Strange Vibrations

 Story from Roue 20.

Strange Vibrations
by Barry Roberts

He glanced over at her feeling certain that she was about to say 'I told you so.' She didn't – but the look she gave him rendered words unnecessary.

Ever since the first time Doug's second wife, Roberta, had met his daughter she had left him in no doubt as to her feelings regarding the girl's behaviour and the treatment she felt would remedy the situation. 'She's a wilful, spoilt brat,' she had told him once, 'and it's all your fault. You're far too easy with her. You give her an inch and she duly takes a yard. And what do you do? Nothing. If I had behaved like that when I was her age I'd have got a damn good hiding.'

The thought of chastising his daughter had crossed his mind on numerous occasions but the nearest he had come to punishing her in such a manner was by threatening it. 'If I catch you doing that again,' he had warned her often, 'I'll tan your backside.' The threats were always ignored and, when disobeyed, simply weren't carried out. He just couldn't bring himself to do it. Pocket money was stopped, curfews set, treats denied. Every form of punishment was employed except one – chastisement.

'Things'll change when we get married,' Roberta announced a week before the day of the wedding, 'I won't stand for any nonsense I can tell you. The moment she steps out of line she'll get a good hiding. If you won't do it then I will!'

Doug had decided not to get into an argument about it – thinking that they would cross that bridge if and when they came to it, although he felt certain that there was no 'if' about it – Linda misbehaving was a bridge that they would come to in no time.

On their honeymoon Doug agreed to his bride's suggestion that they confront Linda with the matter as soon as they returned home. He was far from happy about the situation but felt that, as it was something of such importance to his new wife, then so be it. 'Just don't expect me to hand out any of the hidings,' he told her. 'It's simply not me. I agree there are times when Linda deserves to have her bottom smacked – as long as you understand that if there's any walloping to be done you can do it.'

* * *

'...And so,' Roberta concluded her lecture of the girl as the three of them sat around the kitchen table on the day of their return, 'any further misbehaviour will be punished. Not in the way that your father has seen fit to 'punish' you but in the way that your mother used to punish you before she passed away; the way that all naughty children should be punished.'

Linda opened her mouth but was denied the opportunity to speak.

'I know that was a long time ago and that you probably consider you're too grown-up to be treated in such a manner at your age but let me tell you, I was thrashed by my mother until I was well past my twentieth birthday so, as you see, seventeen isn't too old to have your backside tanned.'

Linda took it very well, her father thought. There were no protestations, no tantrums. When her step-mother had finished the girl simply shrugged her shoulders, rose from the table and left the room. Perhaps, Doug mused, there would be no need for his new wife to carry out her threats after all. It was a thought, though, that he didn't have much confidence in. Sooner or later, he felt, Linda would do something that would warrant a spanking. He just hoped that it would be later rather than sooner.

* * *

'Okay, officer – we'll deal with it,' Doug told the constable.

'Very well, sir. You can count yourself lucky that the shop owner decided against pressing charges. If you ask me – what that girl needs is....'

'Thank you, officer – we'll take care of it,' Doug interrupted.

Roberta showed the constable to the door. 'Have no fear, officer,' she assured him, 'She's going to get exactly what you were going to suggest. Believe me – she'll be sleeping face-down tonight.'

The constable smiled. 'Very pleased to hear it, madam.'

'Well?'

'Well – what?'

'Go on then – say it. Say "I told you so". You said that my letting her get out of hand would result in her getting into trouble with the police before long. So come on – out with it.'

'I'm not one to gloat, Doug, but you have to admit I was right.'

Doug knew that she was. He was also fully aware of the fact that he'd failed as a father. If he had punished his daughter's disobedience with more severity in the past she'd probably have never strayed so far from the straight and narrow as stealing from the corner shop. He was angry with himself but far more incensed with Linda and when his wife announced that she was going up to Linda's room 'to make her pay for her crime' he put up no protests. She deserved it – it was high time she paid for her waywardness.

'I'll leave it to you, then,' he said.

'You not coming up?'

Doug thought awhile. 'I'm not going to do the, er....'

'I know, Doug – you've already said that you'll leave it to me.'

'Then – why....?'

'It's just that I think you ought to be there – witness it. You are her father when all's said and done – even if you don't act like it at times.'

The two of them climbed the stairs to Linda's room. They entered and shut the door behind them. The girl was sprawled out on her bed reading a magazine.

'You know why we're here?'

'S'pose so, step-mother,' Linda replied.

'I've told you not to address me like that. "Mother" will do. Now, come on – stand up – show a bit of respect.'

Linda threw the magazine to the floor and, giving a long deep sigh, got to her feet. Her stepmother sat down on the edge of the bed while her father took up a position by the wardrobe. Linda's arm was grabbed hold of and she was pulled over Roberta's lap. The woman gave the seat of the girl's tight jeans a couple of slaps and then said: 'No – this won't do at all. Stand up.'

She got to her feet and was given the order to take her jeans off.

'But....'

'Get on with it, girl. You wouldn't feel a thing through those. Come on – get them off!'

With all the alacrity of a snail on valium the girl obeyed and stood before her step-mother in blouse, tights and knickers – to be given the further command to remove her tights.

'Right, Linda,' Roberta said, shifting her position on the bed slightly and taking hold of Linda's wrist, 'come on – over you go.'

With more than a little deliberation the girl followed orders and lay across her step-mother's knee awaiting the chastisement. Her blouse was pushed out of the way to reveal a pair of skin-tight pink cotton knickers. Roberta looked over at her husband and back down at the seat of Linda's pants. She put her right hand inside the waistband of the garment and began to pull them down.

'Er... no, Roberta... I don't think that's necessary,' her husband commented.

'Look,' Roberta said, holding the knickers at half-mast, 'who's doing this – you or me?'

'You are, love – but it's just that I don't think there's any need for the girl's pants to come down, that's all.'

'Can we get on with it, please?' Linda's voice came from floor level.

'What harm can there be in taking her knickers down? You're being ridiculous, Doug. She's got to feel it.'

'You've had her remove her jeans and tights – that's enough. She'll feel it alright.'

'Look,' Linda said impatiently, 'take the bloody things down if you like – only get on with it, will you?'

'No, maybe your father's right – you should feel it. It's just that whenever I was spanked as a child it was always on the bare bottom. No, you can keep them up,' she announced, putting them back into place and pulling them up tightly around her teenage bottom. 'I'll just have to hit harder to make sure you get the message.'

Doug didn't know where she had got the practice in – but the spanking that she gave his errant daughter was certainly a thorough one. The smacks fell at a rate of practically one per second and the entire area of Linda's shapely behind was attended to. The girl winced as her bottom was warmed and let out a couple of yelps when the stinging hand of her stepmother landed with more severity. Not to be out-done by her husband's request for Linda's bottom to remain covered, Roberta concentrated more and more on the lower part of the girl's cheeks and the tops of her thighs where there was no protection. It was when Doug saw the redness forming on his daughter's lower buttocks – after about a minute and a half – that he intervened.

'Um... I think that's enough, dear.'

Roberta looked up at him. 'Very well – six more, okay?'

He nodded. Roberta yanked the knickers up as far as they would go and the material disappeared into Linda's bottom-crack leaving the cheeks almost entirely bare. She laid those last six whacks on with all her might and the girl was screaming for mercy at each one. Her bottom wobbled and contorted and finally, when it was all over, heaved gently.

Linda stood and adjusted her knickers before laying face-down on her bed.

* * *

'Don't you think that was a bit harsh?' Doug asked his wife as they made their way downstairs.

'Rubbish – did you see any tears? No. Next time she gets a good hiding it won't be with my hand – I can tell you.'

Doug sincerely hoped there wouldn't be a 'next time' or, at least, that if there was, it wouldn't be for quite a while. He knew that Linda had deserved her punishment but the whole thing had left a nasty taste in his mouth. He still wasn't entirely convinced that physical punishment was a good idea and the thought of his own flesh and blood, Linda – naughty though she was – receiving a tanning with the back of a long hairbrush (Roberta's suggestion) didn't appeal to him at all.

* * *

'Tell your father what you've been up to today!' Roberta yelled at a crestfallen step-daughter. 'Come on – out with it!'

Oh God, thought Doug, she's been up to her tricks again. Bet this ends up with Linda getting another hiding.

'What have you done then, Linda?' he asked the girl.

'Well....'

'Come on – I said I'd make you tell him, now get on with it, girl!'

Linda looked up at her father. 'I... I'm sorry, dad...'

'What have you done this time, Linda?'

'I... er... I was doing something in my bedroom....'

Roberta bullied the girl into telling exactly what it was that she was "doing" that had caused so much fuss – how she had been lying on her bed in only her bra using her fingers to some effect between her legs. Her father was disgusted with her. He had never thought he would ever actually want to see his daughter get a severe thrashing, but such was his anger that he said: 'Right, young lady – if that's an appropriate term for someone who indulges in such acts – get up to your room! Your mother and I will be up shortly.'

Linda left the room and plodded up the stairs. Roberta looked over at her husband, happy in the knowledge that perhaps, at last, she had won him over to her belief in the use of corporal punishment.

'I think this calls for your hairbrush, love,' he suggested.

They ascended the stairs and Roberta went into their room to pick up the hairbrush and, as her husband discovered when she entered Linda's room, something else.

'Where the hell did you get that from?' he asked, astonished.

'Bought it the other day,' she replied, giving the slender cane a noisy swish through the air. 'Just the job – don't you think?'

Doug didn't agree. A row broke out over whether Linda was to receive her just deserts by way of hairbrush or cane. Roberta's suggestion that a dozen-or-so smacks followed by six of the best with the cane wasn't met with her husband's approval and it was finally agreed that the cane would not be used on this occasion, but would be employed should Linda get into big trouble again.

Roberta laid the cane down on Linda's dressing table. 'It can stay here,' she told the girl, 'as a reminder of what you'll get if I catch you doing what you did any more.'

'Come on now, Linda,' her father said. 'Get yourself ready – I haven't got all night – I've got a darts match this evening.'

Roberta was clearly delighted with her husband's newly-found enthusiasm – a delight that was not shared by his daughter, he thought as he looked at the girl's miserable countenance.

Linda stripped down to her petticoat and her step-mother stepped forward to take the straps of the garment off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Linda obeyed the order to lie face downwards on her bed and waited motionless in her matching white nylon bra and pants.

'I think we'll have them down – don't you?' Roberta said to her husband, feeling confident that he would agree.

'Er... yes, okay... take them down, love,' he replied.

Roberta walked around to the left side of the bed and, taking hold of the waistband of the tight knickers, dragged them down to Linda's knees. The girl buried her face in the pillow as her step-mother took aim with the wooden-backed hairbrush. It came down with a splat onto the bare skin of Linda's bottom. Down it came again and before long was beating a rhythm on the contorting cheeks. Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! – 'This'll teach you never to do anything so disgusting again,' Roberta growled as the hairbrush did its job. Splat! Splat! Splat! – 'Ow Owww!' Splat! Splat! 'That's it, my girl, yell all you like – I'm not stopping till you've paid for your badness.' Splat! Splat! Splat!

Realising that his wife meant it and beginning to feel a little queasy at the sight of his daughter's bare bum turning a bright red, Doug said: 'I'll... er leave you to it, then, love.'

'You going?' asked his wife holding the hairbrush threateningly over the chubby bottom of his daughter.

'Yes... I'll be off down the pub – you know – get a few arrows in before the match,' he answered awkwardly and disappeared.

Roberta stopped the spanking and went into her room to watch as her new husband got into his car and drove off. She returned to the girl who was still obediently lying on her tummy on the bed.

'He gone?' Linda enquired of her step-mother.

'Yes, he's gone.'

'Right,' the girl said, standing up and taking off her bra then bending over in the centre of the room, 'you can get to work with the fucking cane now – can't you?'

'You reckon you can take it on top of that whacking – it's very red, Linda – are you sure?'

'You know me, Roberta – glutton for punishment.'

Roberta laughed. She went over to the dressing table and picked up the cane, giving it a couple of strokes through the air. Linda bent right over as far as she could and gripped her ankles and Roberta stood to her left side with her left hand resting on the girl's back.

'Six – okay?' the woman announced.

'Yeah – come on, stop titting about – I'm dying for it – it's been so long.'

The cane came down forcing a gasp from the lips of the girl. Thwack! 'Yeoww!' Five more strokes cracked explosively across the crimson bottom, five more lines appeared across the cheeks and five more squeals were emitted by the naked girl.

She flopped face-down onto her bed and Roberta applied some cold cream to the well punished arse.

'Strangest reason for getting married I've ever heard,' Linda commented, her words muffled to some degree by the pillow on which her head was resting.

'But I love him, Linda.'

'Perhaps you do – but I know of something that you love more.'

Roberta gave her step-daughter a playful smack on her rear-end then returned to the creaming of the girl's buttocks. Her hand slid in between Linda's legs which parted automatically. With her left hand smoothing the lotion over Linda's bottom, her right was now sending electric sensations through the girl's body as it performed a very experienced massaging of the private regions.

'You're a bad, bad girl,' she said as her left hand lightly spanked the stinging cheeks of Linda's bottom. 'Fancy playing with yourself – you know that's my job.'

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.

Domestic Harmony

Story from Roue 14.

Domestic Harmony

Julia Maitland and the shy, nervous Charles Carey had a strange but contented relationship. Widow and widower, to the outside world their friendship was probably platonic but the villagers, without exception, liked them so much that they were not overly curious what went on within the stone, ivy-covered walls of Charles' small isolated house. Had they known, some of the details would have set the tongues a-wagging.

This afternoon, the diffident 52 years-old man watched, stomach churning, from behind a curtain as Julia's little car stopped before the house. She saw him, so when she opened the door and extended her silken-clad leg, her left hand held the hem of her skirt back so that, before Charles' eyes, it rode up above mid-thigh where a frilly suspender stretched tautly from the stocking-top, and up under the brief leg of her shadowed knickers above.

A thrill of excitement ran through her as she closed the car door and shook her skirt down. Charles' presence behind the curtain meant that, once the coming charade was over, her skirt would be lifted, her knickers lowered, and her bare bottom soundly and satisfyingly spanked.

Until three months ago her clothes had never been lifted by a man in that house. Besides a couple of afternoon visits, three days a week they would share lunch and dinner – in between, the thirty five year-old woman tidied Charles' house and cooked their meals while he wrote sporadic newspaper pieces on West Africa, where he was an administrator before retirement. He paid Julia handsomely for her work – she accepted because, as he said, his pension had increased so much by its index-linking that he had far more money than he wanted for his simple needs.

But one evening after dinner their conversation, encouraged by several drinks, reached a more intimate level than ever before. Julia talked of her husband, killed in a hunting accident eleven years earlier.

"Really he was only interested in gambling and the animals on the estate," she said. "He died leaving massive debts."

"You were neglected then?"

"As a woman, yes – as an animal, no."

"What do you mean, my dear?"

"Well, we had separate bedrooms, and he slept alone – except for the first night of our honeymoon, when he deigned to join me."

"How strange!"

"It was, but he wasn't sexless. When he... er... wanted me... always in the day or early evening, he would simply bend me over, wherever we were in the house."

"Not even a kiss or caress?"

"No. He would put his left hand on the nape of my neck and push my head down, as his right hand dragged my dress up and roughly pulled my... er... panties to my knees. I had to stay in that position, my hands against the wall or on a chair, my bottom and... you know... my... er... private parts... exposed to his eyes."

"You poor dear."

"He then talked to me as he slowly undid the front of his trousers and..."

Charles' eyes gleamed behind his glasses.

"What sort of things did he say, Julia?"

"Oh, I don't think I could tell you, Charles!"

"Please!"

"Well, that I had a lovely round, aristocratic... oh no, Charles!"

"Yes... please go on!"

"A lovely round, aristocratic.... arse... and that he liked a woman to wait for his... thing... with her knickers round her knees. Then he would crudely describe what he was going to do to me, and... my legs would be nuged as far apart as my stretched... er... knickers would allow, his hands would grip my hips and... he would thrust away savagely until he... he had finished!"

"Good God!"

"Then he would humiliate me in the harshest way. As he zipped himself up, he would ring for a servant. Quickly I had to pull my knickers up, feeling messy and unclean, drop my dress and appear unruffled as he ordered drinks. He said he liked the servants to see me blush."

Charles was breathing heavily, which surprised Julia. She had always considered him to be... somehow... unrousable.

She smiled. "I'm sure your married life was very happy before the car accident."

He nodded, but looked thoughtful.

"What is the matter, Charles?"

"Well, as you have been so honest, it is only right that I tell you that Brenda liked having her bottom spanked before we made love – and I'm afraid that I enjoyed smacking her."

Julia put her hand to his cheek.

"You silly old thing! Don't look so much like a naughty boy – I like it too!"

And she told him of her first orgasm. Of how she noticed when she was seventeen at home in the vicarage, that perhaps once or twice a week, her father's attitude in the late evening would abruptly change towards her mother. With minor criticisms – her hair was untidy – perhaps dinner was not to his satisfaction. Then he always said, "Go upstairs and wait for me, madame!", and Julia's mother obediently mounted the stairs, her shapely hips swaying, so it seemed, more than usual.

Consumed with a teenager's curiosity, Julia slipped upstairs one night to the balcony outside her parents' bedroom. She saw her mother enter and hasten to the mirror, undo the top buttons of her dress then stand, hands behind her back, facing the door.

When her father came in, he opened a drawer, took out a cane, and laid it on the dressing table. Then he walked over to her mother and undid some more dress buttons; his hands went into the dress, slowly turned, and drew out her big, rounded breasts, their nipples standing out stiff and proud. His hands stroked them for a while before he picked up the cane.

Then loudly he shouted, "Come in from the balcony, Julia, you'll catch your death of cold there!" Red-faced, the teenager came through the french windows, her head hanging.

Her green school knickers were pulled down, her pleated skirt flipped up her back and, face down across the bed, her father briskly spanked her bare bottom before she was sent to her room.

And as she heard the swish of the cane from the bedroom, and her mother's subsequent groans and cries that were certainly not of pain, for the first time Julia's hand satisfactorily quieted the strange hunger she had felt between her legs as her father's hand had stung her young bottom.

When she finished her story, Charles was visibly excited, his lips and hands were trembling, and their new-found intimacy, although fragile, had given rise regularly to the game they were about to play three months later.

-o-O-o-

Charles greeted her at the door. Julia pecked his cheek and swirled past him in a cloud of musky perfume into his comfortable living room. His writing had obviously gone well – his desk at the window was tidy. Thus was his – she would make hers presently.

He studied her as a desultory conversation drifted between them. Her hair, cascading over her shoulders, glinted in the sunlight slanting through the window. The silk blouse, tucked over – tightly into her straight skirt, emphasised the downward curve of her full womanly breasts, and a small scarf knotted at her neck gave her a careless elegance. The man's eyes slowly swept over the fullish hips, the shapely sheer-stockinged legs, and her simple half-heel court shoes.

"Shall I make some coffee, Charles?"

The words snapped him away from his lascivious thoughts.

"Yes, I would like that."

Shortly after she had gone to the kitchen he heard the crash of breaking crockery.

"Don't worry," she called, "It's only a cup and saucer!"

"What do you mean," he shouted angrily, " 'Don't worry, Charles'. Come here, woman!"

Julia walked slowly into the living room and stood before him, eyes defiant.

"Really, Julia, you are as clumsy as a schoolgirl!"

"Don't be insulting!"

"Lower your voice, or I'll treat you like a teenager and give you a pink, smarting bottom!"

"You wouldn't dare!"

Charles rose, locked the door, and pocketed the key.

"I would, and now I definitely will! Your knickers are coming down, Julia. If you have any on, that is! I can see your nipples through your blouse, so obviously you are not wearing a bra!"

"For your information I am wearing knickers, but their sight is not for the pleasure of an ageing voyeur," she snapped.

"We'll see," he said as he moved close to her and started to undo her blouse.

"Am I to be felt first?"

Without answering his fingers busied themselves until the blouse gaped open. With infinite gentleness his hands lifted her round satiny breasts clear, then his fingertips, touching light as a butterfly, stroked over the firm globes, pausing only to rotate lovingly the nipples that stood blunt, roused and rigid on their tiny pink-brown mounds.

"Having a good feel?" she gritted, but her belligerence was melting as her eyes softened and her full red lips parted.

"Yes," he said simply.

His hands left her hungry breasts. He sat down.

"Come here, Julia." She stood before him.

"Raise your skirt!"

Her fingers plucked a fold on each side of her hips that wriggled slightly as the hem lifted – to above mid-thigh,

"Like what you see, Charles?" she whispered.

He nodded. Suspenders of pink lace were tautly clamped to the tan stocking tops. The heavenly scent of roused woman reached his nostrils.

"Skirt up to your waist, Julia!"

It slid upwards. She tucked part of the hem into her waistband, clasped her hands behind her back and stood exposed; the few secrets left to her were not to remain so for long.

"Your knickers are a pretty shade of pink, and the lace is nice and sexy. I have always approved of open-legged knickers."

"Why, Charles?"

"Well, it is easy..." the back of his hand slid teasingly up her inner thigh, one finger probed up under the knicker leg and stroked along the wet, pouting parts therein... "to do that."

She gasped. Her thighs started to open. He withdrew his hand.

"But you are here for spanking, not stroking, aren't you!"

And matching his deeds to his words he hooked his fingers into the waist elastic and drew her knickers down. They hung, half inside-out, at her knees. There was nothing left to be modest about.

From under the cushion he drew a leather-covered object.

"At school we were punished with one of these on hands and bottom. It is whalebone, sheathed in leather, called a 'ferrula'. Used viciously it can bruise badly, even split the skin. I stole it from the school's resident sadist when I left."

"But you can't use that on...."

"Your tender white bum, Julia? Don't worry, I won't bruise those lovely round buttocks of yours, just make them all red, stinging and hot. Bend over the back of the armchair!"

Knees trapped by knickers she shuffled across and arched over, hands on the arms.

"Further, woman, I want your bare bum sticking up, begging for the ferrula!"

She obeyed, until her legs were rigid, and only her toes touched the carpet. Her bottom curves arched up; the hair-covered fleshiness, squeezed heart-shape by the closed thighs, glistened wetly.

Charles stroked his left hand over the rounded flesh, then his right brought the ferrula about a foot above one cringing buttock, and with wrist alone made the springy whalebone beat a tattoo on Julia's silky bum-cheek – tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat. It was like machine-gun fire.

Julia howled.

He stopped.

"Part of your buttock, about five inches by three, is turning gloriously pink. You spanking will be at an end when both your bottom-cheeks are glowing bright red. So there's a lot more spanking to do – tat-tat-tat-tat.

Julia's frantic "oows" and "oooohs" and yelps died to a growling groan when he started on her other bum-cheek because his left hand moved from the small of her back and, palm upwards, slid under her body to move from one hanging breast to another, the ridges on his hand manipulating the stiffened nipples this way and that.

When her round bottom was all pink, smarting and slowly writhing, he dropped the ferrula to the floor. As his left hand continued the fondling, his other smoothed over and between Julia's hot cheeks, down to that which was no longer heart-shaped, for the legs had parted, but even warmer and wetter... and wanting. His finger gave.

The writhing of the young woman's bottom increased. Then it stopped. Her body trembled, then jerked to and fro; her bottom thrust violently back. And from her lips came a long "Aaaaaaahhhh!!" as she slumped like a broken doll over the chair back.

Her hand reached for Charles' trouser zip, but as always before, he firmly grasped the wrist, steered it away, then quietly left the room.

Hung over the chair, Julia dozed in her afterglow for 5 or 6 minutes before, in a leisurely fashion, she pulled her knickers up, dropped her skirt, wriggled her breasts back into her blouse – and put the ferrula into a drawer.

There was no hurry. Charles would be back in 30 minutes, no more, no less. It was his estimate of the time she needed to put herself back together again without any embarrassment.

As she patted her hair into place, she realised that she loved the dear sweet Charles Carey. But his shyness prevented a greater intimacy. Oh yes, spanking her was intimacy, but her conversation had excited him irresistibly into it the first time, and three months later he still needed a sign to prompt a repetition.

On his return, no mention would be made of the spanking again. He would be his usual courteous, withdrawn self, and they would pass a quiet evening together. Unless she stirred him with her words again!

-o-O-o-

They sat pensively sipping coffee after dinner. Julia took a deep breath and said softly, "My little bottom is still glowing from your spanking, Charles. It's lovely."

He coloured. "Julia, shall we go down to the garden centre tomorrow and..."

"You do like seeing my knickers, don't you, Charles?", she interrupted.

Blushingly he nodded.

"And lowering them to leave Julia's fat little bum all bare and defenceless?"

"It isn't fat," he blurted, "It's perfect! I never know whether to spank or stroke....." – his voice, trembling, tailed away.

"Would you like to hold me close, gather up the back of my dress, slip your hands inside my panties, and grip the cheeks of my arse?", she teased.

"Not your panties," he murmured softly, licking his dry lips, "Your knickers."

She smiled. "Alright. Julia's KNICKERS!"

She crossed her legs. Her dress rode up, and the stretched frilly suspenders were in his sight again.

"Ann is coming home for her 18th birthday in a month's time. Will you come over for tea?"

"I'd love to."

"What a little minx I have for a daughter! Perhaps it is just as well that her school disciplines them so strictly."

"I didn't know that." Charles was breathing easier now.

"Heavens, yes. She regularly has her bare bottom caned, but its effect is doubtful, because she actually enjoys it with the right master. There is one that she really fancies. She told me she often deliberately misbehaves in his class just for the pleasure of lifting her skirt for him. Sometimes I think she gets the same from him as I get from you after a spanking, maybe more."

Charles clasped his hands to stop them shaking.

She pressed on. "Strange – after we all went out to lunch at Christmas she said you had lovely hands."

He closed his eyes.

"And that she'd go over your knee anytime."

"Oh, Julia!"

"It's true! And her bottom is like a peach, rounded, firm, and often has a pale pink bloom. Imagine, Charles, lifting her pleated skirt and seeing her knickered bottom!"

"Aaaaargh!"

"She wears tight skimpy briefs that only cover part of her bum. Think of dragging those to her knees and laying your hand across those naughty schoolgirl buttocks! You'd make them twitch, wouldn't you!"

Charles' head lowered and swayed from side to side. His hands gripped the chair arms tightly.

"I can see her young nubile body squirming on your lap. And as you spanked her you could savour the thought of laying the ferrula across her mother's bare bottom later, couldn't you!"

Charles was fast losing control.

"Oh, Julia..... darling!"

"What will you do, Charles, when I next misbehave in your house?"

"I'll... I'll... I'll..."

"Yes?"

"I'll... I'll... I'll tan your bottom, woman! I'll make you squeal and writhe!!"

"Over my dress?"

"Dress up, woman!"

"Knickers on?"

"Knickers down!"

"Oh, Julia's poor bottom! Will you also spank Ann's bare bottom?"

At the mention of the schoolgirl his usual quiet courtesy returned a little.

"If she is naughty in my house, and I have your permission to do so – yes."

She saw his shyness drifting over him once more.

"You know, Charles," she breathed gently, "beneath your kind exterior there is a strong, forceful man. And I'm a woman who likes that. We're lucky that basically we are close friends – and I don't mean this "just good friends" nonsense. Charles, darling, I feel at ease and peace with you."

His eyes, warm and a little damp, searched hers. He swallowed hard, and blushed once again. Drawing a key from his pocket he offered it to Julia.

"P...p...please, Julia, go and open the small despatch case in my room."

Puzzled, she did as she was asked. In the quietness of his room she put the case on his bed, unlocked it and lifted the lid. It was empty but for a note, dated four months earlier.

I want you to marry me, Julia. If you accept, come back and tell me. Otherwise, please go out of the door and drive away. I can't bring myself to ask you to your face – you are so beautiful, I am so ordinary.

If your answer is no, think of me sometime – for I love you, Charles.

-o-O-o-

He sat in the quietness of the living room, brow wet with perspiration, face creased with anxiety, hands clasping and unclasping. The thudding of his heart was almost painful as his ears strained for the sound of her return to him or........

The snarl of her car starting shattered the oppressive silence, and as she drove away he slumped in his chair, and a blanket of lonely sadness enveloped his like a shroud.

For ten minutes nothing moved in the room but the hands of the clock.... then the living room door slowly opened...

Julia entered and fixed her eyes on his. Sinuously, she wriggled her skirt to her waist, then bent forward and lowered her knickers to a lacy heap at her ankles. Daintily she stepped out of them, took the ferrula from the drawer, and walked over to him with swaying hips. With both hands she offered the ferrula to him.

"I've taken my knickers off for you, darling. Now spank your future wife's bare arse really hard, then take her to your bed and give her what she is longing for!"

"B...b...but Julia, I... I... I heard the car!"

"Well, you don't think I am leaving it outside the front of your house all night, do you? I've a reputation to consider!" And she smiled gently.

He stood up, put his arms round her, and laughed.

Caning as punishment

Story from Roue 07.

Caning as punishment

An account of some disciplinary methods in a South African girls school

There are many different views about what constitutes a sound spanking. For some a few smacks with the hand or a hair brush is sufficient. For others three or four cuts with the cane will suffice. Yet again there are people who would regard such mild treatment as ludicrous and nothing like adequate punishment. If punishment is given in all seriousness, and not as some kind of play-acting, then it must be severe, though it must be administered in a just manner.

This latter view is held by many strict disciplinarians who feel that much that is written about corporal punishment is unrealistic. One such lady has agreed to put forward her attitude and to relate some of her experiences. As she spent a long time in South Africa, a country well-known to be strict in the administration of justice and punishment, her remarks will be particularly pertinent and likely to throw considerable light on the subject. While not every one will agree with her, we feel that what she has to say is both interesting and relevant.

She is a widow in her late fifties and worked for many years as a teacher in Pretoria. During her last eight years there she was the Deputy Headmistress of a senior girls seminary. The pupils were white, of course, and of predominantly Dutch extraction, a people noted for their strong, puritan views and disciplined life.

She states that many people may not be aware that corporal punishment is still widely retained in South African schools and, at the discretion of the school governors, may be employed to correct wrongdoers of both sexes.

As she was raised in a well-disciplined environment herself, where defiant or unruly behaviour by herself or her sisters inevitably earned them a good whipping, she is a confirmed believer in the benefits of a sound thrashing for miscreant children.

She states, quite categorically, that in her experience, contrary to the views of so-called progressive educationalists, that most children and adolescents respond quickly and effectively to a painful spanking on the backside, providing they know why they are being punished and that justice is metered out fairly.

Here is what she has to say on the subject in her own words, in which she makes a strong case for the punishment aspects of spanking.

I am fully aware of the erotic interest that many men find in the subject of spanking and as a woman I cannot ignore the sensual attraction of the female bottom, but it is plainly apparent that the punishment view of spanking is only secondary to the erotic pleasure they are seeking. I am not a prig and I do not deny these erotic instincts. It would be hypocritical of me to do so. However, it is the punishment element in which I am most interested and it is about this which I wish to write.

A spanking or whipping must hurt to be effective. It must be inflicted to the point where it becomes unbearable. On the other hand, it must be stopped before there is any chance of doing serious injury to the person being punished.

It is for this reason that the buttocks are best suited as the place of chastisement for they are resilient and quickly recover in normal circumstances. They can be beaten quite hard, much harder than most unenlightened people may think, and because they are also quite sensitive, the punishment can be made to hurt as it should, and hurt abominably! Fortunately, the fierce unbearable pain is short-lived, and diminishes considerably after the cessation of the whipping, to a more tolerable though still uncomfortable level.

In my school, the youngest girls were 12 and the eldest approaching 18 – all boarders and well catered for in all matters of welfare. Those that behaved well had nothing to fear, but those who didn't were given punishment of a severity that generally assured a marked improvement in their behaviour very quickly. We employed two instruments of chastisement, the leather strap (similar to the Scottish tawse) and the rattan cane. The teaching staff were authorised to use the strap for routine cases of discipline or unruliness, in the classroom, but caning was restricted to myself or the Head and would be inflicted privately in the Punishment Room adjacent to my study. Canings were awarded for persistent misbehaviour or for more serious offences such as foul language, stealing, bodily assault, drug-taking, etc. Active lesbian or other forbidden sexual practices automatically merited a caning of extreme severity, and after this it was rare that a girl would commit a similar offence again.

In class the strap could be administered on the seat of a girl's knickers or if her teacher felt justified she could beat the pupil on the bare flesh. The maximum number of strokes allowed in this manner was twenty, but sentences were left to the discretion of each mistress. Class punishments were undignified as well as painful of course, for the miscreant would have her bottom strapped in full view of a dozen or more of her classmates, Usually she was held across a desk at the front of the class where the sight of her taut knickers (or bare seat, if the occasion warranted) being loudly and thoroughly thrashed had an intentionally sobering effect on any other would-be offenders. On these occasions a hushed silence would prevail, broken only by the loud cries and wails of the suffering culprit squirming across the desk.

On the other hand, a caning in the Punishment Room was always administered on the naked buttocks, in private. The Head was generally happy to delegate this task, when it was necessary, to myself and I don't deny that I invariably made a much better job of it. If one is talking seriously about a punishment whipping rigorously carried out, anyone who believes a girl will simply bend over and remain in position while the cane is laid on with full force is either ignorant or foolishly misled. My Punishment Room housed a small whipping horse which enabled the wrists, ankles and knees of the culprit to be secured with appropriately positioned straps riveted to the supporting legs. The horse itself was an old gymnasium item lowered and modified for the purpose, and when a girl was properly mounted she may have been reluctant and unhappy to find herself in such a revealing and helpless position but because of the padded upper surface she was not in any undue discomfort. I liked the horse because no amount of writhing or jerking, inevitable during a caning, would harm the girl's bare hips and tummy as they moved about on the padded leather.

As I said previously, a girl would only be awarded the cane for a serious offence, so it was mandatory that the whippings were appropriately severe and painful. They were intended to be, as a mild thrashing, in my view, would be quite ineffective and fail to have the permanent deterrent effect that was needed. The lightest sentence was 15 strokes of the cane, but 20 or 25 were more often given, and once I administered 30 strokes to an 18 year old who after two previous offences was discovered on a third occasion to be interfering sexually with young girls. She was also expelled afterwards as being a totally incorrigible and incurable lesbian.

I would like to describe the caning procedure which I normally adopted as it may be of interest to other disciplinarians.

The commission of any crime would first receive a full hearing of all the facts, and if I judged the offender guilty, a caning sentence was awarded. This would be administered after supper at 7.30 pm., when the culprit reported to my study. My reputation and ability with the cane was well known to all the pupils so the girl in question was usually more than a little nervous, blanched somewhat, and often visibly quaking. I would then instruct her to enter the Punishment Room and follow her, locking the door behind me. (It was not unknown for a girl's courage to fail her before mounting the horse, causing her to run to the door seeking escape. Locking the door precluded this eventuality.)

Inside, the girl was ordered to take off her pleated grey gymslip, fold it neatly, hand it to me which I then placed on a chair near the door. I never removed more of a girl's clothes than necessary and without gymslip the girl would be left clad in her short waist-length cotton blouse, black viyella knickers (all pupils were required to wear standard undergarments), dark-tone tights and lace up shoes. She would be told to stand facing the horse while I obtained the cane from a cabinet where several were kept, and then instructed her to climb across the horse and lie in the appropriate position. Any tardiness at this point was quickly dispelled with a deft cut across her calves. This made a reluctant culprit mount the contraption with some alacrity after which I made her fast with the straps buckled firmly around her wrists, knees and ankles.

I was aware that this part of the preparations was unnerving for the culprit, but necessary to prevent her leaping up or turning round during the caning, which could lead to possible injury of more vital parts. Once immobilized, I then proceeded to uncover her buttocks by taking down the girl's tights and knickers, well below the target area and as far down her legs as the straps around her knees would allow. In my view, the 'horsed' position is the nearest to the ideal presentation for an effective and painful caning. The doubled over position raises the backside into maximum prominence and causes a pronounced backward thrust that tautens and distends the buttocks in the most vulnerable manner. The position is a most ungracious one for any young lady to have to adopt since it unfortunately separates the stretched bottom cheeks and immodestly exposes her very private parts. If one intends to make the caning severe, and make it painfully effective, such immodest exposure cannot be avoided and this is why the cane was always administered privately between the walls of the Punishment Room. The indecency of a girl's position never offended me. Any young miss finding herself in this room was there for some form of gross misbehaviour, and I had no pity for her predicament! She was there to be punished and drastically so, and my feelings as a no-nonsense disciplinarian were those which produced an innate sense of satisfaction with the system that allowed me to administer the one form of punishment that produces the proper degree of regret in a girl for her bad behaviour.

Before commencing the caning I always took a few moments to study the field of operation very thoroughly, mentally assessing the size, texture and resilience of the two fleshy moons awaiting penance. As an experienced chastener, I am well aware of the most sensitive parts of a girl's bottom to strokes of the cane, but to administer for example, a twenty five stroke caning of maximum severity without unduly damaging or breaking the skin calls for a considerable amount of care and skill, and to some extent a pre-planned schedule of where one is going to place all the strokes.

After this short assessment I would then take up a position to the miscreant's left side, at the right distance to enable me to deliver a full-armed swing with the cane. Placing the end half of the long rod horizontally against that part of the taut cheeks I intended to strike, and ignoring the inevitable flinching of the flesh, I would raise the cane far back on high and deliver the first whistling cut with deliberate ferocity and force! The explosive crack of a flexible cane travelling at high speed as it connects with a properly presented pair of naked buttocks never fails to impress me. The effect is dramatic and astounding! One sees the thin, hard rod almost enveloped for a split second by the soft yielding flesh, then as the cane is lifted away, the momentary white impression across the reverberating mounds becomes a bright crimson. The success of the stroke is measured by the anguished scream it produces and the simultaneous writhing and squirming of the whipped backside. If I do not think the vocal protest is sufficiently loud, or if the girl's bottom fails to perform those adequately frenzied contortions, then I know that an even harder stroke is called for and adjust the infliction accordingly.

A thrashing, to be really effective should be systematically performed with timing, force and precision. The entire surface of the buttocks should be methodically whipped from just below the tailbone to no more than one inch below the gluteal area adjoining the thighs. In the transverse direction it is desirable that the striking end of the cane does not extend further round the body than the hip bone joints. With precision and care it is possible to convert the whole expanse of chastisable bottom into a uniform sheet of intense crimson, a mass of closely spaced cane weals that I guarantee will produce the most excrutiatingly painful behind conceivable.

When I cane a girl I invariably achieve this effect by dint of patience and a relentless determination to place every stroke where I want it to fall. This is very important, to place the strokes accurately. If the whipper does not do this properly the strokes will be applied wildly and likely to cause unwarranted damage to the victim's bottom, while at the same time failing to cover the whole expanse. It seems obvious that if the proper procedure is not carried out then some parts of the buttocks will receive an excessive amount of punishment, while the remainder will be scarcely touched.

To achieve my aim I ignore the unpleasant assault of the girl's screams on my ears, and the abandoned convulsions of her well-whipped hindquarters, waiting calmly for movement to subside before applying the next stroke. This is not to say that I am not impressed by the intense reactions the rod has aroused. They are necessary and satisfying and signify that the caning is having the desired effect.

The incredible gymnastics of a bound girl over a whipping horse, having her bare buttocks severely caned can even be quite awe-inspiring at times. Within the restrictions imposed by the straps, which clamp her arms and legs, her naked buttocks can become a veritable frenzy of jerking, twisting movement. This is no doubt one of the features which adds so much interest to the act of spanking.

In addition, the increasing degree to which the gluteal flesh undergoes spasmodic muscular contractions, as the whipping proceeds, is visibly reflected in the shivering ripples which run up and the taut flinching cheeks, before and after each stroke of the cane.

Sometimes there is an even more dramatic effect on the nerves and flesh of a teenage girl as she feels the agonising rod against her tender bottom. The combined stress of fear and pain can cause a girl to lose her self control. I have seen a number of young ladies reach this state to such a degree that they lose the contents of their bladders and urinate uncontrollably during a caning. I have no wish to offend anyone by revealing this unusual response to corporal punishment but I feel I have to mention it in the interests of understanding more about the effects which can arise, although rarely, when the recipient of a caning is an unusually sensitive or nervous subject. If note is taken at the time of this phenomenon it can be avoided on a future occasion by ensuring that the miscreant goes to the lavatory before she receives her punishment.

After I had completed a caning, the girl in question was always made to remain on the horse for a further ten minutes or so. This was in order that she could regain her composure, have time to stop any crying and howling she may have been indulging in and, most important, to give her time, in a most humiliating position, to reflect on her misdeeds and the punishment she had so richly deserved.

When I was satisfied that sufficient time had elapsed and that she had suffered enough pain to ensure her repentance and fervent resolve never to give cause for another visit to the punishment room I would release her. But before doing so I would apply some relief by applying a cooling ointment to her chastened buttocks.

I believe that this close personal contact with the girl helped her to understand because she then knew that I cared for her and that any punishment she was awarded was just; I do not bear any resentment towards her. She is in my charge, she has done wrong, she must bear her punishment but over-riding all the pain and humiliation she has suffered is the fact that it is all for her own good. It is my duty to discipline her, one I cannot flinch from. It grieves me to have to deal out punishment to my charges but I could not in all conscience allow that to influence my judgement in the interests of justice. In time those girls came to realise the truth of this and many of them thanked me for the way in which they had been treated.

Any sensitive, intelligent girl will learn that a strict regime is necessary for her eventual well-being. It is just not possible for them to grow up into well-behaved, decorous young ladies, capable of living in a civilised manner in a civilised society, if they are not taught and disciplined properly.

The application of corporal punishment, carried out under proper supervision, in a firm but just way is essential and I am convinced that any such action I have taken has helped in some way to avoid a more serious delinquency. Most of my pupils have eventually realised the truth of this proposition. They know in their heart of hearts that I had helped them.

The campaign to abolish corporal punishment in British schools is sadly misguided. Unfortunately, discipline has become a dirty word, and if the strap and the cane finally disappear, we will live to regret it. The writing is already on the wall as more permissiveness and lack of discipline and respect for properly constituted authority leads to a breakdown in society. The proof of this is the vast increase in vandalism, hooliganism and general disregard for the rules at the present time.