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Friday, 3 March 2017

Temptress at St Angela’s

A St Angela’s story from Roué 13
One Saturday afternoon at St Angela’s, Sylvia Pierce, the terror of 7A, was caught breaking bounds en route to a highly dubious assignation with the local butcher’s boy. She was told to report immediately to room 2D for punishment. Mr Moore had caught her and therefore he had earned the right to punish her. The prospect gave him a feeling of immense satisfaction; it was, to quote Hamlet, ‘a consummation devoutly to be wished’! The precise reason for his enthusiasm will no doubt emerge in the course of this narrative.
Before punishing the girl he first took the precaution of hanging a large DO NOT DISTURB notice outside the door. Underneath the printed sign he pencilled in Engaged until 3.40! It was then only ten past three, so whatever he was going to do to Sylvia would take half an hour. After all, she’d broken just about every school rule in the book: smoking (he’d caught her in the act), out of uniform (she had on a low-cut white tee-shirt and white straight skirt), wearing make-up and jewellery... every infringement was duty noted with smug satisfaction by Moore. By God, he was going to give her something she’d remember all her life!
Of course, Sylvia Pierce was no stranger to 2D. Hers was one of the most punished bottoms in the whole school. In fact it was a toss-up between Rosie Bottomley and Sylvia as to who got ‘it’ more often. But there was a subtle distinction as to why each of these two girls vied for the title of ‘Bottom of the School!’ With Rosie it was her infuriating aloofness and insouciance; with Sylvia it was because she was inveterately downright bloody NAUGHTY! She was a red-blooded Lancashire lass (her mother had been a mill-girl) and she positively exuded defiance and stroppiness. She goaded and exasperated all the staff at St Angela’s, and consequently got punished right, left and centre. But all the punishment in the world seemed not to make the slightest bit of difference to her behaviour. With her fresh-faced insolence, urchin-cropped auburn hair, and sensual heaviness about the upper thighs and buttocks, she was an ideal candidate for 2D. Her occasional outbursts of violence, too, had earned her quite a fearsome reputation. She had been suspected, more than once, of bullying the younger girls; but they’d always been far too frightened to speak out against her. But when she’d bloodied Matron’s nose for no apparent reason! Well, that had earned her the supreme humiliation and disgrace of a public caning.
The following morning, during Assembly — to be precise, while the school was singing All Things Bright and Beautiful, she had been ceremonially denuded of skirt and pants by the headmaster. Plump, white, wobbly bottom on full display in front of the whole school — male staff included — Sylvia Pierce awaited her comeuppance while the headmaster droned on incessantly through prayers, sermon and school announcements. During prayers Sylvia was made to kneel in such a lewd position that her naked rump and fully exposed cleft caused several embarrassing erections among the male members of staff flanking the sides of the hall. Only the headmaster, Mr Payne, and the unfortunate Sylvia occupied the stage. Any other girl — even Rosie Bottomley — would by then have been sobbing their hearts out at the sheer humiliation of having to stand up there all through Assembly, bare-bottomed and woebegone, awaiting the tender ministrations of the headmaster’s cane... but not Sylvia Pierce. She remained patently unrepentant, and her look of blazing defiance seemed to be daring, almost egging on, Payne to do his worst.
Prayers over, she rose slowly to her feet, bottom-cheeks wobbling provocatively. Aptly enough, Payne’s sermon touched on the evils of violence, with particular reference to ‘matron-bashing’, and he earnestly exhorted Sylvia to ‘turn the other cheek’ — which she blatantly ridiculed in a chorus-girl style outburst of bum-wiggling that brought titters of admiration from the junior girls in the front row.
Sylvia Pierce really was a bad lot, quite incorrigible, thoroughly depraved and a most alarming influence on the other girls. Everyone in the hall that morning knew she was going the right way about it to earn one of the biggest thrashings ever witnessed at St Angela’s. But she seemed quite unperturbed by the fact — almost as though she was looking forward to it! From the right hand side of the hall, Mr Moore gazed in unabashed fascination at the spectacle of an unruly, lawless teenager about to have her naked bottom soundly caned. He eyed the plump rump and the erotic delights contained between those swelling cheeks and made a solemn vow to himself... ‘One day... one day!’
Payne’s final announcement to the assembled school was that for offering violence to a much-valued member of staff, Sylvia Pierce was going to receive twelve strokes of the VERY best, with a three foot cane, laid on with all the strength he possessed! The whole school uttered a collective gasp of awe and admiration. Twelve strokes was unheard of! Let alone in public! Would she take them with her customary aplomb? Would the universally-feared Sylvia Pierce break down and cry half way through her punishment? Or would she somehow manage to preserve her sullen stoicism? That was the question which hung on everyone’s lips, Moore’s included.
Brandishing a particularly ferocious looking cane, the head ordered Sylvia to go and fetch a chair, ‘Over which to bend your miserable person!’ he thundered. Sylvia looked him squarely in the eye... and refused!
‘Very well, Sylvia Pierce,’ the head spoke softly but menacingly, ‘since you seem resolved to make a completely indecent spectacle of yourself! Point your bottom in the direction of my staff and your fellow-pupils and BEND DOWN AND TOUCH YOUR TOES!’
Sylvia paled perceptively, and the superior grin on her face faded at the thought of just how much of her intimate person she’d be exposing to public gaze.
‘Sylvia Pierce!’ again the head’s stentorian boom echoed across the hushed hall. ‘Are you going to do as you are told, or do I have to ask Mr Evans and Mr Pink to come up here and hold you down over a table while I administer this caning?’
‘Do what you like, you silly old bugger! See if I care!’ Sylvia muttered mutinously.
Payne’s lips tightened, his eyes narrowed. Realizing that if she didn’t comply, the head would indeed call for assistance, Sylvia presented her bottom to the audience and prepared to touch her toes. But not without a rather half-hearted shrug of resignation. Sylvia Pierce possessed strong, sturdy legs, full, womanly thighs, and a cheeky, plump bottom that seemed to cry out for punitive treatment. The effort of reaching down and touching her toes cost her an audible gasp and, with her legs planted fairly widely apart, Mr Moore was treated to an uninterrupted view of her pubic hair, her vulva and her anus. No privacy for Sylvia. That was an essential part of the punishment. Moore’s erection threatened to burst free of his trousers as he drank in the sight of Sylvia’s disgrace. Her bottom was swaying slightly from side to side, whether in fear or sexual mimicry Moore knew not. His armpits ran with sweat. His temples throbbed. When the headmaster slowly raised the cane Moore knew that the best was yet to come.
Three in a row! Moore gasped at the sheer suddenness of the onslaught upon Sylvia’s bare bum. Payne had given her no time whatsoever to collect her thoughts. There she was, frantically clenching and unclenching her cheeks in visible agony. Three blue-ish parallel streaks were already blossoming fairly high up on her bottom where Payne had placed them. He was a superb ‘canesman’ — all his staff ungrudgingly acknowledged the fact. Target practice sessions — even tournaments with prizes for the winner, using as victims the luckless girls ‘on report’, were sometimes organised. Payne had always emerged the undisputed victor. Only the redoubtable Mr Evans came anywhere near him in accuracy and finesse. In the staffroom it was said, in hushed, awed tones, that if a girl had the minutest pimple on her bum, then Payne could hit it, six times in a row. As Clint Eastwood was to his gun, so Payne was to his cane!
Moore watched, spellbound, as Payne landed another vicious stroke upon Sylvia’s sensually swaying seat. The sheer impact of cane on bare bottom threatened to topple her over. She lurched forward clumsily as the fourth stinging stroke registered. She was breathing heavily by now, nostrils flared, little beads of perspiration running down her face, eyes wide with pain. Having avoided falling, she commenced vigorously rubbing her afflicted parts, while glaring back at her audience in a desperate attempt to preserve her air of bravado. But the facade was rapidly crumbling. Blind panic was taking over as Sylvia remembered the eight strokes awaiting her.
Still, her spirits rallied, and yet again she abused and swore at Payne. She loudly condemned him, his staff, even the good name of St Angela’s. Payne scowled at her from beneath his beetling brows, pronounced her a thorough disgrace to the school, and cursed her, under his breath, for a vulgar little tart! He called to Evans to fetch a chair over which Sylvia could bend to receive the remainder of her punishment. Still affecting stoicism, Sylvia did as she was told without a murmur, bending over the back of the chair and gripping its front bottom rungs. This posture hoisted her bottom high into the air, thus exaggerating its ample dimensions in an almost obscenely sexual manner. Now the lower portion of her buttocks, especially the part where they met her thighs, lay ready... waiting... totally accessible in every way. Sylvia presented a plump, bottom-wobbly target, still bearing traces of puppy-fat, despite being eighteen. No problems about where to aim the remaining strokes, thought Moore. Plenty of space left for them!
The only question worthy of academic speculation was whether any bottom-flesh would remain unscathed by the end of the caning. That depended on the basic symmetry of the pattern of weals which the head was busy producing at that very moment.
Three more strokes in quick succession, continuing Payne’s downward pincer movement towards her thighs, produced from Sylvia a sharp intake of breath followed by an even sharper exhalation of pain and alarm. This was succeeded by much sexy bottom-wiggling and chair rattling; but whereas previously the tail-wagging had been contrived and theatrical, now it was frantically spontaneous in its efforts to elude the deep-seated pain.
Moore felt almost unbearably aroused. He felt impelled to seek, for sexual relief, the privacy of the staff toilet; yet the other half of him was rooted to the spot, determined to stay and see whether Payne did manage to humble her and break her spirits.
As it happened he did not. The remaining five strokes rained down in quick succession and even though at the end, Sylvia’s bottom was a study in scarlet-turning-blue, she made not the slightest sound of pain or distress and thus earned the undying admiration of the whole school. Even some of the staff ended up feeling sorry for her, and admitted that she had guts. Evans, though, was disgusted by the whole affair:
‘Payne’s made the little tart into a bloody martyr! He should have expelled the cow!’
Still silent, still bare-bottomed, though with heavy, tear-laden eyes, a pale and wan Sylvia — clutching what little dignity she had left — walked stiffly and painfully off the stage and up to her dormitory.
Moore’s heart went out to her. While the school sang a final hymn before filing out to their classrooms, Moore left the hall unobtrusively by a side door and followed Sylvia upstairs. He found her sprawled face-downwards across her bed, tear-stained and her whole body wracked by huge sobs. Gently he placed his hand on her shoulder. She offered no resistance so he slowly moved it down her back and over the full rotundities of her wealed, aching bottom-cheeks. He knew he’d be late for his class but he didn’t care. Lovingly, with soft words and caressing fingers, he comforted her while she cried like a baby. Then she turned her head and regarded him through tear-misty eyes, wonderingly, gratefully — like a whipped puppy acknowledging her master.
‘No one’s ever shown me kindness, sir. That’s why I’m so wicked. I’ve done awful things! I’m sure I’ll go to hell!’
But by now Moore was touching her between her legs, and she was overflowing with sexual arousal. He bent down to kiss her.
‘Hadn’t you better go to your class, sir?’ she whispered. But his only answer was to lie down beside her on the narrow little bed and demonstrate to her his undoubted skill in Applied Biology. She’d been studying that particular subject from an early age but never before, she felt, had she been instructed with such expertise and loving care. It made her feel completely reborn, although her bottom still ached unbearably — and the hard, lumpy bed did little to alleviate it.
Neither Moore nor Sylvia forgot this little episode in the weeks that followed. Sylvia had suddenly become a different person — a model pupil, respectful to staff and matron, kind and compassionate to juniors, old age pensioners and stray dogs. No one could fault her. Of course, they all attributed it to the caning — all except Moore, who knew different. Sylvia went around with a rapt, dreamy expression on her face, and Moore, too, was equally smitten. His reputation for being a disciplinarian plummeted — the naughtier pupils wreaked havoc during his Biology lessons and he merely beamed at them fondly!
Communication between Moore and Sylvia was obviously difficult, if not impossible. So Sylvia conceived her daring plan. She wrote a note to him and concealed it in the exercise book containing her homework for him to mark... The note simply said:
And so it was that, as related earlier... wearing make-up and her sexiest possible clothes, Sylvia Pierce was well and truly nabbed by Mr Moore. She hadn’t really been going to meet the butcher’s boy. That was only her alibi in case she was caught by someone else. So there they are, Moore and Sylvia, safely closeted in 2D. The door’s locked and the Do not disturb for half an hour notice is hanging outside. What do you think went on inside that room?
Sylvia looked delicious. She’d deliberately dressed as provocatively as she could for the occasion. She didn’t want to let her mentor down. Moore regarded her with a deep sigh of satisfaction. Trim auburn urchin-cut hair; white vee-necked tee-shirt accentuating high firm breasts; white pencil skirt slit up the back, tight and cheeky round the bum; fashionable white stockings with those teasing hints of suspenders at the fronts and the sides. To tell the truth, he didn’t really want to cane her... Yet there had to be some element of punishment — if only to satisfy his sense of professional ethics.
They stood silently devouring each other. At length Moore spoke — ‘Right, Sylvia. You know by now what happens in this room. And, much as it grieves me, I can’t let you off without some kind of punishment. Rules are meant to be obeyed, not flouted. Understand?’
Sylvia nodded happily, eager to get down to business.
‘You broke bounds, and you’re improperly, though delightfully dressed. I’m not going to cane you because I wouldn’t like to be responsible for getting your bottom into the sad state that Mr Payne got it. By the way, is it better now?’
Again Sylvia nodded, like the cat about to get the cream.
‘Quite better?’  Moore persisted.
‘Ooh yes, sir! It’s PERFECT... err!... that is, I mean it’s perfectly alright now. Ready for anything!’
She was trying to give him all the encouragement she dared. But Moore didn’t really need encouraging.
‘Sylvia, I’ve decided to give you a jolly good spanking!’
‘Ooooh! Yes PLEASE, sir!’ Sylvia’s hands were already at the zipper of her skirt.
‘No, Sylvia. Leave it on! To give you a fighting chance, so to speak, I’ll begin by spanking you over your skirt. Then you’ll remove it and we’ll carry on again over your knickers. Then we’ll finish up with ‘knickers down’ and you bare-bottomed over my knee! Understand?’
Sylvia’s eyes sparkled and her knees went weak with anticipated ecstasy. He couldn’t have thrilled her more if he’d offered her diamonds and pearls. Sylvia was a girl of essentially simple tastes. She remembered how she’d felt when they’d made love after she’d been caned. A spanking would bring her all the attention and feeling of being controlled and cared for that she so desperately sought, though with none of the attendant agonies of a caning.
Moore seated himself on one of the plain wooden chairs in 2D, and Sylvia, with almost unseemly haste and enthusiasm, plonked herself down across his lap, noting with some pride the already burgeoning bulge in his trousers. She had a generously spread pair of buttocks and they filled out the seat of her tight white skirt to perfection. The cotton was stretched to bursting point. Moore knew that it would offer her considerable bum protection, but the infliction of pain was not his objective. It was going to be a deliciously erotic experience and it would fulfil one of Moore’s most powerful and recurring fantasies...
Have you ever followed a plump-bottomed girl in tight pencil skirt, wiggling her way down the High Street or through a busy office? Ever had the overwhelming desire to upend her there and then, and wallop her in full view of all the passers-by? So had Mr Moore!
Affectionately he patted the tightly-skirted rump of the lovely girl lying submissively across his lap. Sylvia began to breathe deeply, instinctively tightening her cheeks and growing aware of the warm stickiness invading her knickers. Then, lovingly and gently at first, he commenced smacking her all over the seat of her tautly-stretched skirt. Once or twice his hand caught her back suspender-straps. But he didn’t let that deter him — in fact it added to the fun!
When he felt he’d sufficiently dusted down the seat of her smartly tailored skirt, he made her stand up to unzip it, and slip it down. There she stood in her white stockings, white suspender-belt and flimsy little white nylon panties. As she turned away from him to place her skirt on the table, Moore noticed the mottled-red spank marks already displaying themselves above her knickers and below, on the tops of her thighs. Then she had to come down again across his knee for him to smack her over her knickers. She was aware, once again, of his rampant masculinity... That certainly added a lot of excitement to what, for her, was already a thrilling experience... especially when he started cupping his hand and moulding it to the curve of her buttocks — thus creating meaty THWACKS! which resounded around the room whenever contact between hand and flesh was made.
How she wriggled! How she squirmed! But his only answer was to hold her in a vice-like grip around her waist, and she started to moan and sob in time to the rhythm of the spanking. Next he told the hot-bottomed girl to stand up again, pull down her panties, and take them off completely.
She didn’t need telling twice, and while she was obeying him, Moore quickly divested himself of his trousers. Intimate body-contact thus aroused their already hungry appetites, and the whole operation lost whatever vestiges of punitive associations that remained. Moore’s questing hand went here, there, and everywhere. He tried smacking her width ways, across her bum — then altered the angle of his hand by ninety degrees, as he smacked her up the length of each buttock in turn. He even aimed glancing blows into her downy cleft which, of course, Sylvia enjoyed immensely.
Five minutes later. Dawn Inchley, walking down the corridor past 2D, saw the notice pinned to the door, heard unmistakeable female groans emanating from the room, and assumed that the usual punishment scene was taking place. But we, dear readers, know different...

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