From Blushes 23
The letter from Rosalind’s guardian lies on the Principal’s desk; so, for that matter, does Rosalind. Her tummy presses down against the desk’s top, and it is kept there by firm pressure in the small of her back from the Principal’s hand. Her knickers have been pulled down off her schoolgirl-plump buttocks and the instruction to press her knees against the front of the desk means that those moist little lips, high up between her thighs, peep immodestly from just above the inside-out gusset of her taken-down knickers.
‘Up, Rosalind —’ The girl strains to hollow her back and thus elevate and round-out her bottom. The Principal’s cane plays with the firm outswell of her buttocks; it taps and bounces, pats and then flicks, a demi-stroke, enough to sting and to make the girl gasp but not painful enough — not yet — to make her squirmy and struggly — not yet, not yet.
‘Knees hard against the desk, now, Rosalind —’
‘Yes sir —’ The strained sound of her voice comes from the pent up breath in her chest, and that pent up breath from the tension of waiting, waiting.
The Principal flicks her out-thrust buttocks again. They flinch nervously. A pale pink weal blossoms rapidly around the under-curve of each cheek.
‘Sir — ooo, please, sir —’ Please do it, sir? Please don’t do it sir? It’s the waiting again.
‘Hmm?’ The Principal seems to find the arrangement of her knickers, especially where they circle round the insides of the tops of her thighs, not exactly to his liking. He eases the leg elastic on one side, delves with deliberate thoughtlessness into the soft-warm space between her legs, plucking at the untidy knickers, touching — perhaps inadvertently — those soft labial folds with the knuckle of his thumb, nudging, teasing, until she lets her legs drift an inch or so apart, not sure, but thinking that is what he wants her to do.
The cane cracks down hard across Rosalind’s soft, bare buttocks. She squeals with the shock of it, then squeals again as the sting bites into her bum. She gasps, clutches the desk with scrabbling fingers; her hips squirm against the desk. A second stroke smacks across her bottom; she exhales with a sob and her breath catches the letter from her guardian and it flutters to the floor. She blubbers desperately, tears starting already, splashing onto the desk and onto the letter too as it lies on the floor.
Why not! I know she’s your secretary now, and no longer a pupil, but I’m quite sure she needs to be disciplined no less than ever she did. She is, as you observe, now nineteen, and is no longer legally my ward, but I am sure that she will continue to take note of my wishes until she comes into her legacy at the age of twenty-one; after all there is nowhere else, other than my home, that she can call home. Perhaps you should show her this letter, and explain that my wishes are that she should continue to be treated, in the matter of discipline, as she always was when you were her headmaster instead of, as now, her employer.
Yours most sincerely, Freddie