A St Angela’s story from Roué 11
It was Wednesday evening of the first week after half-term at St Angela’s — midway through that week of mass canings meted out by the Head following the results of those mid-term exams (see Headmaster’s Report). ‘Results quite simply not good enough as those girls involved will find out the hard way.’ He said at Assembly. That (Wednesday) morning there had been thirty-two girls lined up to take their shorts down outside the Punishment Room — those unfortunates who had failed at least three exams and were thus caned for the third successive morning. Tomorrow twenty-two of the thirty-two would be back (four exams failed and thus a fourth caning) and on Friday there would still be seventeen of them, for their fifth caning in five days.
Wednesday then and so some simple arithmetic will show that this evening there would be ten girls who could at least feel with relief that although they’d been caned that morning they did not have to look forward to another dose of the same tomorrow. But as they and their classmates started evening prep it was a relief tempered with the knowledge that at St Angela’s one was never free from the fear, the possibility, that another caning — or a strapping, or a spanking — could suddenly materialise out of the blue... and that did not exclude the quiet (more or less) of the evening when you were sitting in your classroom getting on (more or less) with your prep.
Room 4D the home form of 6A was typical of the school at this hour. The girls with their heads down working or appearing to work. The usual background murmurs which accompany a group of girls with only a prefect in charge: whispers, rustling of paper, Alison Follet gets ink all over her fingers and her response is less than lady-like (‘Shit!’), which produces subdued laughter and giggles. Charlotte Lawson, in charge, glances up and then resumes her own work. But through it all there is an undercurrent of tension with everyone at least partly waiting, listening, for the same thing... the possible click of the door opening. For it could be your turn tonight, if you were one of the pretty ones, or even if you weren’t especially pretty but had a bottom that they liked. Liked to cane, that is.
There were two masters, Mr Jones (English) and Mr Moore (Biology), who made a regular practice of going round evening prep looking for girls (it was not unknown for others to do so as well but these were the two regulars). Either one would pick a pupil using some pretext or other regarding her work but in fact it would simply be a girl whom he fancied, and then take her to his rooms for a little ‘instruction’. The girl would be away, well it varied, it could be over an hour before she returned... tight-lipped, red-faced, frequently close to tears. Yes it could be anyone’s turn, but then again room 4D — and Form 6A — could be given a miss tonight with both Mr Jones and Mr Moore visiting other rooms. There was no telling and perhaps tonight they would be lucky...
But no. At five to seven there was the ‘click’, the anticipated sound, the door handle turning, the door opening... All heads were immediately bent industriously over their owner’s books but those girls near the door could glimpse, bowed heads notwithstanding, the shoes, the tweed trousers, undoubtedly those of Mr Moore. All heads remaining studiously bent now, each girl hoping thereby to escape notice...
‘Everything alright, Charlotte?’
‘Yes sir!’ Charlotte Lawson of course was the only girl present who didn’t have to face the possibility of going to Mr Moore’s rooms: as a prefect she was off-limits to all except the Head.
‘Good...’ Mr Moore commenced slowly walking along an aisle between desks, a deliberate measured tread, looking to right and left, looking at bowed heads but thinking... of knickers, of St Angela’s-approved nylon knickers, taut on rounded rumps, brief and tight between firm young thighs. He felt a tremor of excitement, in fact a definite stirring at the front of his rather shapeless tweed trousers. Mmm... the choice was always so difficult.
He stopped, though, at a desk halfway down the second aisle, the occupant revealing only the shining top of a blonde head as she bent over her work. But he recognised her, Susan Royston, a pretty young thing, new to the school that term and who had never yet made a visit to his rooms. He peered down at her work, as he did so resting a hand on her shoulder. She flinched... Mmm... he squeezed the yielding flesh through her blouse. Susan Royston. He thought of tight knickers... and also what he’d noticed previously more than once in his class — her firm pert breasts, not over-large but... very shapely. His hand slid down her back, his fingers feeling her bra strap through her blouse. Mmm, yes. He straightened up and walked on, glancing at other girls’ work. But his mind was made up now...
He made his way back to the front of the classroom, keeping to his deliberate measured pace though now he felt keen to get on with other things.
‘Well everything seems satisfactory, Charlotte. Good...’
There was a short silence and then: ‘Oh, Susan... Susan Royston. I think you can come along with me for a few minutes. There are one or two points in your last piece of work that I wish to discuss.’
The tension was now abruptly broken — girls looking up, relief on their faces — the choice had been made and it was not them. And there was a good chance that their ordeal was over for the evening, there wouldn’t be a second visit: they could relax. All except one girl of course.
Susan — head raised now to reveal a pretty face with a deepening flush as Mr Moore’s words gradually sank in. She was to be the one... to go to his room. Jumbled thoughts of what girls had told her... He had of course stopped at her desk but, she had noted with relief, he had also stopped at several others so that didn’t have to signify. And she had been telling herself...
‘Come along, Susan. Don’t dawdle please.’
Red-faced, biting her lip, she got up, all eyes on her now. She put on her blazer and, a little stumblingly, went to the front of the class to where Mr Moore was waiting: ‘Good! Get on with your prep the rest of you.’ He opened the door to usher her out.
The door closed on the departing master and pupil leaving the other girls restless, bright-eyed, in no mood to work... ‘Come on you lot. Shut up and get on with it.’ (Pretty Charlotte doing her best to sound stern.)
And gradually they settled down again, their minds though mostly not on their work but on Mr Moore’s rooms over in the Staff Block. Where quite a number of them had been and which all of them knew about. Mr Moore was a man of routine and the general pattern of a visit was pretty much set and well-known. Into his sitting room and the door locked (he didn’t like interruptions) and then his unvarying opening words:
‘I think you’ll find it rather warm in here,’ (he kept the radiators turned up to make sure it was) ‘so I should take your blazer off. And you may as well take your knickers off as well, for I’m afraid I shall unfortunately have to administer a little correction shortly. Your (report, essay, whatever) was really not the best you are capable of, Miss.’ To the dubious and unhappy-looking pupil (Sandra, Nancy, Lesley or, this evening, Susan) he would repeat: ‘Yes, your knickers please. Take them off. Right off.’ His hand held out to take them, then stuffing them in his pocket. They would be returned at the end of the session.
The preliminaries over to Mr Moore’s satisfaction, there could then be some delay, the visitor might be invited to watch TV, or be offered a cup of cocoa, before inevitably the main purpose of the visit: being required to bend over the arm of his old-fashioned stuffed armchair, head down in its soft seat, skirt flipped up, ‘Legs straight please.’... the cane lightly laid testingly across bare rounded buttocks before it was raised to deliver the first stinging stroke.
Yes all the girls, whether from direct experience or not, had a pretty good idea of what was happening to Susan. They were mostly sympathetic for she was popular with her classmates and they knew it was her first time. But if it wasn’t Susan in there it would have been one of them. And one had to think of one’s own bottom first...
7.30 — more than half an hour gone and she could be back anytime now — red-faced (he’d probably make her cry), and under her skirt the replaced knickers covering those nicely parallel fresh red stripes on her bum — 4 to 6 of them most likely, though it could be more. Yes anytime now. In fact, was that? Yes, a sound outside in the corridor. Click! The door handle turning. All eyes up this time, expectant, to see Susan; how she had taken it; to offer sympathy. But! Oh no!... It wasn’t...
Susan in fact at 7.30 had not yet received her caning. She was going to get it of course, there was never any doubt about that with Mr Moore. But right now she was seated with him on his sofa in front of the TV getting some instruction which from her expression she was not enjoying one bit. For the Biology Master was explaining about erogenous zones in the developing teenager, and to demonstrate this he had unbuttoned Susan’s blouse and unfastened her bra thus freeing pert pink-nippled breasts which he was holding in two hands as he spoke: ‘Do try to keep still please. There’s no need to be shy — it’s something which every girl of your age needs to know about. We shall of course be covering this subject in Biology Class, but a practical demonstration of the effect of stimulation... Mmmm... there — you see...’
Yes at 7.30 Susan was still over in the Staff Block. And the person then entering Room 4D? None other than Mr Evans (Geography). The most feared wielder of a cane in the whole school, to whom Mr Moore just could not be compared. Every head immediately dived down into its owner’s books, the whole class seemingly suffering from a sudden and most acute attack of short-sightedness. Mr Evans! He was just about the last master they expected during prep, and quite definitely, by a mile, the last one they wanted to see. But here he undoubtedly was.
The feared disciplinarian looked round balefully, seeing nothing but the tops of girls’ heads. His voice grating: ‘Alright girls, let’s not be silly. Do not try to pretend that you are all working so hard. Everyone stop work and look at me. That’s much better! Now we can see who we’ve got here, can’t we?’
He started a measured walk around the room, looking at work, very much as Mr Moore had done earlier; but the fear which Mr Evans could arouse was of a wholly different order. Girls looking desperately straight ahead as he approached, their haunches squirming apprehensively in taut knickers, each praying that she would not be picked, that her tender bottom was not going to be bared for the attentions of Mr Evans’ busy cane. For Gillian Aymes, in the back row, the tension was just too much — she felt an overwhelming urge to pee but she daren’t ask to go out for fear of drawing attention to herself. Oh God, no! She thought — I’m going to wet my pants...