miss McDonald had not approved at all the appointment as her successor of a man, a bachelor moreover, and only 35 years old, but that had not stopped her from giving Anthony some advice.

'You have four hundred and fifty girls in your charge, Mr Conrad,' she had said as she handed over the keys of the study. 'I hope you will love them as I have done — but never be afraid to be firm. Just because they are girls, don't think that they should be treated softly. You must drive them on all the time. And if they step out of line, cane them, and cane them hard. The girls expect it, their parents expect it, and the rest of your staff expect it — don't disappoint them!'

Anthony had taken this advice to heart, and had resolved to wield his cane with even more vigour than he had done at the boys' school where he had previously been Assistant Head.

For some reason, which he understood better now than he had done at the time, Miss McDonald had insisted on taking her Punishment Book with her, and Anthony had had to acquire a new one. It was this that lay on the desk in front of him now.

He opened the cover and read the first entry.

'14th September 1956: Jacqueline Walkington', it read. 'Form VA. Gross impertinence. Four Strokes.'

Ah yes, poor Jackie! Anthony smiled a rather rueful smile at the memory. It had been about a week after he had started at St. Edmund's. He had been returning from Chapel one morning in a crowd of girls, and had come up behind two fifth formers without their noticing him. The taller one had said:

'What do you think of our new Head? Don't you think he's rather handsome?'

To which her friend, who turned out to be Jackie, had replied:

'No I don't! He looks like a dry old stick to me. I shouldn't wonder if he prefers little boys.'

The next thing she knew a heavy hand descended on her shoulder. She turned to see who was attacking her, and went very red, and then very pale.

'It's off to my study with you, my girl!'

Jackie's feet had hardly seemed to touch the ground as she was whisked into the school, and through the door of the Headmaster's study. In another instant she was face down across the desk, and her skirt was being turned back to reveal the first pair of tightly stretched grey St. Edmund's knickers that Anthony had ever seen. And then whack! whack! whack! WHACK! Four strokes one after another, spread evenly across that pretty, slender bottom. In less than half a minute Jackie was upright again, blubbering into her hankie, as Anthony wrote the details into the book.

Anthony smiled to himself as he remembered how inexperienced he had been then. First for treating the girl's remark so seriously — nowadays he would have ignored it, or passed it off with a caustic retort of his own. But he had been lacking in confidence then, and was keen to assert his authority. And as for the punishment itself, well...! — there was no style to it. It had been simply punishment, with no attempt at rehabilitation. For Anthony was convinced as a result of his experiences at St. Edmund's that one of the quickest ways of turning an immature silly schoolgirl into a sensible young woman was, paradoxically, by transitionally reducing her to a sobbing child by means of a swishy stick applied skilfully to her bottom. But to achieve that effect the beating had to be done carefully, slowly, and with finesse, judging the critical moment in the girl's emotional state, as well as the crescendo of her pain, for the administration of each stroke. With his present experience Jackie's caning would have been a much more prolonged and rewarding episode for all concerned.

In the same way, experience had taught him that lying across a desk did not present a young girl's bottom at the most suitable angle. There was a danger of the cane hitting too high, instead of the full firm flesh of the buttocks which was its proper target. On the other hand, apart from senior girls, and more experienced victims, touching the toes, which got the bottom at the required angle, was too difficult a position to maintain, if the punishment was to be prolonged in order to obtain the maximum benefit. And so he acquired the heavy leather armchair. Now those who presented themselves for punishment could bend over the back of the chair, or kneel on its seat (depending on how tall they were), and with their heads lower than their bottoms, assume an ideal position for the attention of one of Anthony's many whippy rattans.

But no more would that happen, of course! As this realisation came back to him, Anthony began to flick through the pages of the Book in a desultory way. Some names appeared with a tiresome regularity. Far more made but one or two appearances — particularly in fifth year, when young girls' rebellious urges seemed to be at their strongest, and they needed a short sharp shock to sort them out. Those who managed to reach the Sixth Form without exposing their knickered bottom for a swishing generally managed to emerge unscathed from St. Edmund's. But there was one notable exception to this which suddenly came into Anthony's mind, and he began to flick through the pages more eagerly as he sought the relevant entry.

Aah! There is was! — 20th January 1963: Mary Singer. Yes, Mary Singer had been a very special pupil. She had joined St. Edmund's at the same time as Anthony, and from the first had shown herself a serious hard-working girl, both intelligent and good at sports, and always popular with the other girls. In fact she came close to Anthony's idea of the model schoolgirl. And when Mary reached the Upper Sixth it came as no surprise to anyone when it was announced that she was to be Head Girl. Anthony regarded this appointment with particular pleasure. Mary was the first girl whom he had been able to watch proceed right through the school to achieve this honour. And any jealousy which might have been felt by the other girls was dissipated by the conscientious and unassuming way in which Mary went about her tasks. She would get up early to sort out her administrative responsibilities so that they would not affect her A-level work; and while not taking any cheek from the younger girls, she always had a friendly word, even for the juniors, unlike most of the Prefects who treated them as though they did not exist, except when they needed to be told off or sent on an errand.

So, for a term-and-a-half Mary lived up to all Anthony's expectations. And then, one cold Wednesday afternoon, the school hockey team, of which Mary was centre-half and captain, happened to be playing another local girls' school, St. Hilda's. Anthony arrived just after half time to lend his voice in support of the shrill cries of the 10 or 12 girls shivering on the touchline. On this occasion he quickly learnt that St. Edmund's were two-nil down, principally because St. Hilda's had one brilliant forward who was running rings around the St. Edmund's defence. Anthony was soon to see an example of this.

The ball was played quickly forward to the St. Hilda's star — a tall slim blonde girl, very athletic-looking, supple and quick on her feet. She advanced steadily towards the St. Edmund's goal. Mary came out determinedly to meet her, but the ball seemed glued to the slim girl's stick. She feinted once, twice, then flicked the ball through Mary's legs and skipped round her to collect it on the other side, and Mary stood leaden-footed and open-mouthed. Several of the girls on the touchline tittered at Mary's embarrassment, until silenced by a glare from Anthony. The goal was at the St. Hilda's girl's mercy. But as she set herself to shoot, her left foot caught a particularly slippery patch of mud, her perfect balance deserted her for once, and she fell in an ungainly heap. The ball trickled harmlessly a few yards until one of the other St. Edmund's backs thumped it far down the field. All eyes, both spectators' and umpires', turned to follow the play. All that is, except Anthony. He was watching Mary, who, with an unpleasant grimace on her face was advancing on the fallen St. Hilda's girl. Anthony thought for a moment that she was going to help the other girl up. But when she got close, to his amazement he saw Mary strike the girl's ankle with her stick, twice, hard! The girl winced with pain, and her eyes opened wide with surprise, but Mary had turned and gone. Nobody but Anthony had seen what had happened, and the St. Hilda's girl was too much of a sportswoman to complain, as she got to her feet at last, and limped back to join the game. Anthony went up to one of the Sixth Formers standing nearby.

'When the game is over, tell Mary Singer that I want to see her straight away in my study. Straight away, do you understand?'

'Yes sir,' came the nervous reply. But Anthony had already stormed off to his study.

About half-an-hour later Mary bounced in.

'We won three-two in the end, sir,' she crowed, as she plonked herself into the armchair. 'Their forwards seemed to run out of steam!'

'I'm not surprised.' The harshness of his tone caused Mary to look at Anthony sharply, as he continued. 'I saw what you did to their best player. And stand up girl while I am talking to you!'

In a daze Mary got slowly to her feet and stood in front of his desk.

'I will not tolerate that kind of vicious behaviour from anyone — especially my Head Girl. Good God, you might have broken that poor girl's leg — and all because she offended your precious dignity with her superior skill. There is only one answer to such nasty behaviour. Bend over the back of the chair, please, Mary.'

Mary's brown eyes opened wide, her jaw dropped, and to Anthony's disgust she began to blubber and plead.

'Oh no, sir, don't cane me sir, please, I'm very sorry, I won't do anything like it again. I've never been caned, sir, please...'

Anthony ignored her pathetic pleadings and went to the cupboard where he kept his canes, bringing out his most punishing Senior cane, and swishing it through the air.

'Stop that noise and get over the chair, girl, or you'll be in here every day for a week!'

Still snivelling, Mary draped herself over the cold leather back of the chair. The short maroon games skirt rode up, barely covering the matching maroon knickers. Anthony lifted the skirt, and then measured his cane against the fullness of Mary's firm athletic bottom. He could see that her thighs were trembling, and she was still sobbing. And then, as he lifted the cane for the first stroke, her right hand darted back to cover her bottom. This was the last straw. Anthony flung the cane down onto his desk.

'All right, it's clear you're not in the right frame of mind to receive this punishment. If I beat you now it will not have a corrective effect upon you. Get up and clear out. But you will present yourself here after Chapel tomorrow morning, at which time I shall cane you — and unless you show a bit more restraint and decorum then, you will cease to be Head Girl, you will cease to be a prefect, and you will be caned every morning after Chapel, until you can show me, by your willing acceptance of deserved punishment, that you are a mature young lady of 18, and not a pathetic, snivelling little girl!'

Mary fled, her illusions shattered. Anthony felt aroused after that confrontation. He could not sit still, but paced his office like an agitated man.

Things were very different the next morning. Anthony had left his Deputy, Miss Hargreaves, to take Chapel, and at five past nine precisely there was a sharp tap on the door.

'Come in!'

In response to his command, Mary entered the room briskly. Her head was held high, and her chin was resolute. Her uniform was immaculate — freshly laundered white shirt, maroon tie, and grey pleated skirt. She looked at Anthony as he briefly lectured her, and when he told her to take up her position for a caning, she said, 'Yes sir.' Mary walked straight to the middle of the room, bent over, flicked up her skirt, and with her fiat-heeled sensible shoes planted 18 inches apart and her long legs stretched taut, she touched her fingertips to her toes.

'That's better,' said Anthony, with a smile, as he again produced his cane from the cupboard. He gloatingly took aim at Mary's rounded bottom, now covered in taut grey cotton, and framed by her white suspender belt and the dark tops of the stockings which, as a senior, she was allowed to wear. The only trace of the emotion of the previous evening was a slight trembling in her legs as she tried to hold them straight and firm.

Thwack!

Thwack!!

Thwack!!!

He beat her slowly, and soundly. Six swishy strokes of the very best he had ever administered to boy or girl. Mary did not react, except with a sharp exhalation of breath as the cane swished into her cheeks and, towards the end, a wriggle and squirm after each stroke. Her self-control was incredible considering the severity of the caning.

Anthony left her in position while he wrote the details in the Punishment Book.

'You may get up, Mary.'

'Thank you, sir,' she gulped as she straightened. Her eyes were glistening and her cheeks were wet, but her jaw was still firm as she said, 'You certainly laid it on, sir! But I know I needed it. Thank you.'

And immediately they were back to their old relationship of Head Master and favourite Head Girl, as they settled down to discussing school business for the day, with Mary seated extremely gingerly on the edge of the armchair over which she had sobbed the previous evening. It was a very impressive performance on her part, Anthony thought, considering the inflictions she had just received.

But all trace of cockiness and self-importance had vanished from her manner, never to return, and she completed a very successful year as Head Girl. She was now a lecturer in an English Department at a provincial University, and still wrote to Anthony from time to time.

Anthony came out of his pleasant reverie, and continued turning the pages of this Book which was providing such fascinating memories. Here was another interesting entry! 5th November 1967 — a whole page devoted to one form, VA, the top English stream, all destined for University. The form had decided in the then current fashion to have a 'happening' during one lunchtime. This had involved throwing all the classroom furniture into a pile in the middle of the room, and then dancing round it chanting 'Hare Krishna' or something similar. Miss Hargreaves had come across the event, and had been told either to push off, or to 'let it all hang out!' Anthony had then been summoned, and had arrived in his best impersonation of the deus ex machina, in full academic dress, and brandishing his cane. The effect had been instantaneous. In less than five minutes the room was back in perfect order. But then he had led the whole group of by now very penitent and apprehensive girls through the playground, past the crowds of giggling junior girls, to his study. He had had them in two at a time, in alphabetical order, from petite blonde Janet Armstrong to that tall, willowy brunette, Bridget Wilson, for four strokes each — not too severe, but enough to make them think again about 'doing their own thing' in school! The form Captain, Elaine Deasy, a plump but very attractive young miss, he had left till last, and she had taken a double dose to remind her of the responsibilities of her office. How his arm had ached at the end of that little lot!

Most of those girls, like Mary Singer, had been one-time-only recipients of the cane. At the other end of the scale there were the regular visitors. A lot of these were trouble-makers or bullies of one sort or another. They were not girls towards whom Anthony could feel any sort of affection. They deserved to be beaten, and he saw to it that they were. But there were exceptions. In particular, Maggie Clark.

Maggie was a quiet conscientious girl, and generally well-behaved. At least once a term she would be reported to Anthony for some serious breach of school discipline: a member of staff would find her blatantly smoking on school grounds, or out of uniform, or she would arrive late for school (for Maggie was one of the small number of day-girls) five days in a row. Anthony would have no alternative but to send for her and cane her. She would take her punishment without complaint, and then would return to her normal hard-working well-behaved self. Once he had noticed this pattern of behaviour Anthony was puzzled by it, and he had no inkling of the explanation for it until the affair of the blue jeans. This had occurred in 1974, when 16-year-old Maggie was in her fifth year.

During the summer term a number of girls had started wearing jeans instead of school uniform. It became so much of a craze that to stop it short Anthony announced one Monday morning that in future anyone appearing in jeans during school hours would be caned without more ado, no matter what excuses or explanations were offered. The next day at Chapel all girls were correctly dressed, with the exception of two — a sixth former named Barbara Harris, and Maggie Clark. Anthony, very annoyed at this blatant disobedience, escorted both girls to his study immediately after Chapel. The older girl, Barbara, he called in first, and having told her to remove the offending garment, he made her bend over and take six across her knickers. She left the room in tears, and caused no more trouble. Anthony then called in Maggie, and likewise told her to remove her jeans and bend over. While she was doing this Anthony went to the cupboard to exchange the light cane which he had been using on Barbara, for the heavier one to which Maggie had graduated by virtue of her previous visits. As he turned back Anthony was astounded by the sight that greeted him. For instead of a tightly stretched pair of grey knickers he was faced by the pink pert roundness of Maggie's naked bottom, tipped up towards him over the back of the chair.

'What is the meaning of this?' he spluttered. 'You know I can't cane you like that.'

'I don't like wearing knickers under these jeans, sir,' came the demure reply.

Anthony gulped. For the first time for a long time he had lost his composure — but only for a moment!

'Pull your jeans up,' he barked, 'and then get back over that chair.'

With what, he reflected later, was something of a disappointed look, Maggie did as she was told.

She received six ferocious, whistling strokes across the tightest part of the stretched blue denim. He had never caned that hard before — in fact with every erg he could summon in his strong right arm — and a slight fear that perhaps he had gone too far this time marred the slaking of his righteous anger. When he had finished Anthony wrote the punishment in the Book, and then, more than a trifle stiff below the belt, he informed Maggie that she was to report to him again the next day for a further four strokes for failing to wear regulation underwear.

'Yes, sir,' she murmured surprisingly demurely, flicking the long dark hair back over her shoulder.

It was at this second caning in two days that Anthony began to suspect something about Maggie. He had administered four firm strokes across what must have been still a very sore rump, and Maggie was standing waiting to be dismissed while Anthony wrote the details of her punishment in the Book. He noticed from the corner of his eye that, unlike most of the other girls, Maggie was not rubbing furiously at her bottom, nor, like many, was she crying uninhibitedly, but was standing, a rather misty expression in her eyes, with one hand up the front of her skirt, moving rhythmically. Surely the girl wasn't...? Anthony looked across sharply and caught Maggie's eye. She blushed, and with a flutter of eyelashes, dropped both her hands and her gaze.

'My goodness,' thought Anthony, 'the girl's actually enjoying it!'

With that moment of realisation so much else about Maggie's behaviour fell into place. Slit uncharacteristically got herself into trouble when she wanted a beating. She wanted to feel a cane on her bare bottom, so she had engineered the jeans incident.

He did not work all this out at once, of course. But over the next two years, observing Maggie's behaviour, and her regular, though not frequent, visits to his study, Anthony became convinced that he was right. And then, with two A-levels, she had left for secretarian college. Anthony sighed deeply as he looked at the last entry in her name: 'Margaret Clark, Form UVIB, Smoking. Six strokes.'

At that moment the pretty young secretary stuck her head round the door.

'Have you finished with your cup, sir?'

'Yes, thank you. In fact, I was just thinking about you, Maggie.'

For yes, it was she. As chance would have it, one year after Maggie had left Secretarial College, the old School Secretary, Miss Jones, had retired. Maggie had applied for the job, and the Governors had been very taken with the idea of appointing an 'old girl', who would 'know the ropes'. And any doubts about her inexperience were countered by the excellent references from her college and her present employer, and, if the truth be told, by the realisation that she could be paid about half the salary they had been paying Miss Jones!

So Maggie had returned to St. Edmunds. And it was not long before she presented Anthony with a letter containing more silly typing errors than she would normally make in a month. Anthony had been half expecting this, and led the way with comments such as 'Not what we expect from St. Edmunds' girls,' and 'You know what would happen to one of the girls who had the effrontery to present such an atrocious piece of work?' So that before long Maggie was tipped up over the familiar armchair, her tight black skirt folded neatly beside her, and the cane whipping into her firm round cheeks, protected now, not by thick cotton knickers, but the flimsiest nylon briefs. And once again, caning her gave him an erection.

A few months later she appeared in jeans, not unlike the pair she had worn for the previous incident, and certainly extremely tight and revealing. Maggie was informed that they were not suitable dress for a school secretary. The next day, however, her long shapely legs were encased in blue denim once again. So down they came, and over the chair she went. Only this time Anthony did not hesitate to whip the bare cheeks which were once again presented to him. He found it fascinating to watch for the first time the reaction of unprotected female flesh to the kiss of the cane. The rattan seemed to sink into the soft yielding cheeks, and then bounce away, leaving a white line which quickly turned scarlet. For the rest of the day she acted very sexily.

He had beaten her on the bare on a number of occasions since then, and he took pride in trying to make a neat pattern of parallel lines, closely spaced over the lower part of Maggie's bottom, but never crossing. Two years ago she had married, and Anthony had assumed that her husband would in future take over the disciplining of Maggie's pert backside. But no. As Maggie had hesitantly and nervously explained, while she didn't mind her husband, Bill, spanking her now and then, she would not want him to (nor would he want to) really hurt her. So she would still need from time to time the strict and more impersonal punishment that Anthony could provide. However, the cane left obvious and lasting marks. For this reason, the next time Maggie felt that she needed a beating she presented Anthony with a tawse — the one which was lying on his desk now — and asked him to use that on her. Anthony had agreed, though he had never wielded a tawse before, and at first he found it difficult to control. But after some practice he felt he had become almost as proficient with it as with the cane, and could make it embrace Maggie's checks with a curling slap! that made her wince, and rub her thighs back and forth at each blow.

But alas, no more would that happen, Anthony realised with sorrow, as Maggie tripped across the room to collect his tea-cup. No more punishing Maggie, now that he was leaving St. Edmunds. Once again the prospect of a long and boring retirement stretched in front of him.

'I've just had Mrs Chambers on the phone,' said Maggie as she picked up his cup.

'Ah, yes — Juliet's mother.'

Juliet Chambers was a pretty 17-year-old about to enter the Upper Sixth and take her Cambridge entrance exams in Classics.

'What did she want?'

'She wondered if you would be prepared to give Juliet a little coaching in her Latin. She said you were so good at keeping Juliet "up to the mark".'

Maggie emphasised the last phrase, and opened her eyes wide in a way that showed that she suspected that this was a euphemism for giving Juliet a sound swishing at regular intervals.

'Ah, I see,' replied Anthony, trying to sound nonchalant, though his spirits were beginning to lift. And they lifted even further as Maggie continued.

'I said you would let her know, and she said that a number of other mothers were interested in a similar arrangement.'

Again the last word was given a particular emphasis. Anthony did not notice it this time. He was smiling to himself at the vision of a succession of pretty schoolgirls visiting his house for individual tuition, which he always enjoyed, especially if the girl was bright and the lessons were backed up, with full parental approval, by the discipline of the cane.

'Thank you Maggie, I shall certainly give her a ring.'

'And there was one other thing, before you go, sir.' Maggie's eyes dropped and her cheeks flushed. 'I was wondering — well — you see — I don't know if—?'

'Spit it out, girl!'

'Well, I know that Mrs Palmer is going to be very nice to work for, and I'm sure we'll get on terribly well, but you see, she's a woman, so it's not the same, even if she was prepared to... which I don't think she would be — in fact she'd be shocked if I suggested it... so you see...'

'For goodness sake, Maggie,' Anthony thundered. 'Get to the point!'

Maggie took a deep breath. 'I know that I shall make mistakes in my work, but that Mrs Palmer won't punish me as I need — she's not even going to cane the girls! So I thought perhaps I could come and see you now and then, and you could clear the slate, so to speak...'

Anthony smiled again. 'Of course, my dear. I'm sure we can work something out. But now, as it's my last day here, and you've been wasting my time with your babbling, don't you think you ought to pay one last visit across the back of the old chair?'

Anthony's eyes were twinkling as he spoke, and Maggie's twinkled back as she answered him in her 'little girl' voice:

'Yes sir, I'm sure you're right. I do need a whacking before you go — just to remind me of how to behave.'

And without more ado she walked across the room and in one graceful movement placed herself over the back of the leather chair, flicking up her tartan skirt on the way. Then her thumbs came back and slipped down tights and knickers together till they were bunched in the middle of her thighs.

Once more her exquisite round bottom with its deep cleft was presented for Anthony's attention. Already he found himself stiffening. He picked up the tawse from the desk, and advanced purposefully. Maggie peeked back across her shoulder, saw the tawse in his hand, and said:

'Actually, Bill's at a conference all this week, so if you'd rather...'

Anthony took her meaning at once, and quickly retraced his steps, returning with the cane in place of the tawse.

'Now then, a round dozen should do nicely, don't you think?!'

'If you say so, sir,' came the meek and slightly apprehensive reply. For she knew that he would want to make this a punishment to remember, and her bottom felt very large and defenceless, exposed naked for the waiting cane.

'I do say so,' Anthony said emphatically. '12 of the very best, my girl, and you'd better keep in position, or there will be extra!'

He was excited as always by the sight of the young woman's nakedness, revealing the most intimate parts of her lovely body, but he knew that he must control himself from thrashing her too quickly. He wanted to make this occasion last, and savour every moment. Once, twice, three times Anthony tapped the cane lightly on the crown of her cheeks to get his aim, watching her firm flesh quiver in anticipation of the coming pain, and then — Swish! Thwack!

'Oof!' Maggie squirmed. She was not used to the cane these days, and had forgotten just how stingy it could be.

Five seconds pause... Swish! THWACK!

'Ouch!'

A slight smile lightened Anthony's face as he watched with pleasure the two red stripes appear across Maggie's superb bottom, one across the crown of her cheeks, the other half an inch below it. He took aim a little lower.

Swish! Thwack!!!

Maggie was squirming and wriggling a bit at each stroke, but she held her position. 'He's certainly putting me through it,' she thought, gritting her teeth. 'Why ever did I suggest he used the cane?'

Swish! THWACK!!! 'Aagh!' A flame of fire. It was agony!

Anthony had now reached the crease at the top of her thighs. He tapped the cane against this most sensitive spot.

'The next one is going to land here, Maggie. Just try and stretch a little more for it, to make it easier for me, there's a good girl.'

Obediently the young woman stretched her already taut body forward, tensing her legs, and thrusting her bottom back and up even more. A position that would have caused even a eunuch to become sexually excited.

Swish! Thwack!!!

'Oh, sir! Please!....'

Swish! Thwack!!!!

The sixth stroke landed across the top of Maggie's thighs, bringing tears to her eyes. She knew that the next six would retrace the path up her bottom, and that as, inevitably, the cane began to cross existing weals, the pain would be excruciating, but at the same time she had begun to feel the glow that she always longed for, so she held her long legs firm and straight, obediently offering her punished bottom for further strokes. Anthony did not take long to oblige.

Swish! THWACK!!!

Each stroke was delivered with equal power, and landed exactly on the intended spot — a tribute both to Anthony's skill, and Maggie's courage in maintaining her position.

Swish! Thwack! The incredible, uncapturable sound of the cane in motion, and the explosive crack of its contact with Maggie's hindquarters.

With the ninth stroke Maggie began to rub her silky thighs together and wriggle her bottom more urgently. Anthony recognised the signs, and swished in the tenth stroke quickly. Maggie's moans now took on a different tone.

Swish! Thwack! 'Aaah!... ooh, sir!... yes... Yes!'

Number 11 — only one more. Anthony waited much longer this time, until his target was really settled and steady, and then brought the cane down fast, with an expert flick of the wrist for extra speed and power, whipping it full across the centre of Maggie's bottom.

'Ooow!!!' she howled, as the pain and pleasure became inextricably mixed.

Anthony smiled at a job well done, as he returned to his desk. He opened the Punishment Book at a new page. With his sixth-form private pupils, and Maggie's regular visits, there was no reason why the entries should not continue for a long time.

As he finished the entry he looked up at Maggie. She was standing now, one hand tentatively exploring her now red and corrugated buttocks, her skirt still caught at the top of their swell revealing Anthony's handiwork to him. She caught his eye, and managed a brave smile in answer to his. A sort of conspiratorial recognition of mutual, fully compatible needs. Headmaster and secretary would very shortly both be relieving themselves, separately and in private, from the heat of this encounter.