Story from Janus 43 by R.T. Mason
A bright shaft of afternoon sunlight slanted across the Headmaster’s office to highlight the blonde bowed head of a girl seated at a table at the side of his large polished oak desk. It was 4.15 and the raucous clamour of departing pupils had now died away, leaving the school largely deserted except for a few masters, like the Head, holding a detention.
The brightly-lit head remained bowed as its owner continued, unhappily, to write over and over: I must endeavour to do very much better. James Wescott, fiftyish, tweed-jacketed, looked momentarily up from the papers he was marking and experienced a pleasant glow of anticipation. She was an extremely attractive pupil. She was also a very special pupil. And his instructions were to make her life very unpleasant indeed. Her name was Carole Wright.
The reason she was very special was that although she at present was not wearing a wedding ring Carole Wright was married. She was also 22, though she looked no more than 17 in the school uniform and with her blonde hair tied in two girlish bunches with red ribbons. Carole Wright in fact was a young married lady who had not been behaving very properly.
So she had to be punished. Being a schoolgirl again was that punishment. This was her first day, getting kitted out with her uniform in the morning and starting at Mr Wescott’s school after lunch. A lesson of English with the Head had conveniently brought her this detention. Carole was to attend school for two weeks. They were to be two weeks that she would not forget for a very long time.
‘How many have you written?’ he queried.
The blonde head was raised to give a view of the slightly flushed face. A softly pretty face, full-lipped, sensuous. That tied in with what Mr Wescott had been told by his friend Adrian Farnworth who had brought her to him. A sensual appetite which had been indulged outside the confines of marriage. Unfortunately for Carole her young husband had found out.
She bit her lip. ‘Forty-six, Mr Wescott.’ It was still difficult to accept that this was happening.
‘Get on with it,’ he growled. ‘You’d better learn to write faster than that, my girl.’
When she had done 100 he would tell her to stop. Then he was going to cane her. James Wescott savoured the thought. Girls were normally off-limits for the cane.
None of the other pupils knew the situation. Her new form mates had simply been told that she was attending while she spent a short stay with her uncle. A couple of members of staff had been told, Mr Gatting, Games Master, for one, but that was all. When the idea had been first suggested James Wescott had been doubtful. Could a 22-year-old pass for 17? But when he saw her it was clear she could, especially once they’d got her in the uniform and with her hair done in those schoolgirl bunches.
Adrian Farnworth had said, ‘Young Carole has got to have a very unpleasant two weeks.’ Well, James Wescott could see to that.
He got up from his desk and walked round to look down: at the blonde head, the slim shoulders in the white school blouse, the hand wearily repeating its boring message. Mr Wescott’s own hand reached out to sharply pinch the lobe of a pretty ear. Carole gave a squeak of pain.
‘How many?’ he kept hold of her ear.
She let out another yelp. ‘Pl...please! Oooh! Eighty... eighty-six. Sir. I think.’
Mr Wescott gave a final tug at the ear and then went to sit down. ‘Stop writing. And come over here.’
The pretty face was quite red now, with an apprehensive look. Carole got to her feet and came hesitantly forward. She had a very nice shape, firm good-sized tits pushing out of her white blouse on either side of the school red-and-grey striped tie, and with the very short grey pleated skirt showing a good six inches of shapely bare thigh. Her skirt was in fact deliberately several sizes too short and the white knee-socks Carole had on were normally only worn by the younger girls.
She stood uncertainly at the side of the Head’s desk, blinking in the face of a hard stare.
‘Now I’m going to cane you, Carole.’
As the blue eyes rounded in fear he added, ‘The cane on your bare bottom. That’s what naughty girls need.’
‘No!’ she blurted. ‘You can’t... not that.’
‘You’ll very soon find out that I can, girl. And if necessary I’ll bring the Deputy Head in here to hold you down whilst I do it. Please remove your skirt.’
Carole’s eyes looked desperate. No one had mentioned the cane before. But she knew she was in no position to argue. She had been forced to accept this whole ridiculous humiliating affair, it had been either that or have Bob get a divorce.
‘Come on,’ Mr Wescott barked. ‘Get it off. It shouldn’t be a problem. You’ve had enough practice by all accounts, taking your clothes off for every Tom, Dick and Harry.’
Carole bit her lip, and an even deeper flush suffused her delectable features. It hadn’t been like that but there was no point in arguing. Her hands went to the button which fastened the waist of the skirt. Blushing, she slid it down. Underneath were neat white nylon knickers tight over her hips and rounded buttocks.
‘Put it on the desk. Now take off the knickers.’
She tried not to think about it. Tried to shut out the fact that she was standing in front of Mr Wescott with his stern schoolmasterish gaze keenly on her, missing nothing. Carole told herself again that she had no option as she forced her hands to slide down the knickers. She stepped out of them. One hand came quickly across to cover her blonde bush while the other was left holding the bunched-up briefs.
‘Put them on the desk,’ Mr Wescott instructed. ‘And then stand up straight. At attention. From what I hear of your behaviour, Miss, modesty is a little out of place.’
With an effort Carole made herself stand with her hands at her sides. This was simply diabolical — but presumably that was what they wanted, to humiliate her. Her bottom lip started to tremble.
‘Good. Stay like that, at attention, whilst I finish these papers. Then I shall cane you.’
Carole stood there, in blouse and tie and white knee-socks and the sensible schoolgirl shoes and nothing else, while Mr Wescott got on with his marking. From time to time he glanced up — at Carole’s flushed face and at what she was being forced to display below her waist. It was desperately horrible and it seemed to go on forever. At last the Headmaster shuffled the papers into a neat pile at the side of his desk.
‘Ever had it before? A nice whippy cane on that bottom?’
Numbly Carole shook her head.
‘Good. You’ll find it most stimulating. Not perhaps the stimulation that you’re used to but stimulating nonetheless. It really gets those nerve endings jangling, as you’ll see.’
Mr Wescott had been clearing one side of his desk and now got up. ‘Bend over, Miss. Lie yourself across the desk. Knees nice and straight and stick your bottom out.’
Carole felt as if she wanted to be sick. ‘Look...’ she gasped.
‘Get over it! Or I’ll have Mr Matthews in here holding you.’ There was a long curved cane in his hand now.
Carole stepped forward and bent over. How could they do this to her. The shaft of sunlight had moved round and was now on Mr Wescott’s desk, momentarily dazzling her as she lay across it. She closed her eyes, the shiny surface warm against her cheek. Her fingers clutched at the edge. With a shiver of terror Carole felt the cane laid across her bare bottom, pat-patting the soft flesh. She held her breath.
The breath burst from Carole’s mouth in a yell of anguish. The cane had zipped in across the full meat of her bottom like a glowing hot poker. A red blur of pain exploded in her head as her pertly rounded rear performed a frantic dance. Its pale soft flesh was now decorated with a tight pair of rapidly reddening tramlines.
‘No!’ she yelled. ‘NO!’ But as the words gasped out there was a second CRACK! biting in half an inch below the first stroke.
Mr Wescott’s voice, somewhat breathless with effort and excitement: ‘You will, my girl. You’ll take six.’
Carole had no idea how she took them, her mind giving up registering detail after the first two and seeming to float helplessly above the intense shocking pain as the cane repeatedly struck down. But six it was. Six nice bright red double stripes on the taut rounded bottom cheeks. When it was over the pretty young housewife could barely stand up and her face, red and blotchy and wet with tears, really did look like a 17-year-old’s. As for her bottom it felt as if a thousand wasps had been at work on it.
Somehow Carole managed to put on her skirt and knickers, and then her blazer. Outside, humiliating school satchel in hand, she crossed the deserted yard on tottery legs; then made for the bus stop. Still ringing in her head was Mr Wescott’s parting shot.
‘I hope that’ll give you something to think about, young lady. For your information I shall be giving you a dose of exactly the same medicine every afternoon that you’re with us.’ This had been accompanied by a sharp slap to her stinging bottom as she went out.
A quarter of an hour to Mr Farnworth’s house, or ‘Uncle Adrian’ as Carole had been told to call him. An unpleasant quarter of an hour with, it seemed, all the other passengers staring at her, and the youngish bus conductor joshing her about her short skirt. Then the few minutes’ walk to the house. Horrible Mr Farnworth’s house, whom she had to stay with for these next two weeks.
Carole rang the bell. A smiling Mr Farnworth opened it. If it wasn’t bad enough to see his grinning face there with him was Mr Mannings as well.
It was Mr Mannings who had organised this whole diabolical plan. He was the solicitor Bob had gone to when he found out that Carole had been going round to her boss’s house at lunch times and not just for a cup of coffee. In blazing anger he had gone to the solicitor demanding an immediate divorce. But Mr Mannings had persuaded Bob that perhaps he was being too hasty. Why not give her one more chance, but punish her for what she had done.
Carole certainly didn’t want a divorce. She had simply been having a pleasant fling on the side. Mr Brightling’s attention had been very flattering and it hadn’t needed a lot of persuasion to get her to say yes. For a couple of months life had been utterly fantastic, doing it with Mr Brightling at lunch time and that proving to add an extra dimension to her nights in bed with Bob. Then of course Bob had found out. Carole had been desperate, losing the security of her husband and marriage being the last thing she wanted.
So she had been eager to agree to any alternative. What suave, smooth-talking Mr Mannings had come up with had been this way-out idea of going back to school. A friend of his was acquainted with the Headmaster of a small, old-fashioned boarding school for girls, a rather bleak institution particularly favoured as a dumping-ground for unwanted stepdaughters on account of its relatively low fees, lack of leniency and optional holiday boarding facilities. Why not send Carole to stay with Mr Farnworth for a couple of weeks and attend Mr Wescott’s school?
Mr Mannings had smiled his professional solicitor’s smile as Carole and Bob sat in his office.
‘Your dear wife has behaved irresponsibly and childishly, Mr Wright, so why not treat her as a child? Two weeks in a short schoolgirl’s skirt and carrying a satchel to school. She won’t enjoy that one little bit. And we can ask Mr Wescott to make life a little, ah, hot for her.’
Carole had flushed. It sounded pretty sickening but not as bad as Bob getting a divorce. It never entered her head that making life ‘hot’ for her could possibly include the cane across her bare bottom. Now as she returned from that sickening first afternoon here was Mr Mannings as well as Mr Farnworth, both grinning at her as she stepped into the hallway.
‘I thought I’d drop over and see how you were settling in,’ Mr Mannings told her. ‘My, you do make a cute schoolgirl, don’t you!’
Carole gritted her teeth. She didn’t know whom she hated most: Mr Mannings who had devised all this or that Mr Wescott who had just thrashed her with that dreadful cane. Not that ‘Uncle Adrian’ was much better. That visit with him to the school outfitter in the morning had been truly beastly. Forced to strip in front of the two men and then have them try the various items of ghastly schoolgirl clothing on her.
‘How did you get on, dear?’ inquired Mr Farnworth. He was the same sort of age as the other two, fiftyish, and was obviously getting a real kick out of this. There was a Mrs Farnworth but so far Carole hadn’t seen much of her.
‘Bloody diabolical!’ she spat out. ‘He could be reported for... for what he did.’
‘You mean the cane, dear?’ asked Mr Farnworth mildly. ‘Oh no, it’s perfectly legal. And you did agree to it as I understand.’
Mr Mannings’ eyes were shining. ‘Of course she did. Let’s have a look, Carole. Let’s see if our friend has left any marks of his handiwork.’
‘No!’ Carole gasped. But they simply grabbed her and dragged her into the sitting room. And then ‘Uncle Adrian’ held her arms while Mr Mannings got her skirt off and then yanked Carole’s knickers down to her knees. She finished up face-down on the carpet with Mr Farnworth holding her shoulders. A hand, Mr Mannings’, stroked Carole’s bare bottom.
‘Oh my, he certainly has left his mark. Or should I say marks.’
Carole kicked her legs but was helpless. She could feel hot tears of humiliation in her eyes. The hand lightly smacked her bottom again and again while the two men laughed. Then they let go of her. Carole rolled away, grabbing at the lowered knickers.
‘You... you bastards!’ she hissed.
‘Now, now,’ admonished Mr Farnworth, now sitting in an armchair and watching keenly as Carole got her clothes back on. ‘We may have to remember that before bedtime, eh Charles? I should say coarse language in a schoolgirl calls for a slippering.’
With shaking hands Carole put the skirt back on. She was trembling all over and her breath was coming in half sobs.
‘C...can I go upstairs?’ she managed.
‘May I go upstairs please, Uncle Adrian,’ Mr Farnworth corrected.
Carole forced herself to say that. ‘Of course, my dear. Got some homework to do I expect?’
Both men thought this a great joke. Mr Mannings smacked her leg as she went out. Upstairs Carole threw herself on the bed and burst into tears.
Half an hour later there was a knock at the door. It proved to be Mrs Farnworth. She was younger than her husband, quite pleasant-looking, and was carrying a cup of tea on a saucer with two little biscuits. Carole, still lying on the bed, sat up. Her face was red and puffy from further outbursts of tears.
Mrs Farnworth told her to cheer up. ‘No use crying over spilt milk, and from what I hear it has been all your own fault. There’s much too much of that sort of thing nowadays, married girls running around and doing just what they want. I think it’s a disgusting way to carry on — in my day you would never have dreamed of it. It’s all wrong! So you can’t complain.’
Carole took a sip of the warm tea and said nothing.
‘Did Mr Wescott really cane you?’
Blinking at the memory Carole nodded. Mrs Farnworth shook her head. ‘Well, maybe that’s what’s needed.’
Carole certainly didn’t feel hungry but a little while later when the dinner was ready she had to go down and sit at the table with the others. Carole was ordered to eat up every scrap that was put before her — just like a little child. Forcing herself to keep eating she thought she was going to be actually sick, but somehow managed to avoid it. ‘Uncle Adrian’ playfully suggested it might be a good idea if they got a high chair for Carole’s use. They might even put a bib on her in case she made a mess. Struggling to finish Mrs Farnworth’s casserole, Carole said nothing. There was always the chance that Mr Farnworth was serious.
After dinner that gentleman said that if his wife didn’t mind he and Mr Mannings would take Carole out to the pub. ‘Give her a little airing.’ Oh God, what has he thought up now, Carole wondered, for it was unlikely that the visit was being planned with her enjoyment in mind.
This proved to be the case as Carole was banished to a children’s parlour, Mr Farnworth telling her that young girls weren’t allowed in the bar. She had to sit there with a bag of crisps and some lemonade, in her too-small schoolgirl uniform, with two young children and their parents eyeing her wonderingly.
‘How old are you?’ inquired a little boy of about nine.
At least it could be worse Carole told herself, forcing down crisps which she didn’t want any more than she had wanted dinner. Very soon, though, it did get worse as Mr Farnworth and Mr Mannings came in from the bar bearing glasses of beer and bringing two acquaintances with them.
‘Here she is,’ announced Mr Farnworth. ‘My niece Carole. Stand up, Carole, and say hello to these two gentlemen.’
What Mr Farnworth had in mind soon became apparent. A little spot of humiliating embarrassment. ‘Just between the four of us,’ he confided, ‘Carole’s been a naughty girl. Had to have the cane at school this afternoon. Not working properly. So right now she’s got some nice red marks on her bottom.’
Mr Farnworth was speaking quite loud enough for the couple with the children to hear. Carole cringed. One of the two newcomers, a fat man with a red sweaty face, said, ‘I wouldn’t mind watching her get that. Eh Jack? On the bare was it?’
‘Oh yes,’ replied Mr Farnworth. ‘I told the Headmaster that he would have to deal strictly with her otherwise she might get really out of hand. Actually if you two are interested she’s got to have a slippering before bed tonight. Bad language. Why not come back and view the proceeding?’
Carole felt like sinking through the floor. Naturally the offer was enthusiastically taken up. On the drive back Carole had to sit wedged between the two visitors in the back seat. The fat man’s creepy hand was squeezing her thigh for most of the ten-minute drive.
Back at the house Carole was told to go up to her room and put on her pyjamas and then come straight down again. Her pyjamas were thin blue cotton, short-sleeved and with three-quarter length legs. They were very tight-fitting, designed to show off her trim shapely bottom and the firm thrust of her breasts, and even the fine shape of her legs. The pyjamas were meant for the privacy of home of course, not for wearing in front of four horrible older men whose only interest was in tormenting her. Not for the first time today Carole found herself bitterly regretting those lunch-time dalliances with Mr Brightling. On quaking legs she padded down the stairs.
A chorus of raucous masculine approval greeted her. They were sitting in chairs and on the sofa all facing a leather-covered stool which was set out in the middle of the room. On the stool was a man’s brown leather slipper. Through the remarks and laughter Mr Farnworth told Carole to stand facing them by the stool. He called for silence.
‘Now Carole, are you sorry for using that dreadful language?’
Carole bit her lip. She had only said ‘bastards’ but she nodded meekly. Four pairs of eyes were riveted to her choice form.
‘Let’s hear it then.’
Carole forced the words out. ‘I... I’m sorry. I’m sorry I used bad language.’
‘Right. Very good. But to make sure you remember that you’re going to get the slipper. Drop your pyjama trousers please.’
Carole hesitated, looking from one intent face to another, the four men forming one group. Mr Farnworth got to his feet.
‘Come on, young lady, let’s have you! Young girls must learn to jump to it when they’re told to do something. Get them down!’
Trying to close her mind to it all Carole slid the trousers down. There was a wolf whistle from the fat man. ‘Oh just look at that!’ from the other visitor. Mr Farnworth, the slipper in one hand, took hold of Carole’s arm and pushed her down on the stool with her legs, and her bottom, facing the three seated men.
She could almost feel the four pairs of hot male eyes boring into her bared bottom, searching into every intimate curve, every little declivity. In a way it was almost a relief when the slipper cracked down for it broke the tension of having to just kneel there, on show. In other ways it wasn’t a relief of course for it hurt like hell, a vicious splat making Carole yell out and writhe her bottom in automatic reaction.
She tried not to jerk her rear, but to keep it still and to keep her legs tight together as the slipper proceeded to rhythmically crack in, but this proved a difficult task. The slipper stung so much that she couldn’t keep still. Her primly closed knees were jerked apart in what had to be a revealing manner; but there was nothing Carole could do about it.
Mr Farnworth kept it up, egged on by the other men and in particular by the fat one, Mr Larkins. When Mr Farnworth at last stopped the fat Larkins said he wanted to have a go. Carole quickly scrambled to her feet and with a scared look at Mr Farnworth dragged her pyjamas up over her glowing bottom. Please God, don’t let them all do it, she prayed.
For the moment anyway her prayer was answered. ‘Not I think tonight at least,’ said Mr Farnworth judiciously. ‘She’s only just arrived and I feel responsible. But she is staying two weeks. Perhaps later. Eh Carole?’
Carole shivered. Soon afterwards the two visitors were driven home, but there was time enough for Mr Larkins to help himself to several groping feels at Carole’s bottom. He simply could not have been more blatant about it. When Mr Farnworth returned he gave her a knowing look.
‘That Bill Larkins really seems to fancy you, my dear. Yes, very keen. Actually I’m not sure that hitting you with a slipper is all he wants to do to you. If you get my meaning. What do you think, you’re very experienced in those matters? I bet you’d rather like it, eh? He said he’d like you to stop over at his place one night.’
‘No!’ Carole gasped. She could just imagine being in the clutches of that lecherous fat man.
‘Uncle Adrian’ smiled and slapped her bottom. ‘I don’t think it would be a bad idea at all.’ But surely he was just being nasty.
At this point Mrs Farnworth brought in that archetypal childhood drink, a mug of cocoa. Carole hated cocoa but she was made to drink it all up nonetheless.
‘Make you grow up into a big girl,’ quipped Mr Farnworth and her tormentor gave her another brisk slap across her tight pyjama’d bum. It was now 10 o’clock. ‘Long past schoolgirls’ bedtime,’ according to Mr Farnworth.
‘Ca...can I call my husband, please?’
Carole had only been here a day but already it was a nightmare. Perhaps if she asked him nicely Bob would relent and let her come back. The thought of two whole weeks of this was — well, it was unthinkable. Mr Farnworth gave her an owlish look. Feeling desperate Carole repeated her plea, this time adding the ridiculous ‘Uncle Adrian’. She had a sudden feeling that if she could only speak to Bob now he would say yes.
Mr Farnworth, after portentously considering the matter, gave his assent. He didn’t go out of the room, though, but sat down opposite Carole as she began dialling. It was a funny feeling dialling her own number from this place because although she had been here less than 24 hours it was now almost like another world. She felt like crying and when she heard Bob’s voice the tears did well out.
He sounded aggressive. ‘How are they treating you? Giving you a rough time, I hope.’
‘Darling, please!’ Carole had difficulty in making her voice work. ‘Please let me come back. I... I can’t take it here.’
‘What d’you mean you can’t take it,’ Bob growled. ‘You haven’t even been there a whole day yet. It sounds to me as if they’re doing a pretty good job. So that when you do come back in two weeks you’ll think twice every time you feel randy.’
‘No! Please! You’ve got to let me come back!’ Tears were streaming down Carole’s face. ‘I... gaa... nngghh...’
Whatever else she was going to say was lost in a series of convulsive sobs. Mr Farnworth moved swiftly over to sit next to Carole on the sofa. He took up the phone.
‘Mr Wright? Adrian Farnworth here. Glad to speak to you. As you can hear Carole is a little emotional at the moment. She is finding her reversion to schoolgirl life somewhat unpleasant, but naturally that is the object of the exercise. I certainly would not recommend curtailing her visit.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ Bob Wright’s voice sounded bitter. ‘I want her taught a proper lesson.’
Mr Farnworth reached down and squeezed one of the sobbing girl’s thighs. ‘We are at one on that, Mr Wright. Rest assured that we will teach her a proper lesson.’
He put the phone in its cradle and turned to Carole. ‘That was a most unfortunate emotional outburst, my girl. A very schoolgirlish outburst and as such needs dealing with in the appropriate manner.’
Adrian Farnworth dragged the still sobbing Carole over his lap and then pulled down the pyjama bottoms which not long earlier had been down for the slipper. Carole’s rear was still somewhat pink from the attentions of that item but the pink was soon transformed into a nice bright red again as ‘Uncle Adrian’ firmly and repeatedly applied the hard palm of his hand.
It was a very long two weeks for Carole Wright, certainly the longest two weeks she had ever spent. Because she was made to stay the full period in spite of repeated, usually tearful, pleadings. There was Mr Westcott’s cane every day in detention after school, and on a number of other occasions as well. There were also other unpleasantnesses at school, quite a few of them thought up by the Games Master who was one of the few other people there were aware of Carole’s true status. Cross-country running; hockey games on muddy fields with big strong girls who had been instructed to play very rough; exhausting special sessions in the gym which made Carole think her heart was going to collapse; and frequently a nice cold shower to round things off.
At home there was ‘Uncle Adrian’ doing his best to keep everything on the boil, and succeeding very well. Mr Mannings had only stayed overnight but he visited again a couple of times to help out. Uncle Adrian also invited other of his friends to assist in the training. Several times he held a little party in which Carole, sitting on a stool in the centre of a group of middle-aged men, would be quizzed on some subject or other she had had that day at school. Failure to satisfy her quiz-masters would result in instant retribution. On a tender rear that was getting more tender all the time. Sometimes she thought that her mind was going to explode.
If all this wasn’t enough there was our friend Mr Larkins. Fat, red-faced, piggy-eyed, creepy-handed Bill Larkins. Carole was continually threatened with the impending prospect of being made to spend one or more overnight stays with charming Bill. ‘A change of scene is just what you need,’ said Mr Farnworth. Even just one such visit would have been quite sufficient to deter a girl from further extra-marital dalliance for the rest of her life.