Search This Blog

Thursday, 26 January 2017

The Rosalind Bottomley File

A St Angela’s story from Roué 11
One Spring afternoon at St Angela’s, Mr Payne, the headmaster, looked out of his study window to watch Rosalind Bottomley of 8B weeding in the flower beds in the quadrangle. Clad only in blouse and school knickers, as she was working almost immediately outside his study window and as she bent down to tug at a particularly recalcitrant weed, the deep cleft between her plump, almost womanly buttocks was sharply defined against the coarse blue material. For a moment he gazed in unabashed admiration at the splendid spectacle the coltish, suntanned legs, the sturdy thighs and, above all, the intoxicatingly erotic swell of her bottom as it swayed seductively whenever she bent down. Then he exploded!
‘Why in God’s name is Rosalind Bottomley weeding in her knickers?’
Rosalind had been ordered to weed the garden as a punishment for absconding for several hours from St Angela’s. Stiffer measures, naturally, were to follow. Everyone, including Rosalind, knew that. This hors d’oeuvres was but her pillorying, her exposure to public shame.
But the regulation nether garments prescribed for girls on gardening duties had always been  —   and always would be — gym shorts, green for the lower school and white for the upper. So why in hell, Mr Payne fumed, was she doing it in her knickers? Since he baulked at the indignity of questioning the girl herself, he wandered off in search of the one person who could provide a satisfactory answer. Matron.
At this stage it may be well for us to take a closer look at one of St Angela’s more remarkable pupils......... Rosalind Bottomley was a well-developed blonde, eighteen years of age, standing five feet five in her white knee socks. To all intents and purposes she was a diligent, conscientious pupil, slightly reserved and never insolent or cheeky. Yet in spite of that she seemed to exude a slow-burning, languid sensuality that made her a dozen times more provocative than the coarsest hoyden. With her blonde curls and enormous blue eyes she seemed all innocence and peaches and cream, but a glance at her school record card soon disproved that. At the age of sixteen she had run away from home and had ended up living with a thirty-eight-year-old second-hand car dealer from Clapham! He had literally picked her up from the streets and installed her as his mistress. From the first he had made no secret of the fact that he liked girls of school age to look and dress like schoolgirls, and very soon he had geared Rosalind up in pig-tails, gym-slip, navy-blue knickers and knee socks. Of course Rosalind must have found it mortifying, since it was precisely her childhood that she was trying to run away from! Still, apparently she made no attempts to leave him. He even took some polaroids of her which subsequently appeared in one of the better class spanking periodicals privately subscribed to by more than one of the staff at St Angela’s, Mr Payne included. As a keen and perceptive art-lover, the Headmaster had had no difficulty in spotting the identity of the St Trinian’s-clad teenager coolly, and even rather haughtily, displaying her navy-blue knickered rump to the privileged gaze of the readers of Spankers Monthly. Needless to say, the Head wisely took no action on the matter since that would have revealed that his reading habits were by no means confined to The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire!
Besides, the whole disgraceful incident had occurred some months before Rosalind had come under the pastoral care and guidance of St Angela’s. In addition, her lover had probably sent the photographs off to the magazine without her knowledge. She’d never questioned his authority and indeed there may well have been a large element of fear on her part towards him, since he would frequently take his belt to her and just before the police and social workers had tracked her down and had her put in care, he had given her a couple of very severe canings indeed with a bamboo garden rod. Thanks to a vicar in Clapham who had been to ecclesiastical college with one of St Angela’s Governors —  Rev. P Farrould —  Rosalind was deemed an ideal candidate for this highly-respected establishment for wayward girls. On her arrival, when Matron had stripped her for the bath, her eagle eye discerned the faint tracery of weal-marks across Rosalind’s bottom. The car-dealer had thrashed her two weeks previously!
So Rosalind Bottomley was no stranger to corporal punishment. Her father had walloped her with the flat of his hand and, when she got older, with a hairbrush —  indeed that had been one of the reasons she had given for running away from home, when questioned by social workers. She’d been spanked, caned and walloped by her dad, her lover, and now, no less enthusiastically, by the staff of St Angela’s.
‘Except that our motives are purely educational and entirely above suspicion!’ remarked the Head to himself rather smugly as, still savouring the vision of Rosalind’s 37-26-38 assets, he plodded on along the school corridors, still in search of Matron. We can, in fact, afford to leave him a little longer in limbo while we examine the reason for Rosalind’s absconding from St Angela’s.
It had happened six days before. Ever since she had arrived, Rosalind’s air of snooty arrogance had provoked nearly every member of staff — yet, infuriatingly enough, her behaviour and scholastic achievement were absolutely first-class. Consequently several highly imaginative members of staff — Mr Evans in particular — began dreaming up various stratagems with which to ensnare the fair, and sensual (they’d read her record card too!) Rosalind Bottomley. They all wanted to take her knickers down; some wanted to spank her, others had less admirable reasons. Mr Evans’ objectives with regard to Rosalind could best be described as ‘comprehensive’ — he wanted to spank and fuck her.
It was unfortunate — and extremely painful for Rosalind — that three members of staff were successful in ensnaring her, and taking down her knickers, all on the same day! At precisely ten thirty-seven a.m., Mr Moore, the Biology master, had tanned her across his knee in front of the whole gaping class, who had shouted such ribald encouragements as —  ‘Go on, Sir, give ‘er a good seeing to!’ If the truth were known, most of them disliked her for her standoffishness. Her only friends were Susan Kramer and Dawn Inchley — both shy, inconspicuous girls themselves.
Mr Moore claimed that Rosalind had been shading in the pubic hair on the school text-book diagrams of the human reproductive organs! This she had hotly denied — ‘hotly’ being the operative word, since Moore didn’t desist from tanning her bare backside until his hand ached. Said she’d had it coming for a long, long time. When he’d finished with her, her bottom cheeks resembled nothing more than two ripe tomatoes and she was bawling like a five-year-old! A good deal of her distress probably arose from the sheer humiliation of the public nature of the ordeal — a bare-bottom spanking in front of all her classmates, who giggled and guffawed at her predicament.
Later that morning, during a Geography test, Mr Evans pounced on the luckless Rosalind, accused her of cheating and told her to report to him during dinner break. When she arrived he repeated the charge and, without waiting for her to defend herself, announced his intention of caning her bare bottom. Naturally, in view of her earlier spanking, poor Rosalind wasn’t too keen on the idea and had the temerity to display a show of reluctance. Thus provoked, Mr Evans simply grabbed her by the arm and led her protesting along the corridor that flanked room 4D, out into the grounds through the door opposite 5D, and across to his rooms in the Staff Accommodation building which, at that time of the day, was obviously deserted.
She begged and pleaded with him as he pushed her into his room, locked the door behind him, and pocketed the key. Later he was to claim that lack of privacy in school had obliged him, reluctantly, to take her to his room so that the caning could proceed without fear of distraction or interruption.
But the only fear was that which shone in Rosalind’s blue eyes. She feared that she was about to be punished more severely than she’d ever been before. There was something about Mr Evans that reminded her of her Clapham car dealer. And events proved her right. Strictly speaking, we ought to draw a veil of modesty over what happened next. But no! We must not flinch from the truth. St Angela’s deserves no less! Through every vicissitude, every vile defamation, it shall endure!
Rosalind stood cowering and shivering in the far corner of the room while Evans opened a cupboard and, from the topmost shelf, produced a two-foot-six, crook-handled, regulation St Angela’s punishment cane. Again Rosalind protested that this was unfair, but Evans silenced her with a look that made her quail.
‘I’ve had just about enough of you this term!’ he thundered. ‘All this show of sweet innocence doesn’t fool me one jot! Now were you, or were you not, cheating in that exam?’
‘Sir, no sir! I swear I wasn’t sir!’ Rosalind mumbled miserably, and two large tears appeared as if to herald her approaching pain and humiliation. Evans ordered her out of her grey pleated skirt. She obeyed and stood before him, crestfallen, in blouse and knickers.
‘P-please sir, I’ve already been spanked once today, sir,’ she wailed. Ignoring her, Evans cleared his desk and instructed her to bend right over it so that her hands gripped the opposite edge. Her large, firm breasts squashed against the pine desk-top. The right side of her face, too, was pressed tightly against the desk surface, while her left eye widened in horror as Evans stepped behind her, inserted both hands in the waistband of her knickers, and brusquely pulled them down to mid-thigh, revealing a well-spanked bottom. Then, picking up the cane, he stepped slightly to the left of her and measured the cane across her bottom’s full amplitude so that a couple of inches of cane cleared the far side of her rump. He drew the cane up to shoulder level and, without taking his eye from the target delivered the first crisp stroke.
As it hit home, with a satisfyingly juicy THWACK! Rosalind winced visibly and tightened her cheeks in an instinctive response of fear.
‘Relax your bottom, Rosalind, else it’ll hurt you more!’ She did as she was told, and immediately Evans gave her a second stroke, spaced accurately within an inch of its neighbour. Rosalind made no sound, but her knuckles whitened and tightened on the desk edge. The third cut, slightly above the first, had Rosalind mewing like a scalded kitten — bottom cheeks gyrating frantically to and fro. The result was three parallel weals, rather like miniature tram-lines, with indentations in the middle and two tiny ridges either side. Rosalind possessed a plump, blemish-free bottom, with a smooth peachy texture. It cried out to be pampered, patted and petted; powdered, oiled and perfumed. Yet here it was being soundly and resolutely thrashed until the gentlest touch of a gloved hand or cushioned chair would cause it to wince in pain and discomfort.
How she wriggled and squirmed as Evans gave her three more that made the total up to six! She raised a tear-stained face from the desk-top and implored him to stop. She said she’d do anything!
Anything?’ Evans’ eyebrows arched quizzically. His pulses raced. As if in answer, Rosalind raised her crimson, striped bottom even higher over the desk, and opened her legs wide so that Evans could see how glisteningly wet and sticky she’d become. Evans longed to take her there and then, over the desk, but there was something about the cool insolence with which she’d offered herself to him, that roused a fury in him. He raised the cane once more and aimed a vicious stinger when she was least expecting it.
Whup... SMACK! She howled like a banshee and, reaching behind her, commenced to vigorously rub the afflicted parts.
‘That’ll teach her,’ he reflected with an air of satisfaction, noting the way the tip of the cane had, where it had encountered flesh, created considerable bruising, almost to the extent of breaking the skin.
‘Right, Rosalind, I hope that will teach you never ever to cheat in one of my tests again!’ By this stage she had given up protesting her innocence and, while massaging her tender rear, murmured submissively that she had indeed learnt her lesson. She had, however, one request to make, but found it embarrassing to utter. At last she managed to frame it into words. She wondered if Mr Evans would possibly mind rubbing some cold cream on her bottom to reduce the soreness? She produced a jar from somewhere about her person (it’s amazing what schoolgirls carry about with them!) and they moved across to Mr Evans’ bed. After she’d disengaged her knickers from around her ankles and kicked them aside, Evans took Rosalind across his lap as if to spank her, but instead began slapping the cream all over her swollen, purpling buttocks. He worked from the outer extremities towards her cleft. As his fingers neared her most sensitive, secret parts, Rosalind began to pant and moan, and began to work herself up and down on his lap. He could clearly see her anus, her glistening, distended vulva, and the delicate petal-like folds of her clitoris.
Poor Evans was only human... and as humans err, so did Evans! Minutes later the bedsprings were playing a merry tune that began as a foxtrot and ended up as a polka!
----//----
That afternoon during History, Rosalind Bottomley, again by her unfortunate air of dreamy aloofness, incurred the wrath of Mr Pink. He said she was laughing at him. She said she wasn’t, and that she’d been smiling at a joke Dawn Inchley had told her during break. The altercation between pupil and teacher went on for a bit longer until, exasperated, Mr Pink grabbed Rosalind by the ear, pulled her out of her seat, and forcibly propelled her towards his desk where, amid her very real cries of distress, he bent her over, whipped up her skirt and tugged down her knickers. Before he could wallop her, a collective gasp of shocked astonishment rose from 8B. So he paused, looked down, and saw, as did everyone else in the room, a crimson swollen bottom, criss-crossed with the unmistakeable red and purpling weals of a prolonged and severe caning!
Now Mr Pink certainly was not a sadist. He wouldn’t have dreamed of inflicting further punishment on the poor girl. But how was Rosalind to know? The threat was there — and she’d had enough! With a cry of panic she disengaged herself from Mr Pink’s grasp and fled the classroom, desperately tugging up her knickers as she went. And she ran clear away! Out of the grounds and into the surrounding countryside. Search parties of staff and hand-picked girls drew a complete blank.
Some hours later, as night was falling, the fugitive Rosalind was lucky enough to stumble upon an ally. A middle-aged spinster by the name of Marjorie Braithwaite — vegetarian, yoga-practising, and the local ‘do-gooder’ — discovered a tired, hungry Rosalind hiding in her coal shed. She recognised the uniform as belonging to St Angela’s, an institution against which she’d been waging one of her tireless campaigns. So she took Rosalind in for the night and interrogated her ceaselessly — amid draughts of turnip wine — in an attempt to gain further ammunition for her campaign. Fortunately Rosalind was too exhausted to say much, apart from the fact that Mr Evans had ‘caned me on the bare!’ But this was enough for the dauntless Miss Braithwaite; she was convinced that it was against the law for men teachers to cane girls! Accordingly, next morning she rang firstly the police, and then the local newspaper.
The appalling catastrophe of so much unwelcome publicity for St Angela’s (no educational establishment is entirely without blemish!) was narrowly and skilfully averted by one of the school governors, Col. J.C. Mayne, who fortunately happened to be on good golfing terms with both the local Superintendent of Police and the Editor of the Clarion. No action was taken — indeed what law had been broken? Miss Braithwaite’s strident accusations went unheeded, and Rosalind was quietly and discreetly returned to St Angela’s. But not before she’d developed a distinct aversion to vegetarianism, yoga, and turnip wine.
Needless to say, the governors had a very stiff warning to give to Mr Payne about allowing his staff to ‘take liberties with the girls’, and he could interpret that in any way he liked. Payne, in turn, had a few choice words to say to Evans who, not surprisingly, kept a low profile during the interview. He knew he was getting off lightly. Rosalind, bless her sexy little heart, had only mentioned the caning and that a certain amount of fondling had gone on between them.
But for Mr Payne the problem remained about what to do with Rosalind. They couldn’t allow her absconding to remain unpunished, for one thing, it would set such a bad example to the other girls. They might even take it into their dear little heads to all run away! He had been expressly forbidden, for the moment, by Col. Mayne, to cane her.
‘Perhaps later, Payne... in a week or so when things have all died down!’ The Colonel thought a while, then cleared his throat —
‘Tell you what, Payne old chap. We’ll all be present... myself and the rest of the Board... to act as witnesses... safeguard your professional reputation what ho? Dash it all, we walloped Rommel in the desert, and we’ll wallop that Bottomley gel in 2D!’
‘But what to do with her in the meantime?’ pondered Payne, so he summoned a special staff meeting, during which Mr Pink came up with the bright idea that she be suspended from normal lessons and set to weed the gardens, until such a time arose that she could be formally and judicially caned.
This, as the saying goes, is where we came in! And very well-timed, too, since Mr Payne, it seems, has finally run Matron to ground — and, appropriately enough, in the Laundry Room.
‘Matron, why on God’s name is Rosalind weeding in her knickers?’
It turned out that the combined forces of the strenuous nature of her labours, plus the ample dimensions of Rosalind’s backside had caused her one-and-only pair of shorts yesterday to completely split in two! While waiting their repair (Matron was sorry, but they were clean ‘out’ of Rosalind’s size in the stores) she had had to continue in her knickers.
‘Could nobody lend her a pair, Matron?’ the Head demanded in exasperation, but apparently that avenue had already been explored — without success. All available pairs were needed for House Sports. An air of profound frustration settled on Mr Payne’s magisterial visage. It went against his professional ethics to see a big girl like Rosalind fully on view in her navy-blue knickers... like one of those damned polaroids of her in ‘Spankers Monthly’! It was terribly distracting for his staff — himself included. Still, thank heavens there were no parents calling that day. One must be grateful for some mercies, however small.
Among these mercies accorded to the Headmaster that afternoon was the dictating of letters to his secretary, Miss Yvonne Fallows — herself an ex-pupil of the school. Really quite a credit to St Angela’s, Yvonne was also extremely pretty, and Payne often had trouble in keeping his mind on his work, and kept breaking off in the middle of sentences. Today was no exception. Maybe it was something to do with the fact that Yvonne was wearing a tight straight skirt, and black-seamed stockings — you could tell because the little bulges of the suspenders gave the game away.
It was all too much for Mr Payne who, still dictating, got up from his seat, strolled over to the window — only to be confronted once more by the swaying, seductive backside of Miss Bottomley! Everywhere he looked he seemed surrounded by nubile femininity, begging for the firm, masterful hand of a dominant father-figure! Rosalind’s bottom wriggled sexily as she pulled at the weeds. Her knickers were gradually working their way into the crack between her buttocks, until she half-turned, saw the eye of the Headmaster upon her, then, very deliberately, extricated the gusset of her tightly-clinging drawers from between her cleft, so that once more her maidenly modesty was protected. On the surface it seemed a thoroughly innocent act, yet somehow it was imbued with all the eroticism of a Salome!
With a supreme effort of will-power Payne turned away from the window and regarded his secretary. She had momentarily risen to plump the cushion on her seat and was presenting a maddeningly erotic spectacle. Her well-rounded rump, tightly encased in its grey woollen skirt... the sharply defined outline of her knickers... the taut ridges of her suspenders. Good God! Was there no refuge for him? He had to do something! Can you really blame him for what followed?
‘Yvonne, dear, we really must do something about your typing!’ Payne leafed scathingly through the fruits of her labours awaiting his signature. ‘You’re getting worse not better. You must adopt a more disciplined approach to your work. And if you cannot cultivate self-discipline then perhaps I’ll have to give you a little encouragement!’
Yvonne picked up the cue immediately, and pouted petulantly like any admonished schoolgirl —
‘You mean like you used to when I was still a pupil?’
She always did have that maddening habit of anticipating his moves and thus unconsciously undermining his authority. Nevertheless, this was a little game they’d played many, many times before — and she knew what to do. She really didn’t mind all that much getting spanked. After all, Payne paid her a good salary, and well-paid jobs like this were hard to find in the neighbouring villages. And then there was her boyfriend, who always seemed more than usually amorous when Yvonne displayed the marks of her employer’s solicitude for her welfare. He never minded that Payne spanked her. He seemed to treat it all as a huge joke, said she must have ‘deserved’ it. Men were such strange creatures, her mother used to say!
‘You’d better lock the door, Yvonne, there’s a dear.’ While she was doing so, Payne drew the curtains and the sight of Rosalind in her knickers was banished.
‘How do you want me, sir? Across your knee or over a chair?’ Payne reflected that for all her inefficiencies and lackadaisical attitude, Yvonne was nevertheless a charmingly compliant girl. He swivelled his desk chair so that it faced outwards, thus indicating that today was to be an over-the-knee session. His excitement rose as, with a little show of demure reluctance, Yvonne slowly began to unzip her skirt. Its clinging nature meant that she was forced to execute a sexy little rumba to pull it down. She stepped out of it and placed it on the desk. Likewise her black underslip. ‘A credit to St Angela’s!’ the Headmaster observed for the second time that afternoon, as he noted the neat little white blouse hanging down slightly below the elasticated waist-band of her white satin French knickers cut wide at the leg, but tightly hugging her hips and accentuating the full rich curves of her buttocks.
‘I’ll say one thing for St Angela’s, sir,’ Yvonne whispered almost conspiratorially. ‘It certainly teaches a girl some discipline!’ Then her tone changed to one of mock alarm —
‘You surely don’t want me to take my knickers down? I couldn’t bear it... it would be so humiliating!’
But her knickers were practically transparent anyway, so Mr Payne could see everything — her little black suspender belt... her pubic mound with its dark fleecy curls...
In answer to her question he replied —
‘That depends, Yvonne, on how you behave. It’s going to be a rather painful ten minutes, I’m afraid. Let’s see if St Angela’s has instilled any bravery into you!’
So saying he gently but firmly pulled his school secretary down across his lap until her face was practically at a level with the carpet, for she was a fairly tall girl, and her long legs dangled in a rather inelegant fashion on the other side of him. Tentatively he laid his hand across both cheeks of her broad young bottom, noting the deep womanly cleft that lay between it. When he tapped her rump it wobbled engagingly. Everything seemed just right.
Then he started to spank her. Gently at first, and in response she purred like a kitten. But gradually he increased both the tempo and the severity of the blows until she began to move restlessly upon him, as if trying to rub her pubic region against the hardening lump of his masculinity that she could clearly detect beneath her.
Soon the room was echoing to two distinctive sounds — the unmistakeably sonorous WALLOP! of a female backside being given all the attention it deserved, coupled with the moans and heavy breathing of a sexually excited woman moving her loins in rhythm to the onslaught of her ravisher. Halfway through the performance, Payne made her get up from his lap, pull her French knickers down to below her stocking-tops, turn her back to him to present a most satisfying spectacle of well-reddened female rump, then hobble over to the desk, returning with a large wooden-backed clothes brush with which the Head intended to complete her education for today. Yvonne went through the motions of protesting against the injustice of such radical measures, but somehow it all sounded rather half-hearted. Payne could smell the unmistakeable aroma of aroused womanhood and as she plonked herself down across him again and handed him the clothes brush he stretched down to feel the gusset of her knickers. Decidedly wet and sticky! Good heavens! Would he ever arrive at an understanding of the female psychology? Good job his pupils didn’t react in the same way!
Ah, but then, what about Rosalind Bottomley and Mr Evans? Best not to think about it. And he commenced belabouring the blushing, twitching buttocks of twenty-two year-old Miss Yvonne Fallows until he sensed that he could almost warm his hands on the heat he was engendering. She bucked and lurched like a rebellious filly — so much so that he was compelled to grip her firmly round the middle with his free arm. Near the end she even tried to shield her bottom with her hand, but he grabbed her wrist and continued with the punishment.
She really was making a hell of a lot of noise! He hoped to God that that girl outside the window couldn’t hear. The thought of Rosalind weeding in her knickers struck him at that precise moment as being ludicrously funny, until Yvonne’s furiously cavorting buttocks once more claimed his wholehearted attention.
‘Right now, Yvonne. I’m going to finish up with ten real stingers! Are you ready? (Muffled sobs greeted his announcement. Surely she couldn’t still be enjoying it?)
‘I want you to count them aloud. Any ones you don’t count I’ll have to do again!’
But the mere thought of this fresh torment proved so potently thrilling to Yvonne that she came, there and then — noisily and unashamedly, while the final thuddings of the clothes brush were relegated to the level of a mere accompaniment, The tearful, fulfilled girl clambered to her feet and her hands clutched her aching derriere as pleasure ebbed away, and pain took over.
‘Ooh sir! Look what you’ve done to me!’ she wailed accusingly, and brandished her beetroot-red bottom in his face; but Payne dismissed her with a final SMACK! that had her hopping in agony from foot to foot.
‘Yvonne, sometimes the full significance of our little punishment sessions escapes me... I can’t help thinking that they’re not really achieving their desired effect. Perhaps the cane would be more appropriate?’
‘Sod off! Ooh, sorry sir!’ Yvonne bit her lip, remembering who she was speaking to. ‘The only thing is, what on earth is my boyfriend going to say tonight when he sees the state of my bottom?’ But Yvonne knew full well in advance, the answer to her question, for the sight of her well-smacked rear would be enough to send public school-educated estate-agent Rodney Battersby (of Battersby, Battersby and Clueless) into a frenzy of lust that would last all night and cause her to hobble home next morning, sore in another place as well as her bum!
----//----
Rosalind Bottomley got her final comeuppance a few days later, on a Friday, when the Headmaster gave her eight strokes of the cane in room 2D. As arranged, the whole business was witnessed by the School Governors — for indeed they’d suffered probably more than anyone as a result of Rosalind’s escapades. It had taken a lot of diligent public relations work on their part to restore the good name of St Angela’s in the community. Not surprisingly, they wanted to see the culprit suffer.
The caning was set for eleven a.m. Four comfortable chairs had been placed in the middle of 2D, facing the punishment desk. Sherry and mince pies were to be served in the Head’s study afterwards. When the Governors were assembled and chatting pleasantly in their chairs, Payne went to collect Rosalind. Neither spoke on the way back to 2D. He noticed her ripe mouth, betraying the sensuality of which she was accused and for which she was about to be punished. Like all senior girls at St Angela’s, she wore the regulation grey pleated skirt which descended to just an inch above her knees. Above that was her crisply-laundered white blouse, with the St Angela’s tie neatly in place. She could never be accused of slovenliness — she always looked a cut above the rest. That was half the trouble!
As she entered 2D and saw the assembled audience she turned scarlet, bit her lower lip, and glanced apprehensively at Payne. Reluctantly she moved towards the desk, upon which lay a bundle of canes. A total hush descended on the little room as Payne read out the charges laid against her — chiefly that of being absent without leave, but also that of ‘offering sensual baits’ to the staff, and trying to corrupt the morals of excellent men. Then he told her to remove her skirt and pants — for she was to be humiliated to the full.
Sobbing dolefully, Rosalind unzipped her grey skirt and stepped out of it. The Governors noted the firm plumpness of her bottom, and more than one of the three male members secretly looked forward to the moment when she would take down the knickers which clung so tenaciously to her seat. When Payne selected, for the bundle, the cane of his choice and began swishing it up and down in the air to test its flexibility and resilience, Rosalind burst into fresh sobs —
‘Oh Mr Payne, sir, please don’t cane me in front of all these people! I never did half those horrid things you said I did, honest!’ and she grizzled unashamedly like a little child.
Nevertheless, she didn’t need forcing — or even telling — but tugged down her pants and took them right off, exposing white rounded bottom cheeks that twitched in apprehension of what was to follow. The Governors held their breath as, clad only in blouse, tie and knee-socks, Rosalind Bottomley walked slowly towards the punishment desk and cautiously leaned across it, until all that the Governors could see were her tanned, coltish legs and, below the tail of her blouse, her big, bare, white young bottom — the cheeks swelling in all their bashful beauty. The crack in between them seemed to broaden and widen lewdly, until the plump lips of her vulva could be discerned, framed by blonde pubic curls. Rosalind was allowed no modesty at all!
Payne laid the cane across the full width of her trembling bottom, drew it up to shoulder height, then sent it hissing down to meet its target.
WHUP! THWACK!!
The cane seemed to bite into the soft yielding female flesh...
‘Arrgh!’
Rosalind uttered a strangled half-sob, half-cry and, with both hands, commenced rubbing furiously at the crimson weal already beginning to blossom. To try to contain the pain she began to execute a sort of belly-dancer’s wiggle that caused the Rev. P. Farrould’s spectacles to steam up; Mr A. Grimsley felt an overwhelming desire to go home and bed his au pair girl; the sole lady member, Mrs Wilder exclaimed —
‘Really! How utterly indecorous! Has that girl no shame?’ but made a mental note to give a detailed account of the proceedings to Mr Wilder at bedtime that evening. He always asked her about the canings — strange how passionate he became... seemed to be the only thing that would rouse him these days...
The Chairman of the Governors, the formidable and very irascible Colonel Mayne, broke into his colleagues’ daydreams by demanding that Payne ‘get on with it’ and that Rosalind ‘stop cavorting about like a third-rate stripper!’ Payne slapped her hands away from her bottom and made her re-assume the punishment posture across the desk. The weal was beginning to turn purple. The muscles of her bottom tightened as Payne prepared the second stroke. He raised the cane, took careful aim, and this time attacked the broad, but sensitive, base of Rosalind’s saucy behind. She gasped as though she’d been scalded, drew in her squirming bottom and gave a loud yelp of pain.
Slowly but vigorously, Payne applied the next four cuts to the fleshy area lying between the two previous strokes. Rosalind was by now sobbing in hiccupping spasms fit to break her heart. She turned a tear-stained face towards her audience and silently pleaded and begged them to intercede. Her cool insouciance, her hint of arrogance, had disappeared completely. In its place, the Governors noted with great satisfaction, was the penitence and docility of a well-disciplined, red-bottomed schoolgirl.
Payne rounded off the session by administering two cuts to the tops of her thighs. It was those she found most painful of all, and she let out a piercing cry that echoed round the room. Her scarlet, wealed bottom recommenced its weaving dervish-dance.
It was all over. She picked up her skirt and knickers and, without even bothering to put them on, ran bawling from the room. Matron met her outside the door, swiftly swathed her in a dressing-gown, and took her upstairs to inspect the damage. As a result Rosalind was excused lessons for the rest of the day, but news of her bravery quickly spread throughout the school and, where once she was shunned and vilified; now she was lauded and feted. A veteran returned from the wars. Girls from both upper and lower school vied to sneak a privileged glimpse at her bruises.
‘Gosh, Rosalind! You are a brick!’ was the general consensus of opinion.
Even the Headmaster, later in the sanctity of his study, discussing with his secretary the caning of Rosalind Bottomley, had to admit grudgingly that, despite her ‘caterwauling’, she’d taken her medicine well.
And Yvonne noticed that excited gleam in her employer’s eye. ‘Headmaster?’ she cooed coyly — but not too coyly — ‘is there anything you’d like me to take down?’
Continued further in Rosy Rosie.

No comments:

Post a Comment