A St Angela’s story from Roué 13
It’s Thursday bedtime at St Angela’s. Dormitory 2 is occupied by the girls of 7A. There are one or two troublesome ones, particularly Angela Boyle and Sandra Holmes, but on the whole they’re a fairly quiet, demure bunch. Giggly and garrulous perhaps, but no more so than most sixteen-year-olds. By twenty-past nine they’re busy divesting themselves of their school uniforms and preparing for Lights Out at nine-thirty sharp. Slowcoaches are not tolerated at St Angela’s so the removal of garments takes precedence over girlish conversation for the moment.
The white-walled, low-ceilinged dormitory has twenty beds — which leaves one spare, since there are nineteen girls in 7A. Beside each bed, a small cupboard and plain wooden chair. Nineteen navy-blue-knickered bottoms spring into view as, almost simultaneously, nineteen gymslips are raised above heads, removed, and placed neatly over the chairs. Blouses are unbuttoned and taken off, vests raised, pants lowered. Nineteen bare bottoms of various shapes and sizes, some bearing the unmistakeable marks of punishment incurred during the day. Paragons of virtue they may be, but that does not mean that they don’t qualify for bare-bottom spankings over their teacher’s knee, or even occasional stiff doses of the cane. No girl escapes without getting a sore bottom at St Angela’s. There’s plenty of willing male hands to see to that!
Suddenly an altercation develops between Angela and Sandra. It revolves around a packet of chewing gum that Sandra insists belongs to her, despite Angela’s indignant protests to the contrary. They’re still arguing seven minutes later when Mr Evans strides briskly in to call ‘Lights Out’. The staff do dormitory duty on a weekly basis. Most find it irksome. They’d much rather be in the village pub down the road. But Mr Evans enjoys his work and takes it very seriously. The girls, to their cost, have been made painfully aware of the fact, and are always extra punctilious when he’s prowling about on duty. Yet he always seems to be able to unearth some fault, some crime, some heinous sin that incurs for the luckless offender a soundly smacked bottom — at the very least. Indeed, 7A have been on tenterhooks all week. They dread Evans’s nightly arrival, knowing full well that he is only waiting for the slightest infringement in order to pounce.
And pounce he does! 7A are all, by now, neatly tucked up in their beds. All except Angela and Sandra. Sandra still has her pants on, Angela her vest. The argument is still raging:
‘No, Sandra, you beast — I tell you it’s mine! I remember buying it from the tuck-shop on Tuesday!’
They’re completely unaware of Evans’s presence, as he marches swiftly down the central aisle between the two rows of beds, grabs the two miscreants by the ear, and pulls them over to a vacant chair. The two horror-struck girls are far too shaken and terrified by his unseen arrival to offer any excuses whatsoever. Evans is, anyway, notoriously deaf to pleas of mitigation and clemency.
‘I’ll teach the pair of you to flout Dorm Drill! Insolent baggages! You’ll be sleeping face downwards tonight, that’s for sure!’
Wails of alarm greet this announcement. The rest of the class, safe and sound in their beds, thank their lucky stars it’s not them, and surreptitiously ease themselves into good vantage positions. They all want to watch. Very few girls in the school actually enjoy being spanked, yet the subject holds a kind of morbid fascination for them and is universally popular as a spectator sport.
‘Ooh please don’t spank me, sir!’ Sandra pleads, fluttering her eyelashes and pouting prettily. ‘I’ve already had six of the best today from Mr Walker for getting my Maths homework all wrong. He really hurt me terribly, sir! Look, sir!’
And to prove her point Sandra slips her pants down at the back to reveal six neatly parallel red weals decorating her pert little bottom. Delighted titters from her classmates greet this disclosure. Evans inspects Walker’s handiwork critically:
‘Hum... quite severe! Definite tramlines! Good to see young Walker standing for no nonsense!’ he muses with satisfaction. He runs his large, heavy hand up and down the quaking contours of poor Sandra’s bum. He pinches each cheek in turn and traces the horizontal weal-marks with his fingers.
‘Does it still hurt, Sandra? Is it still painful?’ She nods and bites her lip, fighting back the twinges of discomfort, the shame of such a public ordeal and the fear of what is to follow. Evans’s questing hand discovers a particularly tender part, low down on Sandra’s right cheek, and she winces and starts to cry as he pulls her knickers further down her thighs. Angela watches aghast, her hand raised to her mouth. She knows her turn is going to come — the having to actually wait for it is an additional torment — like at the dentist’s. If she had the chance, she’d feel more than tempted at this moment to change places with Sandra, and receive her medicine now. Looking at her wailing, protesting classmate already in the process of being upended over Evans’s lap, Angela intuitively surmises that Sandra would raise no objection to the swap!
Besides, it was hardly fair! Sandra’s modesty had, at least initially, been preserved by her knickers, whereas poor Angela is denied even that luxury. All she has on is her skimpy cotton vest and white knee-socks. The little vest finishes well above where her swelling bottom cheeks commence, and so the target area is, as it were, already well demarcated! She feels utterly indecent and her buttocks twitch nervously. Evans appears to be fully occupied with Sandra. He’s taking his time positioning her correctly across his lap. He always seems to attach great importance to the preliminaries.
Taking full advantage of the situation, Angela feverishly whips off the vest and dons her dainty blue baby-doll nightie. It’s made of the flimsiest nylon and is almost completely transparent. The top barely covers her bottom, and the panties are equally abbreviated, with pretty scalloped edges. She is more developed than her partner in crime, and she knows it. The little pants tightly hug her bottom-crack and a lot of bare cheek protrudes either side. Still, she feels a little less exposed and vulnerable now, even though she knows she won’t be allowed to keep her pants on.
Meanwhile, poor little Sandra’s bottom is receiving Mr Evans’s full attention. She howls, wails and shrieks as Evans spanks her slowly, almost impersonally. For him it’s all part of the nightly dorm duty routine. Hardly a night goes by without him having to spank one of the girls in one of the dormitories. Some nights it reaches epidemic proportions, and the entire occupants of a dorm end up getting their bottoms roasted. In fact tonight is turning out to be fairly uneventful. Still, there’s always the consolation that there are four more dormitories to inspect! And he returns to the matter in hand — or rather to the girlish bottom that’s under his hand.
The fact that she’s already been caned that day makes it all the more painful and humiliating for Sandra. Her legs scissor and her fists frantically pummel the floor in response to the rain of smacks descending upon her rapidly-reddening sit-upon. Though small and petite, it nevertheless pouts and protrudes jauntily and appealingly above slender, coltish, tanned legs. Evans’s schoolmasterly hand is already sore and stinging from the persistent impact it is making with Sandra’s naughty bottom. Vainly she attempts to squeeze her cheeks together, but that only seems to make matters worse. Her bottom resembles two lush tomatoes, ripening more every minute as the spanking hots up in intensity. She wails, shrieks and sobs as smack after stinging smack descends. Then Evans finishes her off with six of his notorious humdingers that echo sonorously around the low-vaulted room. The seventeen occupants of the beds are by now sitting bolt upright, glued to the spectacle taking place in the centre of the room. Angela sits nervously on the edge of her bed, biting her lip and stroking her bottom apprehensively as her own moment of reckoning approaches. When Evans finally lets the scarlet-bottomed Sandra off his lap she rushes, sobbing, to her bed, kicks her pants off into the corner, grabs her nightie and bundles into bed — uttering a painful ‘Ouch!’ as her well-spanked, well-caned bottom makes contact with the hard, unyielding bed. Grimly she rolls over onto her tummy, wishing to blot out all the pain, shame and disgrace she’s had to endure.
Now it’s Angela’s turn, and she’s weeping even before it starts, because her classmate’s ordeal is so freshly and graphically imprinted on her memory. Humbly she begs Mr Evans’s forgiveness, but such feminine guile and manipulative deviousness cuts no ice with him. Not for nothing have the girls unanimously dubbed him ‘Spanker of the School’! He’s spanked more girls than they’ve collectively had hot dinners. No way is Angela going to wriggle out of it, although her penitent, pleading postures do seem to cause her well-endowed bottom to shimmy more sexily than ever.
Stony-faced, Evans harangues her mercilessly as she stands between his legs. He makes her raise the front of her nightie, while he slowly lowers her dainty little blue panties to mid-thigh. He knows he’s going to enjoy this. There is something almost poignantly delightful about spanking a girl in a baby-doll nightie — she looks so defenceless and vulnerable. Angela is all fresh and glowing pink from the bath. Evans can smell the fragrance of teenage-girl’s talcum. She’s very particular about cleanliness, and always religiously talcs her female, intimate parts.
So it’s knickers down and a soundly-smacked bottom for Angela Boyle as she lowers herself timorously across his broad, tweedy lap. The strong, masculine aroma of his pipe hangs about his clothes. She’s not as tall as Sandra, and her hands fail to reach the floor, though her legs do make contact and thus provide her with some sort of anchorage. She knows it’s going to hurt. She’s never been spanked before at St Angela’s — only caned, though never by Mr Evans. But then her stepfather spanks her regularly, sometimes for no apparent reason. She’s often wondered why. And why he always insists on her taking her pants down. Sometimes it even happens in the living room, in front of all his friends. It’s not much fun for a teenage girl to have her bare bottom spanked to boiling point amidst a roomful of leering, jostling middle-aged men. And her mother never sticks up for in the slightest. She only sniffs and utters some sanctimonious platitude like: ‘I’m sure your father knows what’s best for you!’
And then, why do they always head for the bedroom after she’s been spanked? Poor Angela feels she’s getting a little old for these painful indignities! Indeed, the older she gets, the harder and more frequently she seems to get it. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way round? No — St Angela’s is paradise compared to home!
But now her plump, nubile bottom is about to be warmed by the ‘Spanker of the School’! She knows she’s for it. Her one desperate resolve is to clench her legs together as tightly as possible to prevent Evans seeing more than he ought! Her last-minute reflections are rudely interrupted as she suddenly realises that the spanking has begun! Schoolgirlish wails greet her mentor’s posterial assault. The meaty smacks that follow decisively prove that Angela is indeed the possessor of a well-fleshed pair of buttocks. They wobble engagingly, like blancmange. Her vocal utterances grow in urgency and intensity. Her flimsy little blue panties continue in their anklewards descent, until in exasperation she kicks them off, resenting the hobbling effect they are having on her leg movements. Thus liberated, she commences to fling her legs unashamedly in all directions — breaking her avowed resolution to keep them tightly together.
She grizzles and blubbers in total submission as her frantically writhing bottom begins to take on the same scarlet hue as Sandra’s. Her pain and contrition impel her to urge Mr Evans for forgiveness. She’ll do anything if only he’ll stop. She even offers to take a bare-bottom caning the next day if only he’ll relent in his present fury! But the implacable Evans just carries on spanking that deliciously plump bottom of hers, like an enthusiastic chef tenderising steaks for a gourmet’s delight!
In a desperate attempt to escape her punishment, Angela tries to wriggle forward off his lap until her legs leave the ground and her hands make contact with the floor. Now her legs are kicking and scissoring more energetically than an Olympic swimmer’s, and Evans is treated to frequent glimpses of all her innermost, inner-moist, secrets. Her pubic hair, fragrant and dusted with talc, the delicate folds of her clit, and below it, her pretty little vulva growing wetter and stickier by the minute. Further up, deep between her cleft, her other opening. And the poor, upended girl blushes deeply for shame in the knowledge that her frantic wrigglings have caused her to display even that, too. She’ll never be able to look Mr Evans in the face again!
But Evans is an old hand, and has seen it all. Before they’re spanked, girls are always full of the best intentions. Full of firm resolves not to display their all. Cheeks tightly clenched, they come across his knee all innocence and prudery. But by the time their twitching bottoms have acquired the requisite scarlet hue, all former resolutions of modesty and decorum have gone by the board, and there they are — brazenly and shamelessly exposing themselves to his stern, appraising eye. Angela is no exception to this rule. As she kicks her legs outwards and upwards, Evans judiciously centres his smacks so that they fall in the downy cleft that divides her cheeks. When Angela feels his fingers brush against her anus she cringes in utter degradation. Yet when his fingers skate across her vulva, she lubricates generously, and his fingertips retain traces of her stickiness.
Now that she’s slumped forward and her bottom is dramatically arched he can concentrate on her more vulnerable areas — areas like the tops of her thighs. That always seems to produce the most spectacular results. In Angela’s case it sends her into fresh floods of tears and pleas for mercy. She feels it’s unfair — he seems to have been spanking her for hours. Much longer than he did Sandra. And it’s all Sandra’s fault, too. It wasn’t her chewing gum!
Evans concludes the spanking with six real bottom scorchers, to ensure that Angela will not be sitting comfortably tomorrow. Or the next day! A spontaneous outburst of applause from the surrounding beds greets this finale. Evans mentally detaches himself from the wretched, snivelling girl draped across his knee, and looks up in shocked amazement, to see an excited audience aroused to fever pitch. Girlish pantings: heaving breasts; twitching, writhing bodies..........!
‘Damn it! The little devils are actually enjoying it!’
He pats Angela’s crimson bottom lightly, not affectionately but impatiently — urging her up from his lap. She doesn’t need much urging. She leaps to her feet and commences to busily rub her sore, afflicted bottom. Evans dries her eyes with his handkerchief and tells her to put her pants back on. Then he tells her to pop down to 2D and fetch the longest, swishiest cane she can find. While she’s gone he addresses the owners of the seventeen bottoms, already shivering in justifiable dread:
‘Right, girls. Eight strokes apiece! Bend over your beds, pillows under tummies!’
Jane Carter, the swot of 7A, does some rapid mental arithmetic, gasps, and whispers to her neighbour, Kerry Walters:
‘Crikey! That’s a hundred and thirty-six strokes! He’ll be here all night!’