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Wednesday, 15 March 2017

6A’s Induction

A St Angela's story from Roué 14
Leaving his study, Mr Ingham paced in a leisurely fashion along a corridor on his way to take the new 6A for their first lesson on this their very first school day at St Angela’s, and was more than a little surprised when rapidly approaching footsteps materialised into a hastening girl who emerged precipitately from an intersecting corridor and ran straight into him.
‘I — I’m a bit late sir — that’s why I was running sir — I — I know it’s not allowed, but —.’ She tailed off, pink tongue moistening her lips as she struggled to find a more convincing way of saying how desperately, how frantically sorry she was.
Apart from a certain surprise the Headmaster didn’t seem in the least put out by the accident, indeed he actually smiled at the girl and seemed about to send her on her way with no more than a caution when he suddenly adopted a more thoughtful expression. He looked away down the corridor in the direction he had been walking, then back at the girl, looking her over and in particular taking in the fullness of her young hips. The girl attempted another anxious apology but was interrupted by his calm, authoritative voice.
‘My dear, since, as you have said, you are aware that running in the corridors is not permitted, I fear I shall have to reinforce that awareness to the point where your understanding of the rule becomes obedience to it.’ He peered speculatively at her, though not unkindly. ‘Therefore you will go to my study —’ he sought in a pocket and produced a bunch of keys, ‘— at the end of the first lesson this morning, open the tall cupboard by the window and select a cane —’
The girl’s mouth fell wide open in the certain knowledge of what was going to happen to her.
‘— and you will bring it, and yourself, to Room 7 at — ah — a quarter to eleven. Do you understand?’
She spoke in a subdued whisper. ‘Yes sir — get the c-cane — Room 7 — quarter to eleven.’
‘That’s right. Now walk to your class — and you may say that you were delayed by me. That should keep you out of any further trouble for being late.’
‘Yes sir — th-thank you sir.’
She turned and walked unhappily away. The Headmaster followed her a few paces behind, watching the way her short green skirt swung saucily as she walked, hips moving alluringly under the pleats.
Pleased with what had been a sudden inspiration, and tickled that on the first day of term he had been presented with an opportunity to exercise his disciplinary powers for the first time, the new Headmaster of St Angela’s made his way to Room 7 feeling rather smug.
Pausing outside Room 7, he heard the sounds of anarchy which characterise a class of sixteen-year-olds left to their own devices in the absence of their teacher. Chairs squeaked across floorboards, feet drummed noisily, voices were raised and giggles crowded upon argument to produce a steady cacophony of sound. He straightened his gown fussily.
His unexpected entry caught a book in mid-flight, and at least half a dozen girls in varying degrees of riotous behaviour. The scramble back to their seats was, if anything, even noisier than the pandemonium which had preceded it. The last backside plopped onto the last chair. Silence. Twenty-odd faces turned towards the door, twenty-odd pairs of eyes fixed apprehensively on his as he stood waiting in the doorway.
Allowing sufficient time for the effect of his presence to be felt, he then closed the door behind him and walked with a measured tread to the big desk at the front of the classroom. Standing behind it, he rested his hands on its polished top and ran his eyes around the as yet unfamiliar faces.
At the back of the classroom a girl rose dubiously from her seat, looking around as if unsure of whether she was doing the right thing. By dribs and drabs her classmates did the same until every one of the girls was standing behind her desk, and then the Headmaster permitted himself a little smile of greeting.
‘Good morning, girls,’ he said amicably.
‘Good morning, sir,’ they chorused.
‘Sit down please.’
Chairs scuffed, elbows bonked on desk lids. A pen clattered to the floor and a blonde-bobbed girl with big blue eyes left her place to retrieve it, skirt sliding up her thighs as she squatted in the aisle between two rows of desks and reached between a pair of feet for the errant pen. She slipped her bottom noiselessly onto her chair again and composed her pretty features into a look of diligent attention.
Seating himself, Mr Ingham turned to the first page in the register book lying on the desk before him. He uncapped a pen and slid his half-frame spectacles onto his nose. He coughed quietly, raised the pen a fraction —
‘Bradwick?’
‘Yes sir —’ An attractive girl. Short dark hair cut in a fringe.
‘Stand up when you answer —’ He peered over his glasses.
‘Yes sir —’ She stood up, her chair scraping.
‘— and give me your first Christian name.’
‘Um — Eileen, sir.’
‘Eileen —’ He wrote the name alongside the surname.
‘Right — you may sit down. Ah — Chandler?’
‘Sir.’ A tallish, blonde girl stood up at her desk.
‘Christian name?’
‘Anita, sir.’
‘Thank you — sit down.’
He went through the twenty-one names in this way, the girls standing dutifully as their names were called, each neat and smart in her uniform, grey skirt pressed into pleats, white blouse crisp and new-looking, tie, green jumper or cardigan, white ankle socks, black shoes. The register was neatly annotated with a column of names beside the original typed entries. Having finished with the register Mr Ingham conducted a trifling alteration in the seating arrangements. Susan Rudge, an attractive wide-hipped girl whose skirt flared from her waist seductively, was brought to a desk in the front row.  Allison Morgan, nipples pushing cheekily under her blouse, was also directed to a front desk, as was Mary Russell. The Headmaster considered the effect of this arrangement after each move, and was, at length, satisfied that most of the prettiest ones were now somewhere near the front.
Treating the class to another of his fatherly smiles, Mr Ingham rose from his chair and walked to the front of his desk, where he re-seated himself with one leg dangling casually off the desk-top edge. He beamed around the room, noting the occasional answering smile here and there, shyness making the smiles all the more appealing.
‘Now then girls — I’m new here, you’re all new here — I think it most important that we should get off on the right foot, don’t you?’
There were several answering ‘Yes sir’s.
‘Fine. Now, I don’t know about you, but with me people’s names are the important thing. Once I’ve got a name in my head, and a face to attach it to, I feel I’m halfway there. I feel that I have begun to know that person.’ He cast his glance around the room. ‘Perhaps some of you already know — but probably some of you won’t — my name is Mr Ingham, and I am the Headmaster of this school.’
He grinned. ‘Pleased to meet you all.’
There were several ‘Pleased to meet you’s and the odd giggle as the girls started to relax. He wasn’t so bad after all.
‘Right. Now you all know who I am. But from my point of view, and indeed so far as the rest of the staff are concerned too, more than forty new names this term aren’t going to be easy to remember. It’s bad enough that there are a hundred other girls who were here before I came — but an extra two classes of new girls — well, it’s obvious that we’ll have to do something to make matters easier. So —’ he paused, took out his handkerchief, dabbed unnecessarily at his nose, put his handkerchief away again, ‘— this is the way we shall set about it.’
He grinned again. More than half the class grinned back, losing their shyness now.
‘When you were given your uniforms, I daresay you will remember that you were given a number of name tags and told that you were to sew them into your clothes. Yes?’
‘Yes sir —’
‘Good. You may also remember that you were told that the name tags which you sewed into your knickers —’ he paused for the embarrassed titters, ‘— were to be sewn upside-down, into the front of each pair. Correct?’
Fewer ‘Yes sir’s this time, but several answering grins.
He looked around. ‘I take it you have all done this?’
Nods and murmurs of agreement.
‘Fine. Because, in order that the staff — myself included — may get to know you the sooner, each time you are asked your name by a teacher — and that will happen many times in the beginning, of course — you will not only tell that teacher your name, you will also show him — or her. You will show him that name tag which you have already sewn into the inside of your school knickers.’ He paused, watching their faces. ‘Is that understood?’
No one replied. There were only twenty-one confused faces, struggling to believe what they had just heard.
‘Is that clear to you?’ He pointed to the girl whose pert nipples had earned her a place on the front row of desks. Allison Morgan.
‘Um — well sir —’ She stopped, frightened of making a fool of herself. She thought he’d said —.
‘Stand up please.’
‘M-me, sir?’
‘Yes.’
Confused, Allison stood up behind her desk, cheeks pinkening rapidly.
‘Come out here.’
‘Um — yes sir.’
She stood awkwardly in front of him, long lashes blinking as she tried not to look away from his gaze.
‘Now then —’ he addressed himself to the class in general. ‘Suppose that I am a member of staff. And that this young lady has been found doing something she oughtn’t — walking on the quadrangle grass, for example. I may think she ought to be given a detention — in which case I shall need to know her name. Of course, I shall ask her.’ He stood up and affected an air of sternness. ‘What’s your name, my girl?’
Allison’s lips framed the words but, uncertain of her role, she failed to say them. He prompted her patiently.
‘Er — Allison Morgan, sir.’
‘That’s it. And now what do you do?’
‘Er —’ Half-heartedly the girl plucked at the front of her skirt.
‘That’s it — come on —’
With a few more words of encouragement the blushing Allison was persuaded to hoist her skirt up to her waist. Her brand new sixth-form maroon knickers fitted perfectly.
There was utter silence in the classroom.
‘Fine — so far. And now — I shall want to see your name tag. The one inside your knickers.’
Allison hesitantly arranged her skirt so that it could be held up with one hand. With her other hand she inched the waistband of her pants down over her tummy. Mr Ingham assisted the progress of her knickers with a helpfully proffered finger. Allison’s knickers were rolled down until the name tag, and for that matter most of the fluffy curls of her pubic hair, were displayed. Mr Ingham had to bend forward to read the small characters.
‘The thing is my dear —’ He adjusted his glasses, ‘— the tag is making things a little awkward by hiding in the folds of your knickers. Perhaps if —’ Carefully, as if conducting some experimental procedure, the Headmaster took Allison’s pants between finger and thumb at either hip and pulled them down her thighs until they were inside-out and embarrassingly clear of her swelling pubis by several inches. The girl spluttered a humiliated plea, half whispering, half gasping for permission to pull her pants back up, but Mr Ingham seemed not to hear her. With a hand cupping one bare buttock up under her skirt he turned her towards the rest of the girls.
‘Like this — you see? Now then, you’ve seen how it’s done — so if you’d all like to stand up —’
The twenty girls stood obediently, if hesitantly, and at Mr Ingham’s instruction their skirts were gathered at their waists with their fresh maroon knickers cuddling young hips and tucking modestly between the tops of their thighs.
The ‘shushing’ descent of twenty pairs of knickers followed Mr Ingham’s one-fingered gesture, nodding its unmistakeable meaning in a downward direction. Blushes spread like some instant contagion as the entire class were made to stand semi-naked in their half-mast knickers while the Headmaster, who went round the classroom coaxing each girl in turn to be sure that her knickers were quite low enough, spoke in an encouraging and paternal way to the three or four girls who found themselves unable to hold back tears of shame at their humiliating predicament, and at the same time directed the holding up of skirts so that, with a fraction more height at waist level, the merest hint of knickerless bottoms was achieved behind. His tour of the classroom took him to each girl at least once, and to the bell for the end of first lesson. The girls looked hopefully at each other, but were disabused of the notion that salvation was at hand by the Headmaster’s casual mention, on his eventual return to his desk, that by the way, this lesson was, in fact, a double one, and there were forty-five minutes still to go.
A barely stifled groan whispered around the classroom. Mr Ingham raised his eyebrows.
‘Not enjoying yourselves, girls?’ he enquired pleasantly. Those girls who found themselves the object of his amused glance of enquiry looked helplessly away or down at their desks, bare thighs close together making sweet triangular hollows in which maidenly nests tried to hide from prying eyes. Allison in particular, being both closer than the others to his unashamed visual examination of her pretty secrets, and still out at the front of the classroom with her knickers down, pressed her legs tightly together and squirmed visibly with embarrassment.
‘Well, never mind —’ he took a last, long look up and down the rows of semi-naked girls, ‘— you can pull your knickers up now.’
More than a score of pairs of new maroon pants were hauled thankfully up youthful thighs, skirts were allowed to fall back into place. The girls were permitted to sit down again. Mr Ingham grinned cheerfully and proceeded to his next point.
‘Good — something learned already. That’s a fine start to a new term, isn’t it girls — eh?’
‘Yes sir —’ The answers were distinctly subdued now.
‘Excellent — excellent!’ He sat again on the front of the big desk. ‘Now then, there’s another point I’d like to cover this morning.’ He looked around the room, building atmosphere, and slipped into his topic almost apologetically.
‘The thing is — and I’m sure you’ll all agree with me on this — life isn’t always straightforward. It’s a series of ups and downs —’ he smiled, ‘— ups and downs for knickers, too, as I think we’ve just demonstrated — by which I mean that, try as we may, we don’t always achieve what we set out to achieve, nor indeed what others would like us to achieve. The plain fact is, it has been my experience that girls at school go through patches when their performance, in various ways, doesn’t quite come up to expectations.’
He noticed a girl at the back still weeping quietly into her hankie — clearly the taking down of her knickers had been a traumatic episode for her. He decided that she would be an ideal choice for the next demonstration. He continued his interrupted train of thought.
‘Now, when that happens, it is my job, and that of the rest of the staff, to see to it that girls are encouraged back onto the right path. The straight and narrow. And one of the most effective ways of achieving this redirection of a girl’s attention — and I may say that I have had many years in which to consider all the possibilities — is the, ah, employment of a little corrective discipline.
Chiefly, that is, the application of something reasonably stingy to the place designed by nature for the receipt of that — ah — reasonably  stingy instrument of correction.’ He made a guess as to how many of the girls were with him thus far. No more than half, to judge by the vacant expressions on some of their faces. The girl at the back was drying her eyes. He decided that demonstration would now be more informative than explanation.
‘Ah — what’s your name my dear?’ He pointed at the girl who had been crying. She stared blankly at him for a moment. ‘You — second row from the back.’
The girl looked round at her classmates then back at him.
‘M-me, sir?’ she stuttered.
‘Yes — what’s your name?’
‘Um — Hazel sir.’
‘Hazel what?’
‘Sh-shaw sir.’ Her dampened eyes grew wider every moment.
‘Hazel Shaw?’
‘Yes sir —’
‘I see. Well now Hazel — haven’t you forgotten something?’
‘Sir?’
He smiled tolerantly. ‘What have we just been learning, eh?’
‘Um —’ She turned to her neighbour, who whispered behind her hand. ‘Ooh — oh, s-sorry sir —’
She got up dubiously from her desk. One hand went to the hem of her skirt but she hesitated, apparently waiting for confirmation from the Headmaster.
‘That’s right,’ he said coaxingly.
The girl fumbled with her skirt, yet somehow couldn’t find the courage to lift it more than an inch or so.
‘Come on Hazel —’
‘Oooh —’ She looked to be on the point of tears once more. ‘— s-sir — do I have to sir?’
He smiled, no more than that. Of course she had to.
She bit her lip. Inch by painful inch she slid her skirt up. Its hem cleared the level of the desk-top, her bare thighs close together. The tiniest peep of dark knickers appeared.
‘Come along Hazel, there’s a good girl —’
The upward slant of the knicker legs came into view, then the high sides. She clutched her skirt at her waist and stood tremblingly for a moment before she dared to tuck a hand into the waistband and slip her pants down. The Headmaster watched patiently while she pulled them inside out at mid-thigh.
‘That’s right — now then, come out here.’
Hazel came, awkwardly, her lowered pants shortening her steps as she made her lonely way down the aisle and stopped pink-faced in front of the Headmaster.
‘Now then — that wasn’t so difficult, was it?’
Hazel stuttered incomprehensively, trying to say that it was unutterably awful but lacking the nerve actually to put the sentiment into words.
Mr Ingham smiled indulgently at her attempts to answer, then slipped from his perch on the desk and took a pinch of material between thumb and forefinger, the inside-out gusset of Hazel’s lowered pants, and turned her stumblingly so that her back was squarely towards the rest of the class. Hazel stood with hunched shoulders and lowered head, skirt still clutched up at the front, and trembled helplessly as her skirt was hoisted up behind and thrust into her hands to be held up clear of her bottom.
‘This —’ said Mr Ingham patronisingly, ‘— is a bottom.’ Hazel’s forlorn young buttocks twitched self-consciously.
‘In this school, bottoms are more than simply convenient things for sitting on —’ he patted Hazel’s bum condescendingly, and Hazel squeezed her thighs together and overlapped her knees in shamed confusion, ‘— they are the seat of learning.’ He smacked the two plump cheeks resoundingly. Too frightened to move, Hazel’s head slumped deeper onto her chest and she whimpered a strangled cry which was echoed, in whispers, around the classroom. A crimson splotch, finger-marked along one edge, spread slowly over the saucy thrust of her naked behind. Mr Ingham patted this smarting flush almost affectionately, then wandered as if deep in thought around the clear space at the front of the room. Hazel’s classmates found their attention occupied immediately by the Headmaster’s ominous occupation of the centre of the stage, but couldn’t stop their eyes glancing in fascination at Hazel’s reddening bum in the wings.
‘Of course, there’s a little more to it than that,’ announced Mr Ingham brightly. He seemed to consider every one of the girls individually. Then, nonchalantly, he pointed a finger at one of the girls at the back of the room. ‘What’s your name, my dear?’
‘Jennifer Truett, sir.’ She stood up belatedly.
Mr Ingham cocked an eyebrow, and Jennifer had to tuck up her skirt and pluck obediently at the waistband of her knickers.
‘And yours?’
‘Christine Green, sir.’ Her maroon pants slid dutifully down her bare thighs.
‘And you, in the corner?’
‘Sandra Dunne, sir.’ She stood anxiously behind her desk, knickers inside-out. Mr Ingham’s finger sought out every girl, one by one.
‘Marilyn Vorsett, sir.’
‘Trudy Wilkinson, sir.’
‘Linda Stipple, sir.’
The little name-tags confirmed the answers, one by one, and then, directed by Mr Ingham’s not-to-be-disobeyed finger, the girls processed in a straggling file across the front of the classroom. Cheeky bottoms shivered and squirmed and snatched away as one, or sometimes two, solid spanks smacked firmly across nervous cheeks, and the file made its way by fits and starts back to the desks.
There was a timid, repeated tap-tap at the door. The last freshly-smacked bottoms were scurrying back to their places, except for Hazel, who still stood bare-bottomed in the place she’d been left in earlier. Mr Ingham paced slowly over to her, turned towards the door and beckoned the tapper-of-doors to come in.  He gave the shivering Hazel permission to return to her seat as the classroom door opened and a blonde-haired girl with worried blue eyes came dubiously into the room.
‘You may pull your knickers up,’ he said to the class, ignoring the recent arrival. The sibilance of twenty-one pairs of pants being tugged up young thighs was plainly audible in the otherwise quiet classroom, as was a heartfelt ‘Thank Christ!’ whispered by a dark-haired girl in the second row.
‘Except you,’ said Mr Ingham.
‘M-me, sir?’
‘Yes — come here.’
‘Sir?’ But she came.
‘Name?’
‘Um — Lola Cross, sir —’ Her knickers came down with alacrity.
‘You will go to my study and wait for me there.’
‘Y-yes sir —’
‘And leave those where they are!’
‘S-sir.’ The red-faced girl exited clumsily (see Lesson for Lola to find out what happens to her later); and then all eyes were on the girl in the green third-year uniform. The girl carrying the cane.
‘Now — a little demonstration of another aspect of life at St Angela’s.’ He turned to the girl and indicated a spare desk which stood askew at the front of the classroom. ‘Over that desk with you miss!’
‘Yes sir.’ If she hesitated at all none of the new girls noticed it. She walked to the desk and at once put herself neatly across its top, head down, knees together, legs straight, toes tucked under and pushing at the floor. Her full, round bottom swelled firmly under her green skirt and the cane which she carried was held out in front as if in supplication.
Even the Headmaster had to admire the execution of his instructions. He paced deliberately over to the prostrated girl and took the proffered cane. Immediately the girl reached behind her and flicked up her skirt to waist level. Her green third-year knickers appeared. Stretched over the upthrust rotundity of her bum. In a voice muffled by her head-down position she asked, ‘knickers down, sir?’
‘Ah — yes. Yes indeed!’
The pants slipped down off the upraised buttocks at once. There was even a ‘twang’ of elastic as she let the waistband of her knickers snap against her thighs. She did it all as if it were a drill she had practised many a time, as indeed it was. The new Headmaster had no way of knowing that the bottom which he had just ordered to be bared was just about the most frequently-punished bum in the school.
The cane swished once, twice. All eyes were drawn to the sight, and to the nakedly waiting buttocks of the girl across the desk.
Thwack!! Everyone jumped in sympathy with the quick jerk of the girl’s bottom as the cane landed.
Thwack!! Several girls gasped, as did the girl being caned. Her bottom twitched involuntarily as the cane was laid across the double-wealed buttocks to take careful aim.
Thwack!! The girl’s legs buckled for an instant, but she thrust them out straight again at once.
Thwack!! Her head popped up, eyes closed, lips parted in anguish.
Thwack!! She whimpered. Her bottom swerved aside and returned to its former position with the utmost reluctance.
Thwack!! She squealed, a faint, strangled sound, and her knees pushed forward alternately as her bottom trembled with the sting. She subsided onto the desk, struggling to compose herself for the next stroke. All eyes were on her crimsoned buttocks as she heaved her hips a little higher across the desk.
Mr Ingham hovered behind the girl, cane quivering in his hand; and then, as if reluctantly, he let the cane rest down against his trouser leg and looked around the room at the pale-faced class. With the intonation a priest might employ at the conclusion of a religious ritual, he said: ‘And let that be a lesson to you all.’
The bell rang for the end of the second lesson. The girls were given permission to leave. Rosalind Bottomley, still across the desk, looked up to see whether she was included in the general instruction to go. Mr Ingham’s back was turned towards her. She couldn’t be sure. Bare-bottomed still, she dropped her head and tried to ignore the girls filing past her on the way out.
The sound of feet went away. Rosie looked up. The classroom was empty. Gingerly she eased her knickers up over her bum. She stood up, brushed the dampness away from her cheeks, straightened her skirt. She ought to have known. Thus far there had been every indication that this term, and this headmaster, were going to be pretty much the same as the last. Well — that was St Angela’s. It never really changed.

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