By Charles Langford from Roué 38
Alison sits nervously at her desk in the little bare, white-walled schoolroom. She looks down at the Maths textbook, pencils and pens, compass, protractor and grey school exercise book spread out before her. At the other end of the narrow room is the teacher’s desk and an old-fashioned blackboard and easel.
Alison, evidently in her late teens, is delicately featured, schoolgirlishly pretty, and has straight long blonde hair that falls way below her shoulders. She is wearing a white cotton blouse, blue school tie, and a blue pleated skirt so short that the tops of her black stockings peep out indecorously from beneath the skirt’s hem.
Alison finds it difficult and uncomfortable to sit at the desk, which is so tiny that it appears to belong more to a junior than to a secondary school. Her long shapely legs are extremely cramped and wedged tightly beneath the desk-top — so much so that she’s terrified to move them in case she ladders her black stockings, and then she would be in trouble because he really does come down heavily on her when she ruins her stockings. ‘Sloppy standards of dress’ he calls it acerbically, and then he looks at her fingernails to see if she’s been biting them recently — and if she has he really humiliates her by putting her over his knee as if she were still a little girl and smacking her really hard till she cries.
She has to keep her long blonde hair immaculately brushed and neat, and her school tie has to be knotted just-so, and she mustn’t get ink-stains on the cuffs of her white blouse — there are a million and one things she has to remember to do and not to do.
All that — and really difficult lessons on top of it all. Alison looks up at the blackboard and pouts with distaste at what she sees written there. In bold calligraphic flourishes there is chalked on it today’s date and the heading LONG DIVISION, heavily underlined, with a page number and list of exercises beneath.
She picks up her Maths textbook and idly turns the pages. She screws up her pretty little nose at the rows and rows of incomprehensible figures, diagrams and cryptic symbols. Mathematics is the subject she dreads and loathes most of all — and he knows it.
With a weary sigh of resignation she takes up a pencil and commences work. A severe frown of intense concentration as Alison wrestles futilely with her long division problems.
With her free hand she tugs listlessly at the hem of her short pleated skirt in an attempt to cover up her exposed stocking-tops. It’s more of a nervous mannerism than a fully conscious gesture, since she does it again every so often in a half-hearted, absent sort of way; and each time it has no effect whatsoever in concealing those compromising inches of soft white flesh above her stockings. Neither does it hide the taut white suspenders holding them up.
After ten painstaking, laborious minutes Alison has managed to fill half a page with scribbled, semi-decipherable figures, liberally marred with blotchy crossings-out, and answers that, even to her unmathematical brain, bear no relation at all to the problems they purport to solve. She really is something of a problem pupil.
Washing her hands of the whole dreary business she plonks her elbows rebelliously on the desk-top and rests her pretty face in her hands. Her wide blue eyes stare dejectedly at the bare white schoolroom and all the old familiar objects: the moth-eaten, faded map of Europe on the left hand wall; next to it the teacher’s gown hanging from a coat-hook and looking, from where Alison sits, rather like an enormous black crow; next to that the dusty old bookcase, its shelves sagging under the weight of the antiquated, pompous school textbooks that are forever the bane of Alison’s young life. What painful memories they evoke for her!
The right-hand wall presents an equally barren picture, its only feature being a ramshackle glass-fronted science cabinet containing grimy jars of ancient chemicals, and directly below it an acrid-smelling, antediluvian work-bench littered with rusting dissecting knives, assorted specimens in various stages of decomposition, Bunsen burners, badly stained test tubes, and a rickety old pair of pre-metric avoirdupois chemistry scales.
Alison’s upper lip curls in disgust. She doesn’t like Chemistry either (not the way he teaches it, anyway) nor Physics, nor Biology — they all have extremely painful and embarrassing associations…
She shifts her affronted gaze back to the teacher’s desk at the far end of the room and she tries to count up the number of times she’s been made to bend over it, wailing and protesting, while he grimly hoists up the back of her short pleated skirt and, ignoring her frantic pleas, whacks her hard — awfully hard — over the tight seat of her navy-blue gym knickers (the same pair she’s got on now) with one of the dozen or so thin whippy rattan canes he keeps in the cupboard behind the blackboard, along with boxes of chalk and spare board-dusters.
Alison can’t even bring herself to as much as look at that cupboard, she dreads and fears it so much. She knows too well that excruciating creak of its hinges as he opens it, although she’s rarely in a position to actually watch him opening it as, by that time, he’s invariably got her into what he calls ‘Punishment Posture’.
Alison grimaces dolefully at the thought of what ‘Punishment Posture’ precisely entails. One of two things: either (1) the horrid discomfort and embarrassment of being made to stretch herself down into a jack-knife position, ‘touching your toes’ he calls it — although in reality poor Alison’s never able to stretch her quaking body that far down enough to actually reach her toes; or else (2) the no lesser indignity of being spreadeagled abjectly across the top of his desk, her long blonde tresses tangled up in her face, one cheek jammed uncomfortably up against the unyielding wooden lid, her nose all itchy and twitchy from inhaling the sickly-sweet aroma of Johnsons Wax Polish, while she listens to him saunter slowly over to the cane cupboard, fiddle for an eternity with the latch, then those lugubrious creakings as the cupboard door wheezes open like an asthmatic cough… then that horrid dry rattling sound as he selects the chosen cane from among its neighbours.
At this point Alison’s tummy always seems to perform a double somersault and her heart starts to pound so quickly and so fiercely that the buttons on her blouse threaten to burst with the unbearable tension — or maybe it’s because her firm young breasts are being cruelly squashed and squeezed through lying flat-out across the hard wooden desk-top…
And all the while Alison is dreadfully aware that her poor bum is sticking out beyond the edge of the desk so vulgarly — yet so vulnerably, her ridiculously short skirt rucked up to her waist, revealing (shame upon shame!) her well-worn navy-blue gym knickers that she’s been whacked in so many times before it’s a wonder they’ve not split and shredded under the regular impact of those beastly canes of his.
In fact Alison is allowed the privilege of wearing frilly nylon knickers — out of school. But she’d long ago reached the conclusion that it was much safer to wear thick cotton navy-blue ones during lessons because at least they afforded her frequently-caned bum some vestigial protection — whereas if she were in her thin flimsy nylon knicks it would be like getting it on the bare flesh… she shudders at the particularly painful and humiliating memory which that thought triggers off…
Over a year ago it was (she was younger, sillier, and more careless with her tongue in those days) when she’d oh-so-stupidly answered him back after he’d goaded and baited her relentlessly with his acid sarcasm. She squirms in embarrassment when she thinks of the absurdly childish spectacle she must have made of herself: a hotly blushing, big baby of a girl, pathetically blubbing and grizzling, clinging on like grim death to the waistband of her knickers — skirt totally removed lying in an untidy crumple on the floor — while he, transported with a strangely excited kind of rage, yelled at the top of his voice to her ‘Get them down this instant, Alison, or else I’ll pull them down for you!’
She stood gazing at him in speechless horror for a moment. Then very slowly, with tearful reluctance, she began to tug her tightly clinging gym knickers down over the richly swelling curves of her soft white bottom — feeling sick with mortification at the hungry gleam in his eyes when he saw the curly brown delicate fronds of her pubic hair exposed at last to his implacable gaze.
And further, still further, her knickers inched their way down past her knees until she let go of them and they flopped and slithered all the way down to her ankles.
It felt icy cold standing there with a totally bare bottom, even though it was summer. All she had on below the waist now was the plain white cotton suspender belt attached to her black stockings (she could never bring herself to watch those St Trinians films with all those capering schoolgirls in gymslips and black stockings — too much like grim reality for Alison) she’d often thought morbidly about whether it was purely coincidental that girls’ suspenders had been made to so discreetly ‘frame’ the cheeks of the bottom, never intruding on the target area — the punishment zone — or whether they’d been deliberately designed for disciplinary purposes…
What he did next was to instruct her to adopt ‘Punishment Posture Number Two’. Accordingly Alison shuffled awkwardly forward towards his desk, comically hobbled by the fallen knickers around her ankles — he following a few feet behind, no doubt getting a damn good eyeful of her behind.
On this particular occasion he seemed fussier than ever about getting her down into the right position so that her bottom was actually tilted upwards to receive the downward strokes of his cane. He placed a cushion on the edge of the desk and made Alison lie on top of it, thus raising her stuck-out bare bum even more lewdly up into the air. She never felt more helplessly submissive in all her life, and there was something grossly indecent about the way he was making her display all the private, intimate regions of her body. She felt a sense of irrevocable shame and disgrace — was this, too, all part of the punishment?
Then, to make matters even worse, he began patting her here and there (mainly there) and she broke into a feverish panic to think he might detect the musky aroma and the guilty stickiness down between her legs. She locked her shapely thighs together instinctively, fearing the worst.
But he gave her a last lingering bottom pat, then pottered off towards the cupboard…
A squeaking of hinges and a dull wooden clatter (her heart sank at the sound) and then a horrid swishing whirring noise as he strolled back towards the prostrate trembling girl, testing out the supple springiness of the particular cane he’d selected.
His blind anger that had erupted so terrifyingly when she’d called him ‘a sadistic old bugger’ to his face had quickly subsided, and had been replaced by a kind of simmering, quiescent calm that, to Alison, was even more frightening. He was now fully engrossed in the intricacies of the punishment preparations — the meticulously observed little rituals that had become too sickeningly familiar to Alison over the years.
She could hear him pacing about behind her, evidently studying her bare bottom from every possible angle, and measuring the whippy length he held in his hand against her warm, girl’s buttock-flesh — so soft, so cushiony… yet so vulnerable.
Alison felt herself go weak. She clung with hot clammy hands to the far edge of the desk. At least that would give her some physical support with which to brace herself against the awful caning he was about to give her.
She gritted her teeth and uttered a muffled wail as he leaned down and ran his left hand searchingly up and down her petrified, quivering flanks, pausing only to hitch up the top of one of her stockings which was sagging inelegantly at the back.
In anticipation of what was to come, Alison was already beginning to breathe quickly and heavily. She vowed to herself that she would not cry this time — at least cheat him out of that pleasure! When he spoke she barely caught the three words he uttered — soft as a whisper, but heart-stopping as an earthquake: ‘Twelve strokes, Alison.’
At first she was too stunned to do or say anything. Maybe she’d misheard? Maybe he’s said ‘two’, and not ‘twelve’?
Puzzled, perhaps even slightly thwarted, by her lack of response, he repeated the words, louder this time so that there could be no misunderstanding — no longer any room for doubt: ‘Twelve strokes, Alison. Six for being idle, six for being insolent.’ He wrapped his tongue around the words with undisguised relish, savouring the petrified, bare-bottomed girl’s total subjection and dismay.
Alison went rigid as the appalling shock registered. Surely he wouldn’t — he couldn’t give her twelve? He’d never given her more than eight before, and that was rare. More often it was six.
Six delivered to the seat of her gym knickers stung like blazes and always reduced her to tears. They left thick ridged lines across her poor bottom that stayed for days and days. Each night, after he’d caned her, she’d lie awake on her tummy, fingering the painful weals obsessively — reliving the whole excruciatingly embarrassing ritual in graphic detail until she felt hot and palpitating with a strange fever that could only be assuaged by doing one thing…
Six strokes of the cane on the bare flesh would be twice as painful and twice as embarrassing for Alison, knowing as she did how she wriggled and involuntarily displayed herself during the punishment…
Alison gave a wail of distress and tried to get up from the desk over which she was so humiliatingly stretched, but he pinned her with one hand on the small of her back and commenced tap-tapping her naked, thrust-out rear with the cane he held in the other — ‘preparatory target practice’ he always called it with some amusement.
Alison abandoned all attempts to be brave and burst into great blubbing sobs of despair as he stood back, raised that awful cane, and delivered a solid meaty Thwack! to her comely, provocative buttocks.
Alison let out a loud yell as the narrow line of pain galvanised her vulgarly upturned bum into a frenzied spasm of jerkings and swervings. She wiggled and shimmied all over his desk-top, treating him to the sexiest exhibition of bottom-swaying he’d ever seen her do — and he’d certainly seen plenty of those as she surged and writhed on the receiving end of his cane over the years.
The cane whizzed down again like an angry hornet and caught Alison full on the plump saucy crown of her bum-cheeks.
She spluttered and yelled simultaneously as she experienced the agonising smart. She bucked and heaved and kicked her black-stockinged legs frantically, one after the other, until he roared at her furiously: ‘Alison! If you don’t stop struggling I promise you I’ll cane you till my arm drops off!’
The utter awfulness of this threat at least had the desired effect on the girl. Alison ceased to struggle and just lay there across the desk, alternately weeping and voicing strangled pleas for clemency while he, red-faced and excited yet impervious to her hiccupping cries of ‘Oh I’m sorry sir! — Oh sir I beg you! YEEOW!!’ (as another stroke lands) ‘Please no more sir — I’ll do anything! OOOOH!!!!’ mercilessly continued with the punishment until Alison’s poor bottom was latticed, practically from where her stocking-tops ended to where her delicious buttock-cleft began, with wicked purpling weals that would take a long, long time to fade and disappear.
Alison meanwhile had cried and cried until there were no tears left to cry. Worse, much worse than the pain was the feeling of unutterable shame that he’d succeeded in reducing her to the status of a wailing child. It was so dreadfully, dreadfully demeaning. She had no recollection of what she’d gabbled out feverishly to him while he was caning her — she was too dazed, too shocked to remember. But she knew she’d been humbled and abased like never before. She felt she could never look him in the eye again lest she be compelled to acknowledge his complete and total mastery over her…
With a determined shake of the head Alison shrugs off the painful memory of that fateful day, and once more we are back in the present.
She looks at the work on her desk and realises, with mounting apprehension, that she’s accomplished precisely nothing in the last half hour. The school clock on the wall says one minute past six pm.
A car arrives outside, crunching along the gravel drive. It stops. The engine is switched off. One car door slams shut. Then the key in the front door. Front door opens, then is firmly closed. Brisk, assertive footsteps in the hallway.
Alison crimsons and grabs her pencil in panic — but all she can see in her head are the final seconds of some weird mental video in which a disconcerting jumble of mathematical symbols dance before her eyes, the minus signs elongating into cruel gleaming canes, and the multiplication signs reddening into a geometrical pattern of cane weals on some poor girl’s bottom. Then the girl turns round, and Alison sees that it’s herself…
The schoolroom door opens and he enters. He’s very tall, fair-haired, in his forties, and has a full beard streaked with grey. His pale-blue eyes register cool detachment. He barely deigns to acknowledge the nervous presence of the black-stockinged schoolgirl at the far end of the little schoolroom, but merely slips on his black gown and takes his place at the teacher’s desk where he commences to busy himself with his papers. Alison makes one last desperate attempt to get her sums right before he summons her, but she can’t stop thinking about how sore and stripy her bottom’s going to be by the end of this evening’s lesson.
Suddenly she’s aware that he’s looking at her. He coughs, and simply says ‘Come,’ extending a hand to receive the work she’s done.
Alison, beginning to feel very frightened, somehow manages to extricate her legs from under the tiny desk without laddering her stockings. She rises awkwardly to her feet and, school exercise book in hand, walks slowly and nervously towards him. She’s wearing black high heel shoes which make her pertly rounded bottom stick out sexily, so causing the back of her short pleated skirt to ride up even higher above the tops of her stockings. He watches her every move. not missing a thing — even though he’s seen it so many times before.
The teacher’s desk is on a small rostrum. Alison mounts it gingerly, as though afraid of falling. She feels rather clumsy in high heels. He notices this and frowns. It’s as if he’s writing down her slightest fault and imperfection in an invisible book.
Alison’s hand is trembling conspicuously as she gives in her work. He beckons her to come and stand beside his chair while he checks off her answers.
She really is a very pretty girl — the sort of girl who looks even prettier when she’s worried and upset. As it happens, she’s already very worried… and she knows she’s soon going to get very upset.
And that’s going to make her look positively beautiful!
She has very delicate features. A slender neck, prettily pouting lips, finely chiselled little upturned nose, and big blue woe-begone eyes that seem to fill with tears very quickly. She’s desperately anxious to please him, but she knows she hasn’t got a hope in hell…
Her lovely head is downcast, and her more-than-shoulder-length blonde hair discreetly screens her face. She doesn’t really want to have to see the horrid bit that’s going to happen next…
With impatient, derisive snorts of rising irritation he inks in bold red crosses against all but one of Alison’s answers. The one she got right was a mere fluke, he decides, since her rough work bears no relation whatsoever to her final solution.
He slams down his pen in annoyance and, rising, shifts his chair a few feet away from the desk.
Patting his knee impatiently with one hand, he pulls Alison down across his lap with the other. She’s been expecting this — not that that’s any consolation to her. Her one faint hope is that he’ll exhaust all his anger simply by spanking her — which she finds highly embarrassing, but infinitely less painful than the cane. She’d do almost anything to avoid being caned…
Although, of course, it happens practically every day, she still can’t quite get used to how silly and childish she feels over his knee. Nor does she like it one bit when he calmly flips up the back of her skirt and commences to run his broad, heavy hand all over her softly feminine, navy-blue knickered rump.
A few exploratory pats that make her cringe, and then he begins.
Loud staccato reports fill the empty schoolroom as he systematically tans her delightfully plump, yet pert bottom with hearty, well-aimed flesh-tingling smacks.
Alison begins to gasp and wriggle as, even through the cotton fabric of her well-worn Montfort knickers, her bottom slowly but inexorably starts to sting and burn.
She squeals in pained surprise when he switches targets and commences smacking the soft delicate area of her naked thighs, above the tops of her black stockings. Urgently she kicks and scissors her long shapely legs, her suspenders alternately stretching and slackening in time to the sudden jerkings of her limbs.
Her gym-knickered bottom, too, is now weaving and dancing frantically and her gasps have turned into sensual moans and gabbled protests as he concludes with a blurred flurry of bum-scorching wallops that totally drown her rising cries.
Then it’s over, and poor Alison struggles up from her humiliatingly submissive posture over his knee. She stands there before him, unashamedly rubbing her sore, smarting bum — head bowed low while he castigates her severely for her laziness and ineptitude. But he’s not finished with her yet — there’s more to come… Alison knows this too. Through bitter experience she’s come to sense his every mood, and she has a horrible premonition that tonight she’s not going to be let off quite as lightly as that.
He makes her fetch a chair and place it a few feet away from the blackboard, while he makes his customary journey to the cane cupboard. Alison awaits him, dolefully apprehensive.
He returns, brandishing a particularly swishy specimen — one which he says he’s been ‘saving up’ for her. She gulps hard and eyes it fearfully while he demonstrates to her by judicious flicks in the air just how horribly supply and swishy it is.
He tells Alison to take her knickers down. He can’t get over how adorably pretty she looks when she hears news as bad as that. She tries pleading with him, tells him her bottom’s already much too sore for a caning on her bare flesh… Then, when she sees that that’s not getting her anywhere, she tries a different tactic. She says he can cane her as hard as he likes, with as many strokes as he likes — if only he’ll allow her to keep her knickers on!
He silences her with a withering look. Desperately unhappy, Alison slowly starts tugging her Montfort navy-blues down to her knees.
Fetching her school exercise book and a pencil, he hands them to the de-knickered girl and tells her to sit on the seat in front of the blackboard. Alison obeys, glad of any reprieve from the cane, but she grimaces and utters an audible ‘Ouch!’ as her hot, stinging bare bottom makes contact with the hard wooden seat.
He picks up a stick of chalk and rapidly copies onto the blackboard the long division sums he’d set her. Then, using the cane as a pointer, he demonstrates to his reluctant pupil the proper method with which to arrive at the correct answer. He tells her to make notes as he goes along.
But he goes much too fast for Alison who, conscious only of her bare, well-smacked bottom, ends up feeling more confused than ever. She’s unable to give a satisfactory answer to even his most rudimentary questions. He waves the cane menacingly at her. The unequivocal symbolism of the gesture is not lost on Alison. She cringes like a whipped puppy, and seems to be already on the verge of crying.
‘Get up, Alison!’ he snaps, flexing the cane in exasperation.
She knows she’s really in for it now. Tears gather like exquisite pearls in those sad blue eyes of hers. She cups her bare bottom protectively in trembling hands.
‘Touch your toes, Alison,’ he says curtly. ‘Oh no, not the cane — please not the cane,’ she murmurs faintly, a hot flush of shame suffusing her lovely face — although she’s known all along it would end up like this.
He leads her into the middle of the room, away from all impeding furniture, then firmly manoeuvres the distractedly weeping girl into the classic bent-over-for-the-cane position, ‘Punishment Posture Number One’, until Alison’s silky blonde tresses are practically touching the floor and the tips of her slender fingers meet her toes.
The jack-knife pose is a difficult one for her because of the high heels she’s wearing. She gasps with the effort and discomfort, swaying back and forth unsteadily. Once or twice she comes near to toppling over.
With his left hand on her shoulder he steadies her until she’s stable. Then he flips up the back of her skirt with the tip of the cane and silently surveys the punishment area. Alison’s bare bottom, still pink from the thorough spanking it received earlier, is a lusciously tempting target.
He’s grown quite addicted over the years to caning his lovely girl pupil and, fond though he is of her, he never spares her. If anything, the canings have grown more severe during that period because he’s discovered that, despite her air of fragile beauty and girlish vulnerability, Alison’s provocatively rounded bottom is amazingly resilient and able to absorb a lot more spankings and canings than he’d ever have thought possible.
He’d long ago reached the conclusion, too, that in some sort of perverse way she really needs the canings every bit as much as he needs to cane her…
The bizarre punishment ritual unfolds for the umpteenth time in that tiny, upstairs schoolroom.
Alison’s toe-touching posture is one of total submission. Girls are usually very embarrassed about showing their bare bottoms to men, and Alison is no exception. She really hates thinking about what she’s so blatantly exhibiting to his voraciously inquisitive eyes…
As she gazes down at the floor through the tumbled screen of her long blonde hair, Alison can see her navy-blue school knickers lying crumpled ignominiously around her ankles. She longs to be allowed to pull them back up over her hot, throbbing bottom: she yearns for their soft cotton protection and security.
From where he’s standing behind her, all he can see of Alison is her legs, stiff and straight, and her saucily stuck-up bottom. The black stockings and high heels serve to emphasise the length and stunning shapeliness of her legs. Her bottom sways erotically as she rocks back and forth, trying to maintain the undignified, uncomfortable pose. He studies the mellow swell of her pert round bum-cheeks, noting appreciatively the rich dark vale between them, the ravishing growth of brown pubic hair and the exquisite ripeness of her sex…
He flexes the long whippy cane in his hand, gauges it against the fleshy width of her bottom with a keen, practised eye and prepares to land the first stroke.
Sensing this, Alison tenses herself and holds her breath, awaiting with dread that awful whirring Swish as the cane descends…
She’s already had the cane many, many times in her young life — but constant familiarity has, if anything, made her regard it with even more dread than she did the very first time he did it to her…
On this occasion he canes her quite rapidly. Eight searing strokes delivered so fast that Alison hardly has time to draw breath and yell out her distress in between each one. By some miracle she manages to remain in position, touching her toes, although by the time the last two strokes fall on her quivering bottom she’s tottering dangerously.
The caning, as usual, leaves Alison in floods of hot, bitter, wailing tears. Her backside is strikingly decorated with rapidly-blossoming, thick red weals.
Afterwards he lays down the cane and allows the weeping girl to stand up. Her red, stripy bottom wobbles rather endearingly as, groaning, she gingerly pulls herself up. He doesn’t let her retrieve her fallen knickers — in fact he orders her to take them off completely, as well as her skirt, and go and stand in the far comer of the room with her hands folded childishly upon her head.
‘No, Alison,’ he warns her, ’you are not allowed to rub your bottom!’
He begins to vigorously clean the blackboard. He hasn’t put the cane away. It’s still lying on the desk, and we cannot help thinking that he may possibly need to use it again, later on in the evening, because Alison really does seem to suffer from quite severe learning difficulties…
But at this precise moment the thought of another caning is much too awful for poor Alison to even contemplate, as she stands there pathetically grizzling and snuffling in the corner — terribly ashamed of being made to display so publicly her crimson, well-striped bottom.
Meanwhile he chalks in large capitals on the blackboard: HUMAN BIOLOGY. LESSON NINE: REPRODUCTION.
It is clearly time to leave. But lest you think that this particular schoolmaster has somewhat exceeded the authority he wields over his pupil-charge, let me hastily disabuse you.
All is not what it seems. The ‘schoolroom’ is nothing but a converted spare bedroom. In real life he is not a schoolmaster at all. Alison, the problem pupil, is his wife.