From Uniform Girls 22
The ant’s body weaved frantically to and fro, seeing a way across the yawning crevasse in its path. Carey-Anne noticed its panicked movements as she stared at the polished wooden boards only 18 inches away. She moved her fingers slowly across the floor until they bridged the gap between two boards. The ant, seizing the opportunity, rushed across the temporary crossing and continued on its way to the skirting, where it disappeared from sight.
Carey-Anne sighed once more. The half-open window to her right allowed a cool breeze to play across her bare legs, the thighs taut in her bent posture, the skirt lifted and thrown almost carelessly up her back to expose the inadequate expanse of thin cotton which constituted her briefs.
This was her first visit to his office under such circumstances. The anticipation of coming events caused another flutter of nervousness in her stomach and a tingling in her nether regions. Her mouth was dry as she listened to the voice behind her confirming travel arrangements for them to play an extra sports fixture in two weeks’ time. She continued to concentrate on the floor, her fingers outstretched, just brushing the toes of her black pumps, the crisp white socks contrasting with the light tan of her calves.
He looked round from the ‘phone to see the girl still bent over, a plump crescent of pale flesh having escaped from the confines of her briefs on each side, the tantalising apex hidden from view. She looked steadfastly at the floor.
The opportunity to beat this attractive young miscreant had occurred completely by chance. And to give it up would have been a shame indeed.
The sun, slanting diagonally across the room in the late afternoon, caught her pale-blue knickers in its golden glare and made her bottom appear to glow in comparison to the remainder of her body, still in shadow.
Carey-Anne tilted her head down slightly so that she could see past her legs to the table where the dull length of rattan lay, its curved handle visible over the edge with what looked like black tape wound round to form a thick grip. She shivered involuntarily.
The telephone at last clattered back onto its rest and she heard the rattle of the cane as it was picked up once again, followed by a short, sharp experimental swish through the air accompanied by a flinch-inducing low whistle.
‘Have you been beaten before, Maxwell?’
‘No, Mr Morton.’
‘Ah well, there’s a little surprise in store, I think.’
‘I’m going to give you the full six, so that you learn we won’t tolerate that sort of behaviour from senior Guides. Is that clear?’
A clearing of the throat, followed by a stifled confirmation.
He pulled the skirt higher, the cane brushing against her back as he made the necessary adjustments: a light dusting of fine fair hair just above the waistband of her briefs caught the sun as he moved out of the beam.
Moving round to stand by Carey-Anne’s left hip, he raised the flexible length and let it come down in a gentle curve to touch gently across the full swell of the proffered buttocks. She flinched as the wood touched her through the stretched cotton, anticipating its next stinging arrival. The waiting was excruciating as he measured the distance again and coughed prior to asking if she was ready.
The jangle of the telephone broke the intense silence, and Carey-Anne’s body — tensed for the first stroke — visibly quivered as she saw him stride irritably back to the desk.
‘Sorry, who…? Oh, put them through, would you…? Maxwell, wait outside for a moment.’
Carey-Anne rose and folded her skirt down again as she left the room hurriedly, the dampness of fear between her legs. It was a full ten minutes until she was called back.
There was no preamble: ‘Skirt up and bend over.’ She moved swiftly to obey, the irritation on his face an incentive to get it over with quickly. He flexed the rattan repeatedly as she resumed the now familiar position.
During her absence from the room, he noticed, she had hitched down her briefs to cover those two enticing areas of bare cheek. The room was suddenly darker, the sun having apparently fallen out of the sky, reflecting his mood as the cane swished and bit fiercely six times into her thinly-protected bottom.
Carey-Anne swayed onto her toes with each stroke, striving to hold her position as the smarting, burning, cutting rod was slashed across her buttocks.
It was over more quickly than she had thought possible, the strokes following one another in a rapid tattoo of pain, building to an unbearable crescendo, her breath hissing in short gasps through clenched teeth, until she was able to shoot upright after the final blow to grab at the bruised flesh with both hands whilst emitting little whooops of amazement at how much it still hurt. The cane rattled down onto the desk.
‘Right, now get out, Maxwell, and don’t let me see you in here again like this.’
‘No, Mr Morton,’
Carey-Anne agreed as she shuffled towards the door, smoothing her skirt into place and brushing her hair back off her face.
As she lay naked on her bed at home an hour later, she ruminated on the merits of corporal punishment. It had certainly hurt, but at least it had been over quickly — when it finally came.
The cool evening air fanned the swollen ridges which crossed her pale cheeks. A knock at the door.
‘It’s Cheryl: can I come in?’
‘Hang on a min!’ Carey-Anne chucked on a dressing gown: ‘OK!’
‘What happened to you, then? You were hellish late getting back from that Guide meeting,’ her sister demanded.
‘Oh, I had to see Old Morton.’
‘I got the cane, actually,’ Carey-Anne admitted with a hint of pride.
‘Want to see?’ She didn’t wait, but lifted up her dressing gown to reveal the six purpling welts, to another exclamation from her sister.
‘I don’t believe it! He must have hit you awfully hard. God, you got SIX,’ she exclaimed.
Cheryl gently ran her fingertips over the corrugations, causing Carey-Anne to wince: ‘Sorry! Hey, did he make you take your knicks down, you naughty girl: bare botty and all that?’
No, he bloody didn’t,’ came the indignant response.
‘God, imagine! Why did you let him cane you, you’re supposed to be looking after the Guides, aren’t you? In charge while Mrs Bennett’s away? What would she say?’ The questions continued to tumble out. ‘What was it for, anyway?’
‘I left one of the juniors behind at the camp site last weekend, and her parents complained.’
‘So what did he say: “Bend over, my lass, I’m going to beat you”, or what?’ Cheryl giggled, the idea of her eighteen-year-old big sister getting whacked on the bum was suddenly a source of great amusement.
‘It wasn’t very pleasant, actually, Cheryl, so you can stop taking the piss.’
Carey-Anne stood by the full-length mirror looking at the alarming stripes across her cheeks, and gave a shudder at the thought of what it had been like. The waiting was the worst, she thought. Little did she realise…
The hot air in the room was stirred unwillingly by the little fan, as Mr Morton and young Alison Fox’s father stood arguing about Carey-Anne Maxwell and her ‘dereliction of duty’ as Mr Fox insisted on calling it.
‘You say you’ve taken appropriate disciplinary measures, Mr Morton, but how do I know they fit the crime? My Alison could have been wandering about those woods all night, you know.’
‘I appreciate that, of course, but she has been punished. Actually, she was caned.’
‘Caned eh? On the hand, I suppose.’
‘On the buttocks, Mr Fox.’
‘Oh!’ The voice rose an octave with a combination of surprise and interest.
‘Six of the best.’
‘Not enough, I said, Mr Morton.’
‘And what would you suggest?’
‘At least a dozen,’ nodded Mr Fox piously, ‘bare, of course.’
‘This is a young lady of 18, you know, not some schoolgirl.’
Mr Morton thought for a moment. The idea of administering a second, admittedly well-deserved beating to the delicious Carey-Anne’s bottom — her bare bottom — was something he found appealing. Very appealing.
‘Very well,’ Morton agreed. I will contact the girl. ‘Do you wish to witness the punishment?’ knowing the answer would be affirmative. Mr Fox merely inclined his head.
Mr Morton picked up the phone: ‘Is Carey-Anne there, please? It’s Mr Morton.’
‘It’s old Morton,’ hissed Cheryl, ‘wonder what he wants!’
Carey-Anne couldn’t believe the conversation she was having, trying not to reveal the essence of it to Cheryl who was hanging around at the top of the stairs. ‘Yes, Mr Morton, I understand, but…’
The receiver clattered back onto the rest.
‘What did he want, then?’
‘Oh nothing, just checking on next Saturday, that’s all.’
Cheryl was disappointed.
Saturday was a steaming hot day as Carey-Anne pulled on a cotton shirt, not bothering with a bra, and plain white cotton knickers which she checked covered both cheeks properly, hitching them down in the mirror before bending over to see how much they rode up. Should be OK. A pair of blue cotton slacks were pulled, tugged over the swell of her rump, a final check of the make-up.
She had been ringing the bell for what seemed an age, when Mrs Morton answered the door. ‘Ah, Carey-Anne Maxwell, isn’t it? My husband’s not back yet, so make yourself at home in the living room. He won’t be long, and I have to go out now.’
Carey-Anne nodded: ‘Thank you, Mrs Morton.’
It was some fifteen minutes before the front door slammed shut and she heard men’s voices. Two men!
‘This is Mr Fox, Maxwell, Alison’s father.’
‘Afternoon, young lady. Ready for your medicine?’
‘Mr Fox will be witnessing your punishment, as I told you. Through into the games room, please.’
Carey-Anne led the way, the eyes of both men falling to the invitingly protruding curves of her behind as her buttocks undulated gently beneath the fabric. Mr Fox smiled. So did Mr Morton.
‘I’m going to give you two doses of six of the best, this time. You’d better get your trousers off first.’
Mr Morton pulled the three blinds across one wall of the large room, which was dominated by a snooker table. Carey-Anne undid the buttons at her waist and eased the slacks off her bottom and down to mid-thigh.
‘Right off, if you please.’
Down they came, as she kicked off the shoes and lifted first one leg, then the other, and pulled them off, carefully folding them across a chair back. Mr Fox suppressed a smirk of approval at the girl’s firm form — lissom, smooth, and soft in the right places.
The knickers were taut across the teenager’s buttocks, the division between the cheeks just visible, the puff of hair at the apex of her thighs tantalisingly discreet.
‘And the shirt,’ Mr Morton confirmed, noticing that she was not wearing a bra.
‘Get on with it, girl,’ came the snapped response.
Carey-Anne swore inwardly at her earlier decision to dispense with a bra as she swiftly unbuttoned her shirt and pulled it back to expose two firm, bouncing breasts pale against the tan of her chest. She tossed the shirt over the same chair, and faced the two men, head aloof.
‘Here’s a saucy one,’ mumbled Mr Fox.
‘I want you to sign this form agreeing to be disciplined.’ Mr Morton shoved a clipboard at the girl, and she scribbled a signature at the bottom of the sheet without reading it. ‘And date it, please.’ She handed it back, aware of Mr Fox’s gaze on her bosom.
‘Mr Fox is going to administer a spanking before you are caned: are you ready?’ She nodded, a dampness between her legs and under her arms betraying her embarrassment and nervousness. She licked her lips.
‘Come here,’ ordered Mr Fox. Grabbing her left wrist, he pulled her firmly over his lap until she was balanced perfectly, fingertips and toes on the floor. Fingers gripping the waistband of her knickers, he pulled them down, and Carey-Anne rolled her hips to permit their downward progress unhindered until they rested at mid-thigh.
His hand rested on the soft roundness of her bare right cheek, slapping it lightly so that it quivered. He stroked the smooth flesh, down her thigh, across to the other leg, and onto her left buttock.
The spanking was vigorous, the impact of palm and bottom evidenced by the jiggling mounds, reddening then deepening in colour, the crack of each smack resounding round the room.
Carey-Anne was breathing heavily. The spanking was a great deal harder than she had anticipated, the stinging and smarting building then dying, the rapid tattoo building and fading, until she felt his hand rest on her left thigh, slapping it lightly, before administering a resounding two smacks on each thigh which made her yelp loudly for the first time.
She struggled to her feet, grasping her glowing bottom with both hands before reaching for her knickers.
‘Don’t bother, you won’t be needing them,’ advised Mr Morton, swishing the slender crook-handled cane menacingly.
He gripped her wrist and led her, shuffling with knickers round her knees, to the snooker table, where he pushed her over the green baize until her breasts were flattened by the fabric stretched over the cool slate. If only her backside could benefit from that coolness, she thought.
‘Arms out to the side, feet apart.’ The order was followed by a shuffling of feet until her knickers restricted their further progress. ‘Take them off.’ Carey-Anne stood and allowed them to drop to her ankles before kicking off both knickers and shoes and resuming her position.
‘Feet apart,’ the order repeated. ‘Further.’ Carey-Anne, aware by instinct of the direction of the men’s gaze, pushed her now bare feet across the wooden floor. The intimate folds revealed, she almost cried at the humiliation of her position. Her fingers, flat on the baize, reached out to the sides she could not reach, and she was forced to stand almost on tiptoe now that her feet were so far apart.
‘Excellent. Stay there, Maxwell.’
The two men left her exposed over the table, to think about what was coming. She shifted position so that her hips were more comfortably placed on the edge of the table, and tensed as footsteps returned.
Nothing was said. The now familiar rattle of the cane as it was picked up, the silent flexing imagined rather than heard, an experimental swish, laying across the cheeks to measure distance and trajectory, then the blinding, slashing pain as the first stroke arrived, making her fingers attempt to dig into the hard table surface.
The second and third strokes drove her, if it were possible, further over the unmoving table. The already reddened flesh sprang up with the new double-marks of the cane, short in length across each cheek, the end of the cane flailing round her right hip to bite deep into her upper thigh.
Six strokes given. Six received. The tears dropped gently from her face onto the green swarth, darkening the fabric and spreading slowly, like the pain in her striped rump.
Silence. The two men leaving the room, the sound of voices, glasses, water. Oh what she would give for a glass of water. The tears had stopped, and Carey-Anne changed position again to relieve the aching thighs and calves caused by her stretched position. Outside the window, she could hear the sound of a lawn-mower now near, now far. Probably next door. Her heart quickened at the thought they might have heard her cry out, for she had on a number of occasions while the six strokes rained down.
It must have been only minutes, but it seemed longer, as she heard the steady tread of her tormentors returning. Swiftly, she resumed the position. Mr Morton walked to the far end of the table and picked up the triangle of wood keeping the balls captive. She felt the sharp corners pushing against her legs just above her knees, sliding slowly higher, forcing her legs further apart.
‘It’ll be a useful measure of your position, young lady. If you drop it, there’s an extra stroke in store.’
The wood was now pushing uncomfortably into the soft flesh of her inner thighs, and she wriggled slightly to ease the discomfort. She felt it stop sliding, and a hand, rough, stroked her thigh and across both tramlined buttocks.
The rattle of the cane again, and almost immediately the sting of its return, just above the crease with her thighs, where the cheeks were best padded. And again, almost in the same place. Again, higher, the noise of its approach higher it seemed, the pain intense as it burned a path from hip to hip. Three to go. She tensed her legs anew, and the taunting, lashing length of malacca bit deep across the bare target. A pause, and the final stroke across the backs of her thighs forced a high-pitched yelp of protest and a clatter as the triangle hit the floor.
Carey-Anne stood. ‘Get down.’ She paused. ‘Bend over.’
She slowly inclined her body, her eyes swimming with tears at the injustice of it all, and the cane snapped across her cheeks before her breasts touched the baize.
The tears flowed freely, as she slumped over the table, shoulders shaking with relief that it was over. Behind, the men nodded approvingly at one another.
Justice had not only been done, but had been seen to be done.