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Sunday, 27 May 2018

Spankers Gallery - The Truant & Fussy

From Roué 32
The Truant
‘Mmmm,’ he said, deep in thought, his gaze moving over to the window on the far side of the room. He stood up and strode purposefully to the window and looked out onto the playground beneath him. The last stragglers were wending their way homewards, the teachers getting into their cars and driving off at the end of yet another day’s work. Not turning to look at the girl; his eyes still staring out of the pane of glass, he spoke again.
‘Truancy,’ he announced, his voice now appreciatively more stern, ‘is a very serious thing, Linda. Not only are you depriving yourself of your much-needed education, but by walking the streets you are endangering yourself. Between the hours of nine a.m. and four p.m. you are the responsibility of the school. We simply cannot tolerate any pupil taking off when he or she feels like it you know.’ He turned around to face her. Her head was bowed, presenting to the old boy an appearance of utter contrition.
‘Truants, Linda,’ he said, ‘must be dealt with severely… as well you know.’ He emitted a long, world-weary sigh. ‘I am afraid that you will have to be punished, my dear.’
Linda Gregson, sixteen years of age, a bit on the plumpish side and with shoulder-length, blonde hair, sat on the uncomfortably hard chair, staring at the bare, wooden floor. She’d played truant before — many times, in fact — but had, prior to this most recent occasion, only been caught once. The price paid for that particular flaunting of the school’s rules had been an over-the-knee spanking from the Head — the man with whom she was alone at this moment. It hadn’t been too bad; a minute or so across his lap; about twenty to two dozen smacks on the seat of her knickers. Ringing in her ears now, though, were the Head’s words after that rather mild chastisement ‘I do hope, Linda,’ he had said, ‘that I don’t have cause to punish you for such an act of gross disobedience in the future’.
She recalled her promise that, ‘No, sir,’ she wouldn’t be caught playing truant ever again — ‘caught’ being the operative word, and remembered also the warning that, if she did, ‘…more severe measures will be employed’.
Just what these ‘more severe measures’ would entail, Linda wasn’t sure. She knew that the Head had a cane, but consoled herself with the fact that this was only ever used on the boys. Now, though, having played truant again — and, more to the point, being caught doing so — she realised that it would not be long before she discovered the nature of the Head’s ‘more severe measures’.
He made his way back to the table and sat down on its edge again. ‘I seem to recall,’ he began, ‘warning you, Linda, as to your future conduct… is that not so?’
Linda nodded her head and whispered a ‘Y-Yes, sir.’
‘Hmmm — well, it seems to me that as your previous visit here has not done the trick, so to speak, I shall have to take a more firm line. Most girls find that a short, sharp spanking over my knee teaches them not to repeat their crime. Some, however — such as yourself, Linda — tend not to heed my warning and therefore run the risk of getting themselves into somewhat deeper water.’
He stood up and, standing over the seated young girl, spoke his next words in stern, unwavering tones. ‘I shall commence, Linda,’ he said as the girl looked up into his eyes in a silent appeal for leniency, ‘I shall commence,’ he reiterated by way of driving home the point that he was not swayed, ‘with an over the knee spanking. You will rise now.’
Linda stood and waited nervously to one side of the chair. The old man seated himself and indicated that she was required to place herself over his lap. Linda went over, her toes touching the floor one side; her palms resting on it the other.
She felt the back of her school skirt being raised and placed onto her back. Cool air fluttered across the backs of legs. Her heart beat faster as the Head’s fingers were felt at the waistband of her regulation navy-blue knickers. In a matter of seconds these were down around her knees. The fresh air was almost pleasant as it now wafted across the full expanse of her naked and trembling bottom.
The smacks came long and hard. Every inch of her chubby schoolgirl rump was attended to. Linda gasped and even cried out at some of the more severe blows, especially the few that fell across the tops of her thighs. At one point she almost fell from her perch; the Head’s firm hands arresting her floorwards movement.
Linda guessed she had been over the man’s lap for about two minutes when he finally told her to rise. When she stood — glad at the respite, but also aware that something else was in store for her — her skirt fell back down to cover her shame. She was immediately instructed to lift the garment back up and to hold it at her waist.
The Head strode around the trembling girl, taking in the delights of her and, especially, the red rear brought about by his ministrations.
‘Very well,’ he said suddenly. ‘We will now move on to the next stage; that extra stage you were warned of.’
He led her by the wrist — her skirt still up around her waist; her bottom in all its rosy glory still on display — and helped her onto the table. With some difficulty and in a somewhat unladylike fashion, she adopted the position required by the old fellow. She found herself laying along the top of the table and was told to grip the far end with her hands. She did so, and noticed the whitening of her knuckles. Her feet hung over the other end of the table as she lay utterly defenceless awaiting the Head’s next move.
The old man adjusted Linda’s clothing slightly, making sure her skirt was well up out of the way around her waist. Linda clenched her thighs together, making sure that no more of her charms were on show to him than was absolutely necessary. She looked down at the floor beneath her.
‘This, I think you will find, Linda,’ he spoke, ‘will do the trick. It usually does.’ Linda looked up to see a thick leather paddle being gripped by the Head as he rolled up the right sleeve of his jacket.
Holding on for dear life and pressing her eyelids closed, Linda lay waiting for this further treatment of her already sore backside. She felt sure that it would be considerably worse than the hand-spanking. She was correct in her assumption.
The leather implement thwacked down across the chubby schoolgirl cheeks six times — each one more painful than its predecessor. Her knuckles turned whiter still as her bottom grew increasingly scarlet.
Her earlier hopes of retaining some modesty had all been forgotten as she flailed her legs about with gay abandon. She was over the table-top for a mere three minutes, though, to Linda, it seemed an eon. She felt the searing pain in her naked buttocks would never abate as stroke after perfectly positioned stroke fell onto the wobbling target.
Her plumpish bottom in this position seemed to the old man to be plumper still. The over-the-knee pose had allowed the flesh to spread out, but the twin cheeks of Linda’s magnificent posterior were now forced up, inviting the tiring arm of the elderly chap to bring down again and again that thick strip of leather — the strip of leather kept especially for ‘second-timers’ such as Linda; for those girls stupid enough not to heed his warning on their first visit to his cold, dank study.
Fussy
To describe Ronald Chambers, 51, teacher of History and House Master of Faraday House, as fussy would be kindred to pronouncing Idi Amin as a bit of a scallywag. His over-particular, pernickety nature was known and ridiculed throughout the school. Ridiculed, not only by the pupils, but by his fellow members of staff. He was, it has to be said, a character; an eccentric. One merely had to look at him to appreciate just how fastidious was the man. His suits were immaculate; the creases in his trousers would not have been made any the straighter had a spirit-level been employed in their ironing. His ties, with their Windsor knots, were as perfectly linear as could possibly be achieved. His hair, jet-black with a few strands of grey at the temples, was never to be seen as anything other than expertly groomed, with never as much as a single filament out of place. The breast pocket of his jacket carried four pens, red on the right, then green, blue and black, all in a row and never out of sequence.
Other picayunishes of his were the way he stirred his tea: three rotations of the spoon; one clockwise, the other anti. The tying of his shoelaces; the brushing of his shoes; the brushing of his teeth. One of the less pleasant of his colleagues claimed that the man had his own, never neglected, system of picking his nose: left nostril first, then the right; the cleared mucus being rolled up into neat little balls and implanted surreptitiously into his handkerchief. This suggestion, ludicrous though it was, evinces the painstaking, finicky nature of the school’s History Master.
When it came to punishing disobedient pupils, Chambers had, quite naturally, his own special method of going about the task. The miscreant would be told to remain after the day’s lessons were over and to present herself in his classroom at no later than three minutes past four. He had evaluated that it took no longer than those three minutes to reach his room wherever on the school’s grounds the girl happened to find herself come four o’clock.
The girl would then knock on the door, be told to enter and close the door, and to prepare herself for chastisement. Preparing meant the following.
Whilst Chambers was seated at his desk, busily marking books or setting the following day’s work, the girl had to position herself in the space to the right of the platform on which was perched his desk. She then had to turn her back on him and begin her undressing. Every stage of the disrobing had to be carried out in a pre-ordained order. Firstly, the girl’s blazer had to be removed and hung on the hook of the storeroom door in front of the girl. Secondly, she was to reach up under her skirt and pull her knickers down. These were to be taken down the entire length of her legs and left around her ankles. Then she had to lift the back of her skirt and, pulling the garment up over her back, bend forward. Her fingertips had to touch or reach down as near to her toes as was possible without any bending of the knees. She then had to shuffle her feet so that they were three inches apart — three inches and not a millimetre more or less.
She would now have completed her preparation and, from where her head hung, would have to announce the fact. Chambers would, when he was ready, rise from his chair and climb down from the platform. He would stand behind the girl and check over every detail of her preparation. He might choose to tap her feet apart ever so slightly, might push her forward a little, might push her skirt that tiny bit further down her back. He would then stand back and, when absolutely convinced the girl was in exactly the right position, he would take down his cane from that very same hook on which hung her blazer.
A chalk mark on the floor told him where to stand, the cane would be raised and finally brought down across the naked flesh of the girl’s awaiting bottom.
It paid to be particular, he would think to himself as he sat down, straightening his tie after the punishment was over. The girl, as another part of the ritual, would have to remain in position for five minutes — no more; no less — whilst he surveyed his work. He knew they laughed at him and his eccentricities, but, he felt, taking care of the minutest of details had its reward — as was evident by the six reddening lines that traversed the otherwise pale bottom before him. Six perfectly straight marks; each one exactly the same distance from its neighbour, affording the punished rear a consistent, regular appearance; a symmetry.
He lifted his left hand to smarten up any hairs which may have strayed during his exertions. In so doing he brushed his wrist against his breast pocket and a pen — a green pen — fell onto the top of his desk. Retrieving it, he placed it back in its appointed position: one from the right and in between the blue and the red.

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