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Thursday, 1 March 2018

Penalty Points

From Blushes Supplement 7
It was a warm Autumn afternoon and one of the windows in the Head’s study was slightly open and the shrill, distant cries of girls on the playing field could be heard. That would be the Senior hockey team, he thought and checked with his desk diary. Ah yes, they were playing St Ermin’s, their arch-rivals.
Mr Webster rose from his chair. He was quite a tall man, with slicked-down dark hair and in his gown he very much looked the part. Parents of potential pupils were impressed by him. ‘Such a straight-looking man, they would often say afterwards, a man you could trust, a real Head. A little old-fashioned, maybe, but what was wrong with that? It was the kind of approach that was needed these days. Indeed, many of the parents who sent their daughter to Board at Branksome College rather pined for the sort of school discipline they themselves had once had to endure. It never did me any harm, they said, conveniently glossing over the fact that they had found it most unpleasant at the time.
So, when Colin Webster was wont to infer that the College was run on rather strict lines, heads would nod approvingly.
‘I firmly believe that young people, girls as well as boys, should be subject to discipline,’ he would say. ‘I think it is fair to say that the decline in educational standards in this country has gone hand in hand with a decline in discipline.’
‘Quite so, Headmaster. We have become far too slack.’
‘They handle things better in Scotland, of course. They don’t mollycoddle youngsters up there.’ It was at this point that Colin would usually think of the tawse he kept in his desk drawer. He had bought it off a schoolmaster acquaintance several years ago whilst on a holiday trip to the Highlands. The cane which lay in the longer cross-drawer of his desk he had purchased from an educational suppliers. In fact, as a precaution, Colin had bought several similar canes at the same time.
‘I am sure we are leaving our daughter in good hands,’ was another frequent comment.
Colin would nod sagely. ‘Yes, I think you can say that,’ he would reply. ‘You can trust me to do what is right.’
Of course, he didn’t actually state he would whack the little darling whenever she got out of line but there was just a hint — even if a slight hint — in his words and manner, designed to give this impression. No parent had asked a direct question, however, none had ever placed a caveat on his actions… even though Colin was perfectly certain that the majority of them were well aware of what he intended. Secretly they approved but were too hypocritical to come out with it.
Opening the cross-drawer of his desk, Colin took out a pair of binoculars which lay alongside his cane. His cane. The Head of Branksome simply couldn’t resist picking it up and flexing it almost lovingly. It flexed easily, as it should. A cane should not be rigid; it was most effective when it was whippy. To that end, Colin always kept several canes in a tub of water, placing one of them in the drawer at the beginning of each day. He checked with his desk diary to see who it was who had last had that supple piece of willow across her backside. Ah yes, Lavinia Trent. Quite a handful that Lavinia. Now that she was 18, she thought she was above getting the cane. But she wasn’t. Oh no, she wasn’t! Still, the girl was tough, he had to grant her that. She had taken it well.
Colin tucked the memory of that juddering, young naked bottom back into the recesses of his mind and closed the drawer. Then he strolled to the open window through which the faint cries and shouts were coming. He was aware that not only could you hear them on the playing fields but you could see them as well. If you used binoculars. Which Colin quite frequently did.
He focussed and two stick-wielding, running figures came into view. One wore the green gym-slip of St Ermin’s, the other, the blue of Branksome. Strong, bare limbs above short white stockings; young breasts bouncing under a white blouse. Mmmm… yes… hockey was a wonderful game for youngsters! Colin noted a flash of green knickers as a St Ermin’s girl bent low to sweep a shot across goal. Another girl hurtled in, pigtails flying, to crack in a shot. The Branksome goalkeeper made a quite brilliant save.
For two or three minutes, the Head observed the darting figures. Miss Hildreth, the games mistress, was refereeing. She didn’t look much older than many of the girls. She must be at least five years older, but then many of his girls were very mature for their years. Branksome was a Sixth Form College, taking pupils from 16 up to 18. After which, if academically sound, they would move on to University.
Colin at last lowered his binoculars and returned to his desk. He would have liked to have gone on watching but he had work to attend to. Glancing at his watch, he saw the match was due to last another half hour yet.
It was something like ten minutes later that Colin Webster realised that all sounds from the playing fields had ceased. That was a little odd. Perhaps there had been an accident. He took out his binoculars again and walked across to the window.
There was a group of Branksome girls in a circle, whilst the St Ermin’s girls were being led off to a coach by their mistress. Yes, that was distinctly odd. Why should the game have been abandoned twenty minutes before time? Then the Head noticed a dark-haired pupil being escorted towards the College by Miss Hildreth. Something was definitely up. He recognised the pupil as Fiona Stuart-Dunn, one of the more senior girls and just about the best all-round games player they had. She was limping. Thoughtfully, Colin returned to his desk to await developments. Something told him they could be interesting.
He was right.
About ten minutes later there came a knock on his door. ‘Come in,’ he called.
The door opened and in came a healthy-looking Miss Hildreth. Like the pupil who accompanied her, she was dark-haired. Her eyes were light brown whilst those of the girl were blue. Garbed like the rest of the Branksome team, in short-length blue gym-slip, Colin thought she looked absolutely stunning. What superb long straight thighs the young woman had! My God, thought the Head with sudden heat, I wouldn’t mind having her across my desk some day. Fat chance of that though. But with pupils it was different; he had full authority over them.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Head,’ said Val Hildreth, ‘but something rather serious came up this afternoon. During the match.’ Colin saw that her cheeks and forehead were a little shiny with perspiration.
‘Indeed?’ he said, eyebrows going up. He looked to one side at Fiona Stuart-Dunn. The girl, sweating even more than the games mistress, was biting her lower lip and there was a hint of tears in her large, lustrous eyes. Was that because she was already in pain, Colin wondered, or because she was contemplating pain to come? Maybe both. ‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘I regret to have to tell you, Head, that Fiona attacked one of the members of the St Ermin team…’
‘What?’ Colin was genuinely startled. He could not remember anything like this happening before. ‘What extraordinary behaviour. Can you tell me more?’
‘There was a skirmish,’ replied the games mistress, ‘then, the next thing I knew was that Fiona and another girl were on the ground pulling at each other’s hair. Then Fiona, who was on top, started punching her opponent.’
‘Good gracious me,’ said Colin in mock-horror. He was much liking the trend of things. ‘What behaviour, especially in a young lady!’
‘It appeared to me, Head,’ continued Val Hildreth, ‘That Fiona was definitely the main culprit in this affair.’
Now Colin turned a stern gaze on the 18-year-old. She was almost as tall as the games mistress but was bigger built. Very well built, in fact, with strong thighs, powerful hindquarters and full breasts. It was not surprising she was a considerable games player. ‘What have you to say about this, Fiona?’ asked Colin.
‘She hit me across me shin, sir,’ came the reply. ‘Deliberately…’ Fiona raised a knee; Colin was favoured with the sight of blue serge knickers. There was certainly a nasty bruise to be seen.
‘That’s as maybe,’ said Colin easily. ‘It is not, however, any excuse for attacking and then punching, an opponent. Hockey is a game, not warfare.’
‘It hurt so, complained Fiona. ‘And then it all happened so quickly. I don’t quite know what came over me…’
‘That’s still no excuse,’ said Colin firmly.
‘I agree, Head,’ chimed in Val Hildreth. ‘It set such a bad example to the rest of the team. Worse, of course, the news will get back to St Ermin’s… and that will do our reputation no good at all.’
‘Quite,’ nodded the Head, noting that the girl had gone pale. ‘It is not pleasant to think that others believe we behave like soccer hooligans here.’ That, needless to say, was laying it on a bit thick, but the general direction of his remarks was right. ‘This is a serious matter,’ he said, then got up and went across to close his study window. ‘I shall, of course, have to punish you, Fiona.’
The big, blue eyes flickered with dread; knuckles were tightened. Fiona had been punished before — just the once — and had found it exceedingly unpleasant. Colin looked at the games mistress. ‘You agree that Fiona should be punished by me?’ he asked. Though it wasn’t openly stated, all mistresses at Branksome knew that when a girl went to the Head’s study, she was very liable to get strap or cane. Most fully approved, the rest half approved.
‘Yes, I do, Head,’ answered Val Hildreth emphatically. She was one of those who fully approved of the Head’s methods. ‘And, in view of the circumstances,’ she went on, ‘I’d like permission to stay.’
Now, that was unusual, thought Colin. Normally he preferred to carry out any punishments in strict privacy and behind a locked door. All the same, the presence of this attractive young woman would add a certain spice, he felt. Then he wondered why. ‘By all means, Miss Hildreth,’ he answered. Then he stood up to remove gown, jacket and waistcoat. Tears had begun to trickle silently down Fiona’s pale cheeks. She knew she had done wrong; she realised that she deserved to be punished. But oh… the punishments at Branksome were so barbaric!
‘I am going to cane you, Fiona,’ announced the Head in magisterial tones. ‘Six strokes…’
‘Oh sir… please… no… no…’ Fiona recalled she had had four the last time and that had been bad enough.
Colin raised a hand. ‘Silence, girl!’ he rapped. ‘But before I give you these six strokes of the cane, I am going to give you four with the tawse.’
There was a strangled cry from Fiona and she covered her face. ‘Ohhh… s-sir… I… I don’t deserve that!’
Colin raised his eyebrows and looked at Val, who nodded emphatically. No doubt of her approval. Good. Then the young woman voiced it. ‘You certainly do deserve it, Fiona,’ she said snappishly. ‘You have brought disgrace upon Branksome College. Frankly, I cannot remember worse behaviour from a pupil here.’
That’s my girl, thought Colin. It was good to get the backing of one’s staff, was it not? Fiona went on sobbing and then uttered a cry as Colin slid open a side drawer and took out his tawse.
This had a wooden grip to which was attached a strip of brown leather about two and a half inches wide and a quarter of an inch thick. It was eighteen inches long, the last six inches being split into two separate thongs. It was the traditional corrective instrument in Scottish Schools and, in Colin’s opinion, a most effective one.
‘Prepare yourself, Fiona,’ he ordered firmly. ‘Then bend across my desk.’
‘P-please… pleee…eease…’
‘You don’t want to make matters worse for yourself, do you?’
‘Ohh no… no…ooo!’
‘Then do as I say! At once!’
Fiona, now weeping openly stumbled towards the desk, pushing down her blue serge knickers. They reached her knees as she more or less fell across the desk, her hands clasping the far edge. Rather to Colin’s surprise, Val Hildreth stepped forward and tucked the hem of Fiona’s skirt up under her waist-band. He had been about to do that himself. Now a most ample bottom was revealed to them… one which was quivering with dread.
Two on the left, two on the right, thought Colin. That would warm the girl up nicely. My, my, she’d really feel the cane after that!
The first stroke descended over the top of Fiona’s left buttock, raising a broad pink welt. A dark-haired head jerked back, a gasping cry was ejected and a big bottom bounced frenziedly. Nevertheless, Fiona managed to hang on to the edge of the desk. Good girl, said Colin to himself; she had will-power as well as strength.
This time the lower half of the left cheek received the tawse… and Fiona’s reactions were very similar, except that her gasping cry was more intense. Colin stepped across to the other side, catching Val’s eye as he did so. She gave him a half smile and another little nod of approval. There are hidden depths to that young woman, he reckoned.
Two more strokes descended, this time both on the right buttock-cheek. As the last left its broad swathe of pain behind, Fiona released her grip and slid to her knees on the floor, hands now clamping to her burning flesh. ‘O-oh… o-oh… o-o-oh… o-o-oh… aaaahhhhhh!’ she sobbed despairingly. How can I stand any more, she wondered? The pain was awful. But the pain of the cane would now be even worse!
‘Stand up…’ Somehow Fiona got to her feet.
Colin had replaced the strap and was getting out his cane. Instinctively he flexed it and swished it. The harsh whistling sound set Fiona’s nerve-ends jangling.
‘Bend over again, Fiona.’
‘Oh please, sir… no m-more, sir… I can’t st-stand any m-more, sir…’
‘Bend over, Fiona.’ Colin’s cane tapped the desk authoritatively.
What could she do? There were two of them. She was helpless. With a despairing moan, Fiona presented her ample bare bottom again. Colin found the contrast between the white flesh and the pink-red most attractive. Once more he swished his cane and saw those big cheeks clench with apprehensive dread. As well they might, he said to himself.
Then, having measured his victim, he laid on a hard, wristy cut, across the topmost part of the girl’s hindquarters.
Fiona’s caning took considerably longer than her strapping… for the very simple reason that it hurt a good deal more. This was understandable, for willow biting into bare flesh is bad enough but willow biting into bare burning flesh is far worse.
The girl discovered this instantly and, at the very first stroke, lost her grip on the desk and went squirming down on to the floor, pressing and pressing her hands so urgently. Colin seemed unconcerned yet, inwardly, he was enjoying himself no end. There was nothing he liked better than caning a girl when she thoroughly deserved it! Val continued to look on approvingly. Fiona’s offence had been a serious one, so it was right that she should be seriously punished.
‘Up… up! Over you go again!’
But Fiona didn’t get up. It was very obvious she didn’t want to; not one little bit. ‘N-no… more… oooooo… no… m-more!’ she wailed piteously.
‘You’re not leaving this room, Fiona, until you’ve had your punishment,’ stated Colin stoutly. ‘I don’t care if it takes all evening…’
He didn’t either!
‘Now come along. Get back over my desk and take what you deserve. As a sportswoman, you should know it’s fair.’
‘Oh… no… no… no…oooo,’ moaned Fiona. All the same she managed to force herself up and get back across that hard desk. The Head was right. The sooner she got it over the better. But oh the awful pain of it! Once more a quaking pink-white bottom was presented with the utmost reluctance. Now it carried a long, encircling twin-tracked weal of a red-purple hue.
Yes, thought Colin, that certainly looks very painful.
Then he gave the girl a second hard wristy cut, laying it about an inch below the first.
‘Yeeoooww…ooowwwww!’ Fiona was instantly back and down, squirming on the carpet.
‘Up… up… up!’ Colin was deliberately relentless.
‘No… more… I b-beg you!’ Fiona was weeping copiously. ‘I… aagghh… I pr-promise… I… I’ll… n-never do it… again…’
‘I don’t think you will,’ agreed the Head. ‘Not when I have finished with you, young lady!
After a great deal of threatening, after a great deal of squealing anguish, Fiona Stuart-Dunn’s caning was at last over. That it had been a severe one, there could be no doubt. Colin Webster was not normally quite so hard on a girl. But, in his opinion, backed up by that super-looking games mistress of his, it was merited.
Very, very gingerly, Fiona pulled up her blue serge knickers again. It seemed to her that six hot wires were pressing to her bottom flesh… pressing to flesh which was already burning. She had never experienced pain quite like it before. Now she knew the true meaning of being punished.
Fiona was both contrite and resentful.
Had it been necessary to be quite so severe on her? That damned bitch Miss Hildreth hadn’t helped with her comments and encouragement. At that moment the ‘damned bitch’ thrust another glass of amber liquid into her hand and Fiona drank it greedily. She remembered she’d got half a bottle of gin — and some cold cream — in her locker. Both would be used that evening!
‘I don’t think you can have any complaints, Fiona,’ the Head was saying.
He was now behind his desk again, jacket replaced, and gowned. ‘You got what you deserved.’
Fiona could only sniffle miserably. How glad she would be to get away!
‘I agree with that,’ said the ‘damned bitch’. Fiona sniffled more loudly.
‘And,’ said the Head, ‘if you want to tell any of your friends what happened to you — or even show them — by all means do. It will be a salutary lesson for them. Plus ensuring there will be no more thuggery during school games.’ How pontifical I sound, he thought but that’s all part of my act, is it not? ‘You may go, Fiona.’
The 18-year-old, temporarily defeated and demoralised by her harsh treatment, turned to leave the room. Wincing, she walked stiffly to the door… longing for the moment when she would be able to press a cooling flannel, again and again, to her burning bum.
‘I’m glad you approved,’ said Colin Webster when the door had closed.
‘You did right, even if you were severe.’ The colour in Val Hildreth’s cheeks seemed to have heightened. ‘Are you always as severe as that?’
‘Oh no,’ replied Colin, ‘I believe, as in Gilbert and Sullivan, in making the punishment fit the crime. Fighting is serious, so the punishment was quite severe. Why do you ask, Miss Hildreth?’
‘I-I sometimes wish you’d call me Val… when there aren’t any pupils about,’ said the games mistress, looking shy and her colour heightening further.
Colin smiled. ‘Alright… why do you ask, Val?’ My God, what lovely thighs those are, he thought. The thighs of an athlete. The thighs of a sexual athlete? Colin suddenly found his throat a little dry. It was dangerous for women of her age to wear a short gym slip.
Val was fidgeting. Looking embarrassed even. ‘Well, Head… I asked… well, because you see… I feel I must to some extent hold myself responsible for the incident which occurred this afternoon.’
Suddenly, all Colin’s senses were alert and his nerves tingling happily. ‘Is that so, Val,’ he said as calmly as he could.
‘It could have been bad refereeing… partly anyway,’ said the enchanting games mistress.
‘You think you might have been negligent then, Val?’
‘Yes… Head… I do…’ Those brown eyes disappeared as lids were lowered and long lashes lay against soft cheeks. Yes, she was enchanting. Even more so in view of the way things were heading.
There was a long and most pregnant silence. ‘If I understand you right, Val, you are suggesting that your negligence deserves some punishment.’
‘Some Head… some…’ came a low-voiced answer ‘Nothing too severe, though.’
‘Mmm… I see…’ nodded Colin, in happy musing tones. Another pause. ‘Well, then, I suppose I shall have to do something about it. In a school run on disciplinary lines, what’s sauce for the goose must be sauce for the gander, eh?’
‘I think that’s right, Head…’ Those games mistress cheeks were now the brightest of pinks.
‘For minor offences,’ said Colin, ‘I don’t use a strap or a cane. I just spank a girl…’
‘Aahhh…’ It was a sigh of happy relief.
‘And I consider yours a minor offence, Val.’
‘Do you indeed, Head. I’m so glad about that.’ Those long thighs were all a-quiver as she moved towards him. Colin turned his armchair sideways to his desk.
‘Nothing too serious then…’
‘No Head… nothing too serious.’
That lithe body was suddenly across his thighs. Soft, warm, so inviting. What an incredible bit of luck, thought Colin; who would ever have thought of it? He pulled up the short skirt. Before him was a most shapely bottom. How absurd it should be covered in those coarse blue serge knickers! Roughly, Colin pulled them down… hearing a tiny, moaning sigh as he did so. How delicate that flesh looked! Irresistible!
He began to slap it. Gently at first, then gradually harder and harder.
It was not the only thing which became harder and harder…
This, thought Colin as he watched the jelly-joggling of that lovely, pink-coloured bottom, must be the beginning of a quite beautiful friendship.
Once again, the Head was right…