Story from Janus 59.
A Class Of Her Own
by Andrew Grantham
DENISE looked out of the window, attracted by the high-pitched squeals and shouts in the street below. It was 'going home time'. Not for those girls the awful waiting followed by the hideous thrashing itself. Subconsciously, she pulled her Queen Mary High School blazer tightly around her lithe young body.
She rested her forehead against a pane of glass and sighed as she watched the stream of pupils homeward bound. The window steamed up and she turned away.
There was only one desk in that room. She sat on the chair behind it and tried to concentrate on the open book. Probably, Julius Caesar was one of Shakespeare's more interesting plays.
A floorboard creaked. Suddenly Ancient Rome was dispelled from her mind. She was back to the present and the punishment that was to go with it.
The curly-haired blonde felt a twinge shoot through her tummy as the door behind her was opened and closed. 'Sir' had arrived.
Denise shrieked at the unexpected. The long, thin cane embedded itself in the pages of her book. What effect then would it have on her bottom? Of course, she knew exactly. It would not be her first encounter with that wicked wand.
'Ready, Miss?' His voice was young but full of authority. She looked up at him, tall and resplendent in mortar board and gown. He was such a good-looking bloke, it was difficult to imagine he was so stern a disciplinarian.
Denise nodded her pretty head.
'Lost your voice, have you?' he smiled. 'Never mind, I'm sure the cane will bring it back.'
He swooshed the thin rod through the air, causing her to flinch.
'You know the drill,' he remarked sternly. 'Prepare yourself.'
Denise slid out of the chair and stood upright. She shrugged out of the bottle-green blazer and laid it on the chair.
He surveyed the rounded bulges of her breasts, firm in the thin, tight blouse and the equally thin bra beneath. The material of her pleated green skirt tightly hugged her hips. White ankle-socks contrasted with the pink flesh of her long, bare, well-moulded legs.
The skirt came off, to be tossed on to the chair. Then she put her hand under the hem of her blouse and slowly inched her skimpy white knickers down her thighs until they fluttered to the ground. She bent down, picked them up and placed them on the chair seat.
'Over the desk!' he ordered. 'Bottom nice and high!'
Denise felt herself swaying slightly but she took a deep breath and did as she was told. Very slowly, she bent over the shiny desk with her breasts flattened on its top.
Her drawn-up blouse had exposed most of her bottom, but he used the tip of his cane to push the white blouse completely away from his target. Her tense cheeks, perfectly rounded and completely unblemished, were a delightful shade of pink.
Denise jumped involuntarily as he tapped her nates with his cane, lining up the first stroke.
The whooshing sound made by the descending, accelerating stick seemed to fill the room. Then, that sound was replaced by another – a solid crack as the cane thwacked right across the crown of Denise's buttocks. She yelled out instantly, her posterior vibrating.
He drew the cane back over his shoulder. There was a swish followed by the sound of wood on flesh, superseded by an almost instantaneous yelp of pain.
Although her bum-cheeks were rapidly overheating, Denise resisted the temptation to put her hands back to rub away the vicious sting.
The third stroke swiftly followed and the girl's saucy buttocks jiggled and bounced.
His teeth gleaming in a smile, he touched the scarlet-lined globes with the cane. Denise squealed, then realised it was just the cool wood resting lightly against her blazing flesh.
Sneaky, that. Just like 'Sir'.
The cane left her bottom, but quickly paid it a return visit. Pain reached her brain and flooded her body with its insatiable appetite. Two tears glistened on her cheeks.
The next, perfectly-delivered stroke made her shriek and her fingers clawed the wooden top of the desk. Her haunches jerked and writhed.
She thanked God she had taken the punishment so well. That meant only one more before the worst of her ordeal was over.
The final slash on the lower slopes of her ravaged derriere made her scream and stamp her legs. Sitting down would be very painful for some time.
She didn't have to be told what to do next. Wincing, she stood upright. Her hands tentatively explored the damage. Ridges the width of her little finger corrugated her poor bum. Somewhat stiltedly, she walked to the corner of the room. She faced the wall, with her hands on her head bunching up her golden hair.
'Sir' made her stay like that for fully 15 minutes whilst he thumbed through Julius Caesar or looked out of the window. Then he gave her permission to dress and leave.
Painfully, her bottom feeling like one burning mass, she put her clothes back on and stood by the window.
Denise rested her face against the glass and looked down on to the street below. It was empty, save for one lone girl making her way home from Queen Mary's High School. She was a tall, pretty, auburn-haired girl – obviously a sixth former. She couldn't even have been in the third form when she herself had been in the sixth.
Her still-damp blue eyes followed the girl's movements. She couldn't help but wonder if that seemingly carefree redhead would fall in love with a man like her own husband – one who had had an attic fitted out as a 'schoolroom'. One who insisted his wife make amends for any serious misdemeanours by ordering her to dress in her old Queen Mary uniform and bare her bottom to receive a salutary dose of his cane.
Denise sighed and wondered. She thought not.