A St Angela’s story from Roué 13
‘SIR!’ During the whole of my years at St Angela’s I never managed to hear the way Mr Archer said ‘SIR’ without jumping an inch or two. It sounded like a cross between a grunting cough, and a bark, and no doubt stemmed from the days when he was in the Army... a crack Guards Regiment, as a colour sergeant so rumour had it.
After an early retirement he had joined St Angela’s as a caretaker some ten years ago, and as far as anyone could tell was apparently one of the fixtures. Frankly he scared the living daylights out of the girls, or most of them, and I was no exception.
And... wait for it!... his steely gaze was concentrated at this moment on me! Those half-shut eyes under the beetling bushy eyebrows were flicking up and down the slightly trembling figure of a lissom young schoolgirl in full St Angela’s uniform.
White blouse... slightly-displaced school tie... pleated skirt... long black nylons with seams a bit skew-whiff... not-too-flat strapped black shoes... all set off to perfection, if that’s what takes your fancy, by the school blazer.
None of this was new to Mr Archer despite the assiduous way he was looking at me, for in truth it wasn’t the clothes I was wearing that he was concentrating his eyes on.
Even though he’d seen me before, in the sense I’m thinking of, about two years ago, you could see his limited I.Q. trying hard to remember what was under the uniform... particularly under that pleated skirt.
In any other situation, and with someone else, I would certainly have revelled in such male interest, after all male company wasn’t that frequent around St A’s. But this was different, oh yes very different, our ex N.C.O caretaker was working out exactly what sort of maiden’s hips his slipper would be applied to in the gym.
Mr Payne hardly bothered to look up from the punishment book as he wrote my name and what he had in store for me later. He snapped it shut and said quietly.
‘Archer, take this young lady down to the gymnasium and deal with her.’
‘SIR!’ replied Mr Archer, he might just have been an automaton for all the response Mr Payne’s request had upon his face.
He turned on his heels and almost gave a click as he strode past me towards the study door.
‘Follow me Miss... if you please...’
The end of the sentence was a bit of window dressing... Archer used to call it ‘bull’... I followed Mr Archer.
As we reached the door Mr Payne’s voice came over almost as an afterthought.
‘Mmm... MMM... mmm... one moment Archer... shorts and slipper... eh... eh?’
‘SIR!’ Mr Archer hesitated... ‘Thank you Sir... bare to finish SIR?’
It was I presumed a purely rhetorical question, unless Mr Payne intended to visit the gym, what Archer did was entirely his own work, concern.
‘Your discretion Archer... just make absolutely sure it stings man!’ Mr Payne seemed almost annoyed at the interruption to his peace.
‘You can trust me Headmaster. Come along Miss don’t dawdle... left ... right... left...’
The study door closed behind us and in a slight daze I found myself marching briskly along the corridor towards the gym, slightly ahead of Mr Archer, guided by his hand on my left elbow. For a few yards we proceed in silence.
He cleared his throat of thick phlegm as he always does before making some stupendous, potentially world-shaking pronouncement. I decide it would be in my best long term interest to pay diligent attention to his words.
‘In trouble again Miss?’
I nod... ‘Yes Mr Archer I’m afraid I am.’
‘Scrumping apples Mr Dobbs tells me Miss.’
I nod resignedly.
‘Didn’t old Dobbin give you a chance to ‘beg off’... not like him to report a pretty girl without giving her a chance...?’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t take up his offer Mr Archer.’ I replied.
‘Price too high eh... so he shopped you... pity... still that’s up to you Miss... too late now.’
I nod... perhaps ten minutes in the gardeners shed would have been less painful, even if it had been more shaming.
We continue in dead silence into the deserted gym and Mr Archer steers me into the usual place, his hidey-hole-cum-store-room.
A ghost of a smile creases his face for a split second and I realise he is about to make one of his rare attempts at a joke... I’m all ears ready to respond...
‘Hope the apples are going to be worth it Miss?’
I strain my face into a grin, and reply.
‘My name’s Eve, Mr Archer.’
He looks decidedly puzzled at my quip.
‘I thought you were Wendy Thomas, Miss.’
‘Sorry Mr Archer... I am Wendy Thomas... it was a joke...’
‘Cut along to the changing room and pick up your vest, shorts, gym shoes, and socks, if you please Miss, and look sharp young lady I’ve got things to do after I’ve seen to you.’
I feel like a condemned criminal, but within thirty seconds I’m back in the store room with the required gear under his watchful eyes. He looks at me for a full minute, and you can almost see the cogs going round as he tries to memorise the last occasion he had me at his disposal. It proves to be too much for him, and....
My blazer comes off first and I hang it tidily on one of the hooks he has on one wall. I try to work out whether he’d prefer blouse or skirt next, and settle for the school tie whilst I’m thinking. From the approving sideways glance he gives me as I pretend to struggle with the knot in the tie I decide to try topless.
Tentatively I undo the little buttons on the cuffs of my blouse, and he seems to like the way I am proceeding, and as slowly as I dare I unbutton the crisp white blouse from top to bottom pushing out what chest development I have, no harm in trying to lighten my punishment if I can.
With both hands simultaneously, I pull the lower part of the blouse out from the nipped in waistband of my skirt, I am rather proud of my twenty-one inch waist! Lots of schoolgirls are rather podgy and cylindrical. Not me! Whilst I may not be a raving beauty at least I have a nice figure, nicely rounded, bit too sexy for my own good here at St A’s — worse luck!
Blouse off... it follows my blazer onto the next hook... now what? Bra or skirt? I opt to go topless and as I loosen the clip on my bra and let my pretty pink-tipped tit-bits enter his field of view I realise my choice was the correct one.
Mr Archer cleared his throat, and pronounced judgement.
‘Growing up Miss Thomas I see... Hhhrrruuumphh!’
I hung my bra up and slid my skirt round my waist so as to bring the little back zip round to the side. I slide it down and undo the button at the top of the opening, my hips are just a little too full to allow my skirt to drop to my feet and I had to wriggle it down over the full pears of my buttocks. Mr Archer made no objections to my gyrations. At last that pool of pleats made a circle round my ankles and I stepped out of the protection of the material.
I had to turn round to hang the skirt up on the hook, and I sensed Mr Archer coming up behind me.
‘Keep your arms up Miss.’ he ordered, and doing as I was told left me fairly vulnerable to what happened next.
Two large hard rough-calloused palms slipped round my waist to encircle it, and his hands were so big that with his fingers in front on my soft belly and his spatulate-shaped thumbs behind my waist on my back he could very nearly encompass my waist completely.
His hands didn’t however stay long round my waist, the rough palms ascended up over the slight swell of my tummy above my navel and his large palms cupped my little girl’s breasts. I had to put up with his squeezing and fondling for quite a time, trying not to wriggle too much, but he made me put my feet back and my legs apart about a few inches, then it was —
‘Push your hips back Miss... right back now... try not to wriggle Miss... keep that bottom well back now... legs a bit wider eh... yes that’s good...’
He stood closely behind me so that I could feel the hardness of his body against my hips, and I continued to wriggle as he took over the job of completing my stripping. He peeled my panties down to my knees to bare my bottom and then unclipped my suspenders. My suspender belt was undone in its turn and hung on another hook above my head. My naked bum-cheeks came in for a minute or two’s fondling before he stood away from me, and then I was told to take the rest of my clothes off.
When I was completely naked Mr Archer made me stand legs apart, hands on hips and slightly bent forwards whilst he inspected slowly and deliberately my nubile young schoolgirl figure.
I wriggled a bit as he followed up his eyes’ exploration with his hands again, but a sharp reminder to behave myself accompanied by a few stinging slaps across my buttocks soon brought me to my senses, and I co-operated fully as he assessed just how firm my bottom is for what he had in mind.
‘Get your shorts, vest, socks and pumps on Miss.’ he commanded.
I started to put my knickers back on, playing for time.
‘NO KNICKERS UNDER THOSE SHORTS!!’ he bellowed.
Hastily I slid my briefs off again and struggled into the tight hip-hugging thin scanty shorts. Mr Archer enjoyed watching me encase my plump little behind into the shorts knowing my bum-cheeks would be held all the firmer for his slipper.
At last I was attired to his satisfaction and he led me like a lamb to the slaughter over to the high gym-horse in the corner of the store room.
‘Now Wendy Thomas...’
‘Hands up on the horse... good girl... that’s right bend well forwards... hips all the way back now... legs apart... wider... wider... much WIDER!... feet further back... COME ALONG GIRL!... arch your back... ARCH IT!... stick it well up... BUM WELL UP!... ARCH!... BUM UP!... HIGHER... HIGHER!... BUM RIGHT UP!... that’s good... now relax those cheeks... let them go really floppy... let... them... FLOP... let me jiggle them... relax girl relax... try to make them wobble like jelly.’
At last he seemed satisfied, and for the next minute or two the regular ‘SPLATTS’ of the smooth slipper across the thin taut drum-like tension of my skimpy shorts interspersed with my pitiful sobbing echoed round the caretaker’s hidey-hole.
He slippered me quite mercilessly, hard and with deadly accuracy borne of long practice on innumerable girls’ bottoms over the years. He timed the strokes so that each one had its individual sting added to the overall red hot tingle in my bottom, he left no area unattended on the wiggling barely protected pert cheeks.
At last it was over, and I was left to stay there sobbing my heart out, not daring for one second to take my hands off the horse until he gave me the word, too distracted by my hot tingling buttocks to care much as he peeled my shorts down well below my hips and runs lascivious hands over the wiggling jouncy scarlet cheeks.
He made me bring my feet together and rise as high as I could up onto my toes, making me thrust my pink tingly bottom-cheeks back onto his hard horny calloused palms.
As I slowly surfaced and heard Mr Archers heavy breathing and grunting coughs from behind my still nervously twitching hips, at last what he was saying slid into my consciousness.
Slowly I straightened up from my bent over position on the horse and pulled up my shorts sufficiently high over my lower cheeks to hobble after him across to the pile of horse-hair vaulting and exercise mats piled in the far corner of the store room.
At his peremptory request I laid my thinly-clad semi-naked figure across his all too solid left thigh and waited for his instructions.
Another ‘HHHRRUUUMMPHH’ from Mr Archer heralds the next stage of my punishment.
‘Push those shorts down... further, right down, more than that, all the way down to your knees... legs wide apart now... really wide... stretch... wider... bend your knees up a bit... don’t let those thighs come together ... come along now... don’t lets have any fuss about your modesty... I’ve seen it all before don’t forget... all of you girls are much the same you know...’
When I was spread-eagled across his thighs with my firm bare white thighs in exactly the position he wanted, and my chubby little buttocks stuck high enough up for him to smack hard, he ran his rough right palm over the reddened tingling cheeks.
My sore bum writhed involuntarily in his hand.
‘Oooohhh... aaahhh... nnnngh... oh no... pl-please Mr Archer... oh Mr...’ I implored him to stop. ‘Please don’t r-rub m-my b-bo-bottom... it’s s-so-so-sore... don’t smack me Mr Archer — I’ll be ever so good, please don’t... aaahhh... ooowww... smack my bare bottom... please not after I’ve had the slipper... it’ll hurt — it’ll st-sting... it’ll sting horribly... I know it will Mr Archer... please sir please let me off... OOOOOHHHHH!’
The sharp crack of his hard hand across my tender bottom cut my pleading short and I began to squirm and cry again.
He smacked my wriggly jumping tender buttocks quite without mercy whilst I blubbered like the young schoolgirl I was, and with red-eyed whimpering tears running down my cheeks I was spanked into abject submission with the utter ruthlessness he was renowned for in the school. When at last it was all over, and I lay exhausted across his knees I could sense my scarlet bottom-cheeks jerking and quivering with the sore anguished sting he had inflicted on my innocently tender full pert schoolgirl’s buttocks.
Mr Archer let me lie there until my pitiful sobbing tears had died away to some semblance of respectability and then he made me stand half-naked in the corner of the room, shorts down round my ankles and my reddened sore behind on full parade whilst he entered my name and punishment in the little notebook he kept for future reference. Then a sharp slap across my still sore bum reawakened the flowing embers as he told me to... ‘get a cold shower Miss and then get your clothes back on...’
Mr Archer watched me showering in the alcove off the changing room — quite openly admiring the contrast of my scarlet buttocks against the white goose-pimples produced in the rest of my skin by the icy shower. As I dried myself on the rough towel he handed me, he came and ‘lent me a hand’ towelling vigorously over my breasts, buttocks and upper thighs, feeling me squirm in his hands as the towel made my sore bottom tingle. Then he watched me dress, confining his attentions to merely assisting me to replace my knickers and helping me to suspender my stockings. Half-way through my re-dressing he took a long look at me, and announced —
‘Mr Payne told me to tell you to report to 2D after prep Miss... 8.30 sharp... don’t be late Miss if you know which side your bread’s buttered.’
Mr Archer’s announcement of a visit to the Headmaster in Room 2D had filled me with gloom and, with my buttocks still smarting like fury from the double spanking I had just received, I struggled back into the remainder of my uniform and silently returned my shorts, vest, socks and gym shoes to the locker room.
I had to go to prep now and I certainly wasn’t looking forward to sitting down on one of those hard old oak desk seats for the next hour to do my prep. The wood was rough and worn and wouldn’t do a lot of good to my sore buttocks, but prep finished at eight, and I would have half an hour to try to repair the ravages of Mr Archer’s administrations before I went to see our beloved Head.
Normally, of course, after prep finished there was a short break for rather watery tepid cocoa and a hard biscuit until lights out for the older girls at about 9.30. But this evening was going to be a little different for me — 8.30 in Room 2D with Mr Payne meant although he would have finished punishing me by 9pm easily, I would almost certainly spend another hour entertaining him one way or another. I’d be back in the dormitory about 10pm, creeping in by the faint light coming through the windows trying desperately not to wake any of my room-mates, knowing my face would be a shamed red and streaked with dried salty tears. Then I’d huddle under the cold sheets not daring to sob too loudly from the memory of my experiences at the Head’s hands.
Prep was as awful as I thought it would be, wriggling continuously trying to find one little patch of bottom unmarked by Mr Archer’s spanking. I just couldn’t concentrate on the work I had been set to do, thinking about 2D... in fact I earned myself a future punishment from Mr Moore who was taking prep, and I had to tell him I wouldn’t be able to go to his study later. However he promised to see me the next evening during prep instead. Even this didn’t take my mind off going to see Mr Payne at half-eight. I’d had a few sessions with him over the years, and I knew my softly developing curves attracted him, and although he would often cane a girl for ‘naughtiness’, an evening visit meant almost always a hard palm applied to the firm soft curves of a teenaged bottom.
By the end of prep I could at least sit with a modicum of comfort, and although that state wouldn’t be long-lasting I meant to make the most of it. I tried hard to forget Mr Payne whilst I dunked the hard old biscuit in the unsweetened cocoa but it was no use. The biscuit stuck in my dry throat and I began to feel sick with fear. In my imagination I could already feel the heat flooding back into my buttocks, and I started to squirm on the bench seat in anticipation.
My friend Sally must have guessed what had happened to me, which wasn’t so odd as, if anything, she was chastised more often than I was.
‘Have you been spa—?’ she left the words unsaid as I nodded.
She was all sympathy... ‘Who ...?’ she whispered.
‘Mr Sodding Archer.’ I replied.
‘Christ that’s bad luck Wendy.’ Sally had been smacked by Archer only last week and knew what he was like... ‘Did he lay it on thick?’
I nodded gloomily... ‘I’ll say he did... he spanked me twice, first with the slipper and then bare with his hand, I was allowed to keep my shorts on for the slipper, but you know what they’re like Sal... all thin and skimpy... and to cap it all Sal... I’ve got to see old Payne in 2D at half-eight.’ My voice sank to a mere whisper as I thought about it.
Sally’s eyes went wide with fright and horror, and it took her a few moments to speak.
‘You’ve got to see Mr Payne tonight after Archer has spanked you twice already... go on Wendy you’re pulling my leg... even Mr Payne wouldn’t... would he...?’
‘He’s got it in for me this term Sal... I know he has... he told me at the end of last term after he’d given me six strokes of the cane just before we broke up for Easter that I had the makings of a good prefect if I were handled firmly, and he put all that in my report for Mummy’s benefit amongst all that smarmy rot he writes so that your Mum and Dad won’t worry that he keeps you here until you’re eighteen at least.
‘Anyway Mummy fell for it all hook line and sinker and he made a point of seeing her at the Sports Day and he complimented her on that silly flowery hat she was wearing, and she was so chuffed she persuaded Daddy I’d be better off in ‘Mr Payne’s safe hands’. Safe hands indeed... if she only knew Sal!’
‘Oh Wendy that’s awful...’ Sally looked suitably horrified... ‘Poor you... come on though Wendy... it’s twenty past eight, and you haven’t changed into your jammies yet, you haven’t forgotten have you?’
As we both hurried up to the dorm I realised I had completely forgotten that an evening smacking by the Head was always given in a very special pair of thin cotton pyjamas given to each girl when she joined the school... terribly skimpy and almost as transparent as cheesecloth, purposely issued a size too small so that when you at last managed to struggle into them, both the top round your breasts and the bottom round your hips fitted like the proverbial pair of chamois gloves. Miscreants who had to see Mr Payne were expected to be in Room 2D in their jammies by the time he arrived... any lateness was suitably rewarded as you might guess.
Sally actually took an enormous risk in coming down to 2D to help me change into my pyjamas and take my discarded uniform back to the dorm, and I found out later she had been caught by Mr Payne in the corridor and was told to sleep in the special room he kept on one side for a really late night smacking. In fact he dealt with her after he had finished with me. But that’s a story on its own for later consumption.
Whilst Sally was on her way back to the dorm with my uniform, I was struggling to don the special pair of extra thin cotton pyjamas Matron issued to the girls in the Upper forms. They were always kept in one of your locker drawers in case you were smacked by the Head or even one of the other masters after prep. As usual I found the trousers fitted like a drum, skin-tight over firm young maidenly buttocks, and they were held up by little buttons at the front at the waist, five or six buttons in all going well down into the taut crotch of the trousers and threatening to burst off if you had to bend. Little ribbons threaded through the pyjama legs just below the knee, and even the legs of the pyjama bottoms were pretty tight, at least round the upper thighs where most teenagers were fairly soft and chubby. The cotton was quite transparent, specially adapted so that Mr Payne could see the increasing reddening of the buttocks as he spanked the wriggling sobbing teenager across his knee. He would often slowly undo the little buttons at the front of the trousers using the opportunity to slide his bony fingers over the wriggling protuberant pudenda. Often the punishment would be concluded with the weeping girl across the chest of drawers or bent forwards over the chair with Mr Payne using a strap or even the cane.
I hadn’t been spanked after prep now for almost a year, but the memory of one of the Head’s notorious spankings quickly flooded back into my mind, and I could feel my buttocks tingling in anticipation. I didn’t have long to wait for the reality!
As my ears picked up the first faint steps in the corridor I began to tremble and hope my ears were deceiving me, but slowly the sounds grew louder as the Head approached down the long corridor, and it was almost with a sense of relief I heard the clip-clop, clip-clop down the four steps to the green door of 2D.
My eyes widened with fear as I watched the door handle turn... if only some fairy-godmother could whisk me away safe from the attentions of Mr Payne.
As he came in and locked the door he looked, as usual, very strict and very, very stern, his cold fishy eyes taking in every feature of my trembling pyjama-clad figure.
When at last he seemed satisfied with what he had to operate on, he cleared his throat noisily.
‘Hummph, Mr Archer dealt with you eh?’
‘Make it sting properly did he Miss?’
My throat felt dry as I managed to whisper ‘Yes sir.’
‘Made you cry eh?’
‘Difficult to sit down at prep eh... eh?’
I hung my head... too ashamed to even whisper.
‘Lost our voice have we?... bottom still sore I expect... come on girl... speak up now... did he make you cry or not... hurry up or I’ll give you something to really cry for... a strap across your bum eh?... mmm... eh?’
I had to reply and pretty quickly if I wanted to avoid that strap.
‘Please sir... oh please sir he smacked me ever so hard sir... I had to cry it was ever so sore and it was only just before prep sir... it’s still sore sir... oh please no sir... please don’t rub my bottom... it’s ever so sore sir... I’ll be a good girl... please don’t smack me sir... not over your lap sir... oh not like that sir... I’ll tell my Daddy sir... oh no... no... NO... you mustn’t... ooohhh... aaah... not there... please... NOT UP THERE... OOOWWHHH... AAAHHHMH!’
By now I was hard down across the Head’s lap, and his bony fingers were fondling and kneading my tender cheeks so that I was wriggling like an electric eel across the rough tweed of his trousers. He made me part my thighs and straddle his raised left thigh pulling me closely against his paunch so that immediately I could feel his ridge stiffening under my belly.
‘Now Miss... last time I saw your dear mother I promised her that this school would turn her naughty tomboyish daughter into the semblance of a young lady by the time she was eighteen and this evening my girl I am going to give you a sound lesson in manners!’
With these words ringing in my ears, I felt my buttocks rise up as he elevated his left thigh, and the taut thinly-clad cheeks came up towards the hand of retribution.
Mr Payne didn’t spank half as hard as Mr Archer but what he lacked in brute force he made up for in finesse, spanking with precise attention to every detail — wristy little flicks of the stiffly held hand landing with the sting of a hornet exactly on the spot he had chosen. He covered every little bit of my gyrating buttocks, the crests, sides, tops, and bottom of the tightly-held cheeks, imparting a soreness to the poorly protected cheeks that was almost unbearable.
Then he started on the backs of my thighs from the knees up to the soft underparts of the buttocks taking every opportunity as I kicked to deliver a stroke now and again to the insides of the thighs.
After this general warm-up, he began to concentrate a series of smacks on one area after another, about five or six delivered to exactly the same spot, such as the crest of one buttock, making each slap stingier and harder than the one before until I was begging for mercy through my pitiful sobbing.
He paid particular attention to the soft flesh at the bottom of my already sore bum cheeks, the soft chub of the teenager’s bottom, bending me right forward so that my nose was almost touching the chequered tiles, and the backs of my squirmy thighs were parallel to the top of the chest of drawers where the canes and straps were kept. I tried not to break down completely and blubber like a fourth or fifth former, because I knew he liked to reduce a girl to bitter tearful sobbing so that he could smack her ‘for not being a brave girl.’
But it was no use I just had to give in eventually, and began to feel the wild squirming of my legs and the tingly gyrations of my buttocks work themselves up into my set facial mask, where my teeth were gritted and my fists clenched tight in my efforts to be brave.
When at last the breaking point came my subjection was fast and total. Suddenly I felt my face contort and my sobs become gasps of deep breathy intake.
‘AAAhhh OOOHHH... oh pl-please... sir... oh-OH... SIR... no... no... nooOOO... sirrrr... oh my bum... MY BUM... Please SIR MY BUM... NO... NO... NOOOOOOOO...’
‘Be quiet at once you SILLY LITTLE STUPID GIRL... stop that STUPID CRYING — now just stop behaving like a BABY... now I’m going to have to smack you really HARD... REALLY VERY HARD INDEED.’
For the next five minutes at least the Head spanked my bottom and thighs in full measure despite my weeping and crying, until my bottom was on fire with scarlet hand marks... I hardly noticed when he stopped and vaguely felt my jammie trousers slide right down to my knees.
He left me across his lap to cry and wriggle my heart out, and he loved every second of it, keeping me pulled tight against his trousers, so that my tummy was squirming against the hard ridge, if my thighs gave any indication of slowing up in their scissoring across his knees a few slaps soon had me moving again. I began to feel ever so funny at the tops of my thighs, sort of shamed yet excited, all I knew was it felt lovely, it never occurred to me that it was anything to do with my smacking, but I just didn’t want it to stop. At last I felt myself go rigid across his lap my taut thighs forcing my buttocks up and down as if they had a life of their own. As Mr Payne set me on my feet to adjust my clothing I did just wonder what had happened to that hard ridge in his trousers.