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Thursday, 2 March 2017

Spankers Gallery – The Headmaster’s Study

From Roué 8
These next few pages comprise the first of an intended series of little ‘galleries’, in which the work of several ‘spanking illustrators’ will be given an airing (like the bottoms of their nubile subjects), and this initial article concerns School Discipline as portrayed by one such artist.
With ‘instant imagery’ monopolising the media these days, one might be tempted to dismiss drawings and paintings as being ‘second best’, but I hope to show that on the contrary, illustrations which have taken considerable time and patience to produce frequently have much more to say, and are very much more evocative, than any photograph could be.
Undertaking even a small series of drawings such as are reproduced here can be no mere whim. Time and effort must be expended, and the results, to be satisfactory to the artist, have to achieve a fair representation of what he had in his mind in the first place, and by the same token his original conception must have included ingredients; a subject, an idea, a mood, an atmosphere, worthy of the care which needs to be lavished upon this first conception to bring it to a certain degree of actuality.
A careful look at these illustrations then can supply more information than may be first evident; a thoughtful examination sets us off on a journey of discovery through the artist’s mind, and indeed supplies us with an intimate insight into the situation and the characters which are the expression of the artist’s idea on paper. If this idea sparks off new ideas of our own we are the richer. How many ‘instant image’ photographs could have done the same so effectively?
This series of three drawings deals with a simple situation, the sixth-former who has been silly enough to earn herself a punishment in the Head’s study. It is to be a knickers-down tawsing, as she well knows, and at first glance it is not a format which offers any particularly exciting prospects to the artist, being quite straightforward and incapable of much embellishment.
And yet, faced with the task of illustrating such an ‘ordinary’ situation, the artist has used its very ordinariness to make all the important points. Drama is introduced, not by wild and sweeping statements, but by utilising the formality of the occasion to bring the tension of each movement into the action.
Detail there is, but none of it irrelevant, and the orderliness of the figures, the neatness of dress of both the girl and the man, is complemented by the finicky precision of the arrangement of the school trophies on the Headmaster’s mantelpiece, the regularity of the books in the bookcase, the care with which the tawse has been placed on the little table, and even the girl’s lowered knickers are tucked fastidiously around her thighs, not allowed to straggle at her ankles.
Formality is everywhere. The anxious girl stands with her feet neatly together, her hands behind her back, the pleats of her skirt carefully pressed and her tie perfectly straight. The Headmaster’s black suit is exactly right, and the two figures are linked together by the rectangular tension of the tiled fireplace. The tawse is placed exactly between the two figures, balancing authority on the one hand against obedience on the other.
Everything about these three drawings tells us that the Headmaster runs a tight ship with a disciplinarian’s attention to detail. We have no doubt that every other girl in the school will be as neat and tidy as the unfortunate sixteen-year-old whose comeuppance is at hand.
It is no surprise that she holds her gymslip up to her waist while her knickers are taken down — with a disciplinarian headmaster this obviously won’t be the first time that her young bottom has felt the sting of the tawse, and there can be no doubt that the Headmaster wouldn’t tolerate anything but absolute obedience — the idea of doing anything other than exactly what she is told simply wouldn’t enter this girl’s head. What matter that she thinks herself too old to be half-undressed by the Headmaster. What matter that the taking down of her school knickers is obviously a situation which the Headmaster thoroughly relishes. She knows better than to argue. She can only avert her eyes while she clings on to her gymslip and dreads the coming punishment.
The tawsing, when the Headmaster eventually gets round to it, is as well-ordered and formal as everything else. The girl lies across his lap without the need for her legs to be clamped between the Headmaster’s own, and the hand on her back is no more than a reminder not to wriggle so much that the tawse can’t accomplish its job on her bared bottom. Somehow supressing the urge to squirm off his lap and away from the smacking, stinging tawse, the girl bawls lustily as she is spanked with methodical strokes on her plump, vulnerable bum, pressing her knees together as she tries not to kick too violently. Even the tawse-marks on her bottom flourish in neat, two-tailed pairs, first on one trembling cheek and then the other. And the weals where the leather tawse has strayed to the backs of her thighs? From what the artist has told us about the Headmaster by his precise, meticulous draughtsmanship, we can be quite certain that the tawse didn’t land on her plump legs by accident. The Headmaster wouldn’t be so clumsy. There is no doubt that he spanked those reddening marks with deliberate care, just as he is now overlapping the first smarting weals with another crop of tawse-marks, knowing precisely what he is doing and fully in command, as we always knew he was.
Armed with the information so thoughtfully supplied in these drawings, reconstructing the unlucky sixth-former’s interview with her pedantic headmaster is simplicity itself...

THE HEADMASTER’S STUDY
The coal fire flickering in the grate is hot on the bareness of her legs below her short gymslip, and the warmth edges up under the skirt and around the snug fit of her school knickers. The warmed air finds its way between her legs and the backs of her knees feel as though they are burning. Surreptitiously the girl moves sideways away from the fire’s direct heat, her eyes never leaving the balding head which is bent over the desk, pen scratching fitfully in an exercise book. The pen is placed neatly on the desk and another pen is substituted, dipping into the red ink bottle and then scrawling across the paper. She knows what it is writing. ‘See me.’ The only time old Beaky uses red ink is to write those two dreaded words in exercise books. Red for danger. Red for smacked bottoms! Red, like hers is going to be!
‘Don’t fidget girl!’
‘N-no sir.’
The fire isn’t so hot on her legs any more but the skin is still burning up the backs of her thighs. Like the sizzling sting in your bum after you’ve had the strap. She shivers despite the warmth of the fire. Like her bum is going to feel before too long.
‘Now then —’
She starts, the Headmaster’s sharp voice making the panic thrill through her. She watches with anxious eyes as the tall, slim figure stalks round from behind the desk. From a glass-fronted cupboard he takes a short, shiny leather strap, divided for half its length into two flexible tails which swing independently as he comes over to her by the fireplace. He stands directly in front of her, his eyes bright over the tops of his half-frame spectacles, the tawse stroking obscenely between his slim fingers.
‘Does your form mistress know that you are here girl?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Does she know why?’
‘Y-yes sir.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘Yes sir — to b-be punished, sir.’
‘Yes — quite so.’ The leather tails smack quietly into his palm. The girl wrings her hands behind her back and tries not to let her young breasts push out so provocatively under her grey gymslip.
‘You’ve made yourself comfortable?’
‘Yes sir.’ She has been to the loo three times in the last hour. The prospect of getting her bum tanned always seems to do that to her.
‘Right —’
She follows obediently behind him as he goes to the chair beside the bookcase. Sitting down he beckons her close.
‘Clean knickers?’
‘Y-yes sir.’ She knows the drill well enough. She ought to, never a term goes by without she pays at least one visit to this little room and never a visit ends without tears.
‘Let me see ‘em then.’
It is always the same. The sheer humiliation of having to do it is almost worse than the whacking itself. The plump swell at the apex of her thighs peeps timidly from under the hem of her reluctantly raised skirt.
‘Come on, get it up!’
‘Y-yes sir —’
The well-filled schoolgirl knickers claim all of the Headmaster’s attention. She hoists her skirt up until the lower edge of her blouse appears below the waistband of her gymslip. The Headmaster mutters between his thin lips as his eyes peer lasciviously over his glasses.
‘You’re getting to be a big girl, aren’t you, eh?’
‘Y-yes sir —’
Cool fingers hook under the elastic of her pants and draw them down over the maturing roundness of her hips. She shivers at the touch and looks away, not wanting to see the gleam in the Head’s eyes. Her firm young bottom trembles as it is patted familiarly, and then a hand slipping between her legs nudges her over the Headmaster’s knees, her soft belly pressing down on the bony legs, thighs pressing together against the intrusion of his insulting fingers. She arranges herself as she has learned to do on other occasions, legs straight, bottom up nice and high, knees together and head down.
The Headmaster settles the girl across his knees, runs a hand over the smoothness of the plump cheeks, smacks them lightly and hears her nervous gasps as he teases her bum with more playful smacks, then with deliberate and ritualistic pedantry he makes her recite the reason for her imminent spanking while he takes the tawse and strokes its cold leathery-ness to and fro over the warm vibrancy of its naked target.
‘S-sir — I’ve been a bad girl sir — I’ve been rude to Miss Davies sir — and b-bad girls have to be punished sir —’
‘Quite so my girl, quite so.’ The tawse smacks wickedly down across the tremulously waiting cheeks.
‘Oooh —’ The girl’s hips worm temptingly across his lap. Another soft swooshing sound heralds the sharp Crack! of the second stroke, which makes the frightened sixth-former twitch her cheeks together and gasp breathlessly as the smart stings her bottom and makes her pink bum-cheeks bounce delightfully.
Tears start from under her eyelids as the third and fourth strokes curl across the bareness of her buttocks. She pants rapidly, trying not to cry.
Whack!!
‘Ooo — s-sir —’
‘Quiet girl —’
Thwack!!
‘Oow —’
Smack!!
She starts to sob, stifling the sound as well as she can until the next two bum-scorching strokes make the effort not to blubber too much. She splutters into tears. The strap descends with regular ‘Splatts!,’ the reddening tail-marks flooding hotly across the round curves of her bum and striping the freshening glow with precise and evenly-spaced pairs of tawse-marks.
Still the girl manages to maintain the prescribed position, bum still offered obediently up to the wicked strap, legs straight, knees and feet together, afraid to struggle against the inevitable for fear that she’ll make it worse for herself, little-knowing that her attempt at stoicism is prolonging her ordeal.
With the tawse going at a regular rhythm the Headmaster watches for the signs. Years of experience tells him exactly what effect the spanking is having on the girl. He knows that her sobbing is becoming less controlled, can feel the quick little snatches and jerks of her body which betray the effort she is having to put into keeping still, and he knows too that a couple of really good stingers will break her tenuous self-control. But he resists the temptation. He spanks her with precisely the right amount of crispness exactly the right snap of the wrist, to keep her hovering on the brink of losing control without pushing her over the edge. Her well-tanned bottom is wriggling spasmodically now, her hips bouncing with every stroke of the tawse, her knees beginning to bend as the strap works its way back over the tenderness of the first strokes. She gasps tearfully, swerves her stinging bottom desperately, and then she loses her grip.
As she starts to squirm with a new and abandoned liveliness, the Headmaster raises his striking rate and lets her have the last half-dozen with all the gusto he can manage. She struggles helplessly, rearing up with each whack and bawling at the top of her voice, squealing completely without control an instant after each of the last few strokes lands squarely and agonisingly across the quivering tenderness of her glowing cheeks.
Even when the tawse has been replaced neatly on the table, the girl still wriggles weepingly over her Headmaster’s knees, self-discipline gone and all pretence of grown-up-ness evaporated. She might be a sixth-former or a first-former as she cries wretchedly with her bare and punished bottom still twitching.
The tawse, its reputation intact, lies smugly once again on the little table and awaits its next victim.

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