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Friday, 9 June 2017

After Hours

Story from Blushes 8
Six sir!’ Her voice is frantically high-pitched. ‘Ooh-s-six sir — six!’ she splutters desperate sobs with her face against the desk top whilst the pale impress of the cane’s last stroke pinkens and fattens into a sixth rosy weal across the under-bits of both bum cheeks. ‘S-six, sir —’ Her knees flex disobediently as she squirms her hips against the front edge of the desk. Last term six would have been it, the maximum; last term she would have been allowed up, having counted each stroke out loud and not having earned herself an extra two for ‘making a fuss’. But that was last term.
‘Stick it up girl —’ the cane flicks across the top of her thighs, just above her half-lowered knickers.
‘Oooo — sir — y-yes sir —’ she straightens her legs and hollows her back; apple-round buttocks push themselves up. full and pert and simply pleading for the next stroke in their helplessness.
The cane thwacks against vulnerable, resilient girl-flesh and almost instantly the squirming of hips against desk-top recommences with added fervour.
Seven sir!’ blubbing, blubbing sobs. ‘S-seven — seven — oh sir — please sir —’
‘Bottom up, Gillian — you’re a big girl now!’
‘Sir — please —’
Up, Gillian, or do you want to find yourself back here with your knickers down again after supper tonight!’
Gillian’s plump young bottom literally bobs into the air and shoves its saucy cheeks up and out on the instant.
No sir — oh no — please!’
The cane whacks down again and Gillian’s bum jerks violently to one side. Her knees buckle and she squeals out the all-important word —
‘Eight — oooo — eight, sir — ooohoo — eight, sir —’
‘Is it?’ He swishes his cane through the air.
Yes sir — eight sir — eight —’
He could count them if he wanted to, eight scarlet cane-weals across trembling bum-cheeks, but he has no need with the girl herself keeping her desperate tally. He teases her flinching bottom with little pats and flicks and ‘just there, I think’ aiming strokes, the fastidiousness of this full half minute of attention to the positioning of the girl’s bum making her elevate its shivery chubbiness fractionally more at each tormenting platt-platt of the cane, until her bottom is literally straining up for its next stroke, firm and plump and utterly vulnerable.
He desists from his playful ‘feeling-up’ and mischievously rests the cane across his palm, seeing a sudden tremor of tension tighten the muscles in the girl’s legs as she catches her breath and holds it, her bent-over, bottom-high body thrumming with dread expectation. Her taut-stretched thighs quiver suddenly as he outwaits her moment of frantic concentration; she clings on to the peak of her screwed-up courage, even pushing with her toes to lift her bottom just a fraction higher, in a panicky demonstration of just what an obedient, eager-to-please girl she really is — but the stroke doesn’t come!
She hisses out her pent up breath, a-tremble with nerves. Her hips dip as she tries to sneak a glance over her shoulder, yet without managing to catch sight of the cane. She whimpers faintly, a plaintive ‘oooh’, and he snaps at her, ‘Bottom up, girl!’ She thrusts her quivery buttocks high with a convulsive push of her legs and the cane catches her across both cheeks just as her bum bounces to meet the stroke.
‘Aaaah! Haa-aaah! Aaaah-hoooo! Oooh —’
Her hips bump hard against the desk as she swerves her bum away from the sting. ‘S-sir — sir —’
She squeezes her thighs together, bending her knees.
‘N-nine, sir — oooh — sir — nine — nine’ Her tummy squirms against the desk top, her bum trembling fitfully. She splutters that it’s ‘nine, sir’ several more times as she struggles to muster the will to lift her crimson-blazed buttocks up for the headmaster to cane them again.
Last term; oh, last term, it would all have been over. The girl blubs a series of sobs, her mouth wet against the desk, yet she manages to stick her bum up; hesitantly, unwillingly, but up nice and high; trembly but up; helpless, flinching, cheek-tweaking but up; and when she’s done it, when she has made that humiliating gesture of acceptance of her headmaster’s right to thrash her smarting bottom still more, and when he has waited patiently for her to make herself do it, there is another of those nerve-tingling moments that stretches on and on before the cane swishes down again and splatts! across the plump pertness of Gillian’s upthrust bum.
‘Gooo! Ooooo-ooooh!’ She blubs and sobs and stutters. ‘T-ten, sir — ten — ten — oh, sir — ten sir —’
Unable to help herself she clutches frantically at the heated tenderness of her bottom, squeezing at the sting and forgetting the rule about not rubbing until after you’ve had your caning; a sharp stroke across the backs of her thighs takes her to task, the reminder reinforced by the snapped-out words, ‘Put your hands back where they’re supposed to be, Gillian!’
‘Yes sir — yes sir,’ Her fingers scrabble for the far side of the desk, but her lack of self-control has to be dealt with. She is straightening her legs and hollowing her back and pushing her bottom out yet again before she hears ‘Stand up!’
She scrambles to her feet, all flushed cheeks and tearfulness, all slidey-down knickers and rucked-up blouse and firm, bare belly and pubic fuzz and maidenly close-pressing of soft thighs. Left hand, right hand — two strokes each, alternately — left hand, right hand.
‘Sir — please sir — s-sorry sir —’
‘Bend over.’
She slumps weeping across the desk again, squeezing her hands together, white knuckles and rosy palms. Time has to be spent over settling her down, time spent and opportunity taken to arrange her ‘properly’; her blouse is inched up with the necessary lifting of tummy and chest and slipping underneath of nonchalant hands. Young breasts are somehow coaxed free of a 34B-cup bra and pert nipples stiffened by contact with the cool desk-top and then between casually tweezing fingertips.
‘Sir — oh, please sir —’
The cane rattles as it is picked up; almost unwittingly Gillian starts to push her smarting bottom up and out as though the knowledge alone that the cane is hovering somewhere behind her again is sufficient prompting, but the patronising instruction; ‘Come on then — stick your naughty bottom up,’ makes sure she does precisely what is expected of her.
The thwitt! of the cane has Gillian wriggling across the desk with breathless gasps and the plaintive, pleading wail ‘Eleven, sir —!’
Trembly bum-cheeks lift themselves reluctantly, warily up for the last stroke. Poised in crimson-wealed helplessness, Gillian’s bottom waits and shivers and flinches as the cane teases here and there and bounces tormentingly off the firm roundness as it puts off the moment.
Holding her breath, tears rolling down her pink cheeks, Gillian tries to gather what is left of her self-composure, eyes tight-shut, mouth half-open, a runnel of snot making her pretty face look ridiculously childish and not at all that of a girl who is big enough to have twelve hard strokes of the cane across her bare bottom instead of the six she would have got last term.
Up, Gillian!’
‘Ooh — yes sir!’ The school’s newest and youngest prefect thrusts out her bottom and the cane slices down.
‘Aaagh — aaahhhhooo! Oooogh!’ she glubs and blubbers and gasps great sobs and he thinks she’s going to forget. And then, with a splutter of tears that subsides to a snotty sniffle she stumbles whisperingly that last vital word;
‘S-sir — oowow — t-twelve, sir!’
‘Twelve indeed, Gillian,’ says the headmaster. He flicks her trembling bottom playfully with the tip of the cane and looks at his watch. Almost four o’clock; two in detention this evening; he leaves Gillian and takes his cane off to deal with a couple more naughty girls.

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