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Monday, 23 January 2017

School Days

A St Angela's story from Roué 6
It was afternoon, sunlight shone through the lofty windows of the classroom, dust particles floated as if weightless in the slanting streams of light, and a girl stood stumbling over her words at her desk as she groped hopelessly for an excuse to offer which would explain the completely blank page in her exercise book which should have contained yesterday’s prep. She subsided into silence, eyes frightened, knuckles white as she wrung her hands behind her back. The teacher raised an ironic eyebrow.
‘So in other words miss, you haven’t done your prep because you couldn’t be bothered. Is that right?’
‘N-no sir. It’s just that — that — I couldn’t make time sir, I mean, my other prep, had to be d-done sir, an — and —’
‘And you felt that the work I had set you could wait — is that it?’
‘No sir — only I ran out of time sir — and my other prep was for MrSoames sir, an — and if you don’t do Mr Soames’s prep, sir — y-you get whacked sir — ‘
The smile on the teacher’s face was almost angelic.
‘And what d’you suppose I will do, since you chose not to do the work I set — eh?’
‘Um — mm —’ The wretched girl knew very well what would happen. What prompted her to mention getting whacked by MrSoames she couldn’t imagine, unless it was the conscious expression of her worst fears which had made her bring the subject up.
The one other factor which might have had some bearing on it was the line of navy-knickered bottoms which was staring her in the face from the front row of desks, four pairs of buttocks with school knickers stretched tight across their girlish plumpness, four pairs of knees kneeling uncomfortably on chairs, and four classmates bent forward across the desks, heads down and soon-to-be-punished bottoms sitting defencelessly up in the air. She knew perfectly well that she was going to get ‘whacked’ anyway, just as she and everyone of her form-mates had been whacked in the past, and she’d get it every bit as hard as she would have from Mr Soames.
Hands behind her back, she flattened out her palms around her pertly rounded bottom in an unconscious movement, the thought of what was coming to her sometime during the lesson making her want to pee. She pressed her thighs together and the feeling went away — unlike Mr Evans, who remained solidly at his desk and who raised the other eyebrow so that he looked like a fat and inquisitive cat with his bristling side whiskers.
‘Well my girl — since you are apparently quite content to let me waste my time teaching you, you will not object if I waste some of your time after this lesson — am I right Sally?’
‘Y-yes sir’ Her voice was a whisper.
‘Fine,’ Mr Evans slid open the drawer of his desk and produced a short, sturdy cane rather less than two feet long which rattled against the desk as he stood up, the sound, and by implication the imminence of that same cane’s arrival across their impudently presented bottoms, causing consternation amongst the four unfortunates whose prep, though completed, had failed to satisfy the exacting Mr Evans. Nervous bum-cheeks huddled inside the flimsy protection of worn and faded navy knickers, and bare thighs squeezed anxiously together while heads bobbed and followed the progress of the cane which was flourished quite deliberately in front of the bending girls’ noses as Mr Evans paced with measured tread along the line of the front row of desks.
Mr Evans was something of a humourist, and the by-no-means-unfamiliar sight of teenage bottoms stretching the seams of snug school knickers prompted him to produce one of his witticisms, which was directed at the upturned bottom of one of the girls waiting unhappily for her third dose of the cane’s medicine that week.
‘D’you know girls — when I was asked by someone the other day to describe Lucy, the only thing I could remember was that she had large, pink cheeks. At the time I thought it odd — but now I see where I got that mental image from.’ Mr Evans beamed cheerfully at the rest of the class, who tittered obediently while Lucy’s bottom nipped its plump buttocks together in embarrassment. The cane tapped these round, feminine cheeks by way of emphasis and poor Lucy gasped. The tension too much for her.
Mr Evans chuckled, and enquired, ‘What’s the matter Lucy — getting cold feet, eh?’
Lucy’s nervously squeaky voice complained ruefully, ‘It’s not my feet I’m worried about sir,’ and this readily understandable comment, brought a shrill squeal of semi-suppressed laughter from the back of the classroom. Mr Evan’s eyes sought round for this unwise individual and found her hiding her mirth behind her hands.
‘Come here child!’
The girl’s amusement died at once. Suddenly pale-faced she got uncertainly to her feet and came down the aisle between the desks.
‘If you think it’s funny getting your backside tanned, then perhaps you’d like to join these four over a desk, eh?’
The girl stuttered ‘s-s-sorry sir,’ but she knew it was pointless. A gesture from Mr Evans sent a girl scurrying from the last desk in the front row, and no more than an eloquent wave of the cane was needed to persuade the giggler up on to the chair and across the desk, her navy blue pants appearing without another word from Mr Evans. Silence fell on the class, and the irritable swish of the cane through the dusty air set the bottoms twitching in anticipation again, though now there were five. No one was meant to laugh at anyone’s jokes, unless they were Mr Evans’.
The teacher paced along the row again, and then back, and the realisation that there was now another bottom for his cane seemed to dissipate his irritability. He smacked the short, thick implement playfully across Lucy’s upthrust bottom and the smile returned to his face as Lucy squirmed her round young bum and bleated miserably.
‘Right — now then, what d’you think these wretches deserve, eh? Half a dozen each — what about that?’
Several girls mumbled agreement while the rest nodded with varying degrees of enthusiasm. It was all play-acting of course, intended to amuse Mr Evans and humiliate the girls bent over the desks.
‘Right — six each!’
One of the girls whose tight-stretched pants were about to become the target for this generally agreed half dozen stingers moaned in protest. Her defenceless bum being within range of the cane, this was rashness indeed. A swish, a thwack!, and suddenly her knickers were wriggling agitatedly and her pained gasps sounded loudly in the quiet.
‘Silence in the ranks’ boomed the ebullient Mr Evans. ‘I want to hear nothing but ‘Ouch’ and ‘Ow’ and the odd ‘Sorry Sir’ now and then!’ and with an extravagant flourish of his arm he brought the cane swooshing down across Lucy’s drum-taut knickers.
Lucy squealed and wriggled her bottom, and the cane landed squarely across both cheeks again before the first wriggle had entirely subsided.
Smack!
Whack!
Thwack!!
Shwitt!
Sobs gurgling from between her hands, which she had clutched to her mouth, Lucy was left to squirm in her undignified bottom-up posture while the cane visited the next navy blue seat with similar results. The second girl left crying helplessly, bottom number three began its frantic dance while the two girls yet to feel the cane’s hot finger caressing their own young bottoms stole anguished glances at the plight of their punished and blubbering friends.
Leaving the third girl collapsed in an untidy heap over her desk, her bottom trembling as she wept, the fourth pair of pants were whacked solidly while the whole class watched this all-too-familiar spectacle with a mixture of dread, thankfulness and the odd twinge of excitement as several of the girls gloated secretly at the pained wrigglings of their class-mates.
In the most unenviable position of all, being the only one still with her caning to come, Sally stood and watched abstractedly as the streams of sunlight crossing the classroom became filled with dancing, swirling specks of dust which the cane had whacked from the tight knickers of the girls arranged along the front row. As the fifth girl jerked tearfully across her desk, Sally’s eyes brimmed suddenly and she covered her face with her hands and wept miserably, the scalding tears pattering onto the desk in front of her.
With the five girls well caned, and with Sally’s punishment to look forward to, Evans left the weeping sixth-formers to rearrange themselves and their clothing while he tossed the rest of the girls their prep books and smiled cheerfully at Sally’s childish crying. A glance at the clock told him it was time for the end of afternoon school. A few minutes early, he dismissed the class, who scrambled for the door and disappeared down the corridor with a clatter of hurrying feet. Left standing alone at her desk Sally struggled to stop her crying while Mr Evans pretended to ignore her for several minutes. To Sally the waiting seemed unbearable. She sniffed dismally and squeezed her hands together behind her back. Mr Evans’ voice, so quiet and yet so sudden, made her jump visibly.
‘Come here child.’  said the teacher, not bothering to look up at the girl.
‘M-me sir?’ said Sally foolishly.
‘Well who else is there, idiot?’ said Mr Evans testily.
‘Oh —’ Sally walked down the aisle, her shoes sounding very loud on the varnished boards.
She reached the teacher’s desk, upon which the cane still lay threateningly.
Mr Evans looked up, peering out from below his eyebrows.
‘Want the cane Sally?’ he half-whispered.
Sally had a job making the words come out of her throat ‘N-no  sir — not really sir — ‘
‘No, of course you don’t. Tell you what — you and I will work through your prep — that you didn’t do — on the blackboard. Now then, if you make a good job of it, and if you’re a very good little girl — I’ll let you off the cane. Alright?’
Sally grabbed at the chance. If there was one thing she loathed it was getting the cane. Mr Evans’ hand wandered rather unexpectedly up the back of her leg. She pulled away, not at all sure what was happening, but Mr Evans whispered again, ‘You don’t want the cane — do you Sally?’ Sally didn’t, not the least bit.
Mr Evan’s hand slid higher, stroking across the seat of her pants, dallying in the crease between her cheeks, tickling gently at the insides of her thighs. Little by little the elastic of Sally’s school knickers dragged heavily down around her waist, then the slither of her pants as they slid slowly down off her hips made funny little feelings float around inside her. Her knickers descended to her knees, then they were allowed to fall to her ankles.
‘You don’t need them,’ said Mr Evans. He smacked her bare bottom lightly up under her skirt, then he produced two sprung paper clips and tucked up the back of her school skirt so that her firm and cheeky young bottom felt suddenly cool as the air struck it. With stingy little smacks Sally was shepherded over to the blackboard. With a piece of chalk in her hand she was taken step by step through the work which she had left undone, her bare bum coming in for smarting  smacks whenever she did something wrong. These sharper spanks  had her hopping up onto her toes every few moments, and then, between spanks, the warm, insinuating touch began to risk little expeditions between the soft secrecy of her thighs, touching a smoothness of sensitive skin here, a damp, tremulous bud there, so that in a while the chalk marks on the blackboard were made less and less frequently, and Sally’s quiet little gasps as the smacks tormented her young bum-cheeks changed subtly to quiet little moans. Her spanked bottom burning hotly now, nevertheless the feeling seemed somehow less painful than pleasurable, so that she almost regretted it when the spanking ceased altogether.
Mr Evan’s warm breath breezed against her ear and her own breathing became laboured and erratic. Slowly, almost without confessing her overwhelming excitement, Sally shivered for a few moments on the very brink of embarrassing herself utterly with a squeal of sheer delight and then found herself weak-kneed and leaning heavily on Mr Evans’ arm as the relief of her coming left her stranded on a peak of ecstasy.
A few minutes later Sally found herself outside the classroom. She walked in the general direction of the sixth-form common room, passing several of her class-mates in the corridor. It was only when their giggles had followed her the whole length of the corridor that she realised she still had her navy-blue knickers clutched in her hand. Overcome with embarrassment she scuttled to the loo and scrambled into her pants. Pulling them up it crossed her mind that tonight, in the dorm, she was going to have a hard time trying to explain to the other girls why it was that her bottom, though temporarily pinkened now, had not a trace of the caning everyone would have expected her to get. It never occurred to her that she might try telling the truth. She just knew they would never believe her. 

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