The golden-skinned bare legs kicked high, the short blue skirts flicking up at the back to reveal young thighs tensed with the effort of their enthusiastic contortions. Pom-poms rustled as they whirled round in team-inspiring arcs, the chanting breathless in its excitement: ‘Royal Blues, Royal Blues, rah rah rah!’
The heat had produced a sheen of dampness across the girls’ foreheads and temples, the physical activity vigorous enough to build up an even greater sweat in the appreciative onlookers. The occasional glimpse of taut white cotton under the tantalisingly brief skirts served only to heighten the atmosphere close to the cheerleader line.
Six youngsters, none out of their teens, all presenting that aura of well-washed innocence coupled with simmering sexuality. Three blondes, one redhead, one brunette, and one dark-haired beauty with liquid green eyes. As their team scored, an ecstatic leap for the sky, legs akimbo, gave a simultaneous glimpse of six pairs of cotton-clad lower cheeks as wind resistance briefly overcame gravity.
The match whistle went, the game was over, and the line went into the victory routine with more energy than ever, caught up in the fervour of their team’s success. As one, the girls turned and trotted briskly towards the changing rooms. A member of the college staff walked purposefully over and handed a folded piece of paper to the leading blonde, Sammie, and the stunning dark-haired girl at the other end of the line, Victoria.
Both girls looked at one another as they tripped into the locker room, simultaneously pulling open the folded notes, on Principal’s note-paper.
There was no time to shower and change. The note stated an emphatic ‘4pm prompt’. The two hearts beat faster in nervous anticipation. The others, noticing the looks exchanged between the two, smiled knowingly. A summons by note did not bode well.
The clock on the wall showed 4.10. Still they stood waiting, the whirr of the fan on the wall the only sound now the secretary had gone. Victoria fidgeted, snapping the elastic at the waist of her knickers and idly tugging them lower on her bottom to cover the thick crease of flesh which had escaped. Sammie sighed. No word was exchanged. The whirr of the fan was joined briefly by a buzzing insect, which flew in a lazy arc round the room before settling on a silver trophy on the mantelpiece.
Both girls started simultaneously as the low rumble of voices behind the Principal’s door stopped and there was a scraping of furniture on the polished wood floor.
Their eyes widened as the first, instantly recognisable muffled impact came through the door, followed immediately by a strangled cry. A second blow, and a third. They looked at one another and mouthed silently ‘strap!’. Victoria gulped.
The fourth impact raised a louder yelp from the unfortunate recipient, the sound indicating that the implement was perhaps being used with the target area bare. Two more solid slaps resounded, and the door was flung open by a flushed and rather plump girl, clasping her hands to her blazing rear. Sammie recognised her from the chess club. The door swung shut with a hiss.
‘Christ that hurt!’
‘Sounded like you were getting it bare bum,’ said Sammie, half statement, half query.
The other girl nodded confirmation: ‘Bloody sod. No right.’
The buzzer by the door sounded, and the light came on: ‘Enter.’
‘Good luck,’ she whispered.
The conversation in the study was more than a little one-sided, the girls confining their responses to confirmations or denials. The Principal admired the athletic litheness of the pair, the smooth legs tapering into the blue training shoes, the white socks contrasting against the tan. But it was the other end of those limbs which promised greater delights, the hidden apex with its secrets, and the rounded protuberances of their teenage buttocks.
The bright sun slanted through the shutters, broken into thin strips of light which seemed to burn through the thin t-shirts covering the girls’ chests. Victoria’s nipples pushed defiantly against the insubstantial brassiere, her breasts almost struggling to burst their bonds. Sammie’s chest, though less impressive in proportions, provided two pert appendages to her slim frame.
The Principal noticed Victoria’s eyes drifting as he talked, to light on the twin implements of chastisement lying on the back of the settee. The three-tailed leather tawse with its embossed handle, and the wicked length of gleaming Malacca cane with its curved handle and black grip formed from heavy tape and covered with a terry-towel wristband.
The pain and disgrace of corporal punishment would be considerably less embarrassing than removal from the cheerleader squad. Sammie in particular, its leader, would suffer a crushing humiliation in the eyes of her contemporaries and juniors. Victoria, much admired by the teaching staff for her physical qualities, was no academic whizz-kid and relied on squad membership for holding her own.
Both girls nodded their acquiescence, Victoria following Sammie’s lead. Best to get it over with. There was hardly a flicker of surprise as they were ordered to remove their skirts. Standing there incongruously clad in t-shirt, white briefs and trainers, they watched as the Principal walked to the settee.
‘Face the window, a yard apart, and bend over.’ Their backs turned, the teenagers bent reluctantly down and looked back past their legs to see what fate awaited them. At least it was not to be bare. ‘Grip your ankles.’
The steps on the polished wood seemed unnaturally loud as the Principal approached and stood beside them. Sammie felt her t-shirt being pulled up her back until it rested somewhere around her shoulder blades, gathered below her breasts which resisted its further progress. Moving to stand in front of Victoria, he reached over and pulled the t-shirt up in one firm movement, holding both sides, until it rested on her shoulders, her breasts bouncing as they leapt free in their slim cups.
The crunch of a car on the gravel outside caused him to turn and look through the shutters, and Sammie shot a quick grimace at her friend, mouthing ‘How many?’ An imperceptible shrug was her only response. The cold fingers brushing against her waist made Victoria flinch as they fitted into the waistband of her briefs and pulled them slowly, inexorably down over her bottom to rest at mid-thigh. She squeezed her eyes tightly as if to shut out the humiliation of her position, conscious of the cool air on her now exposed rear-end. The telephone jangled.
‘Digby,’ the Principal announced. The conversation seemed interminable as the girls held their positions. The tautness of the thin cotton over Sammie’s stretched backside enhanced the shape of that area delightfully, the Principal noted approvingly.
A curve of bare cheek was visible below the white fabric, though the flesh was still suntanned, evidence of a high-cut swimsuit. The division between the cheeks dark and inviting, plunging deep and long to the discreet folds at the top of her thighs where, due no doubt to the dampness induced by her earlier physical exertions, the material seemed glued to her most tantalising region.
Victoria’s bent posterior provided a different perspective, the flesh smooth, pale and bare, the crotch revealing a tangle of dark curls, and beyond that her breasts straining at the leash of her insubstantial bra.
The sun danced patterns of dust through the air as the girls fought to control their panic at the delay; the waiting was worst of all, not knowing what they were to receive as retribution. Victoria could feel the sweat on the palms of her hands.
The telephone clattered back onto its rest and the footsteps approached again, the fingers hitched into Sammie’s tightly contoured knickers as they rustled down her legs to expose her nether region to his appreciative gaze. An approving pat on her bare left cheek.
The upside-down form walked away from them again as he fetched the cane and strap, hooking the crook handle of the cane over the back of an upright chair and lying the strap over its seat. He stood there a moment, admiring the two upthrust pairs of buttocks. Reaching a decision, he picked up the tawse and ran it through his fingers, letting the tails fall from his palm onto Sammie’s bare back. The youngster winced. He smiled slightly.
‘How old, young lady?’
‘Seventeen, sir,’ Sammie replied.
‘Sixteen, sir,’ came the response from Victoria.
‘Good, good. Right you are. Ready?’
‘Y-yes, sir,’ they chorused.
The strap stroked Sammie’s bare rump almost affectionately as he measured the swing, letting it smack gently onto the flesh to produce a small quiver on its surface. Her buttocks tensed involuntarily. A loud knock on the door.
Both girls taut with anxiety, the prospect of being exposed in front of the person on the other side of that barrier the understandable reason for their fear, the humiliation of being seen bent over bare-arsed for the strap.
‘Pull your knickers up and wait in the sitting room, girls. Take your skirts too, please.’ They hurried to comply. The door swung open as their scuttling forms passed through the archway into the adjoining sitting room. The low rumble of voices: it sounded as if two people had arrived. The solid clunk of the outer door closing, and the command to return.
‘Two of our Governors, girls,’ he smiled grimly. ‘They expressed an interest in witnessing our punishment procedure, and I acceded. However, I have no wish to embarrass you both by revealing who you are to them.’ He paused.
The knowledge that Sammie’s guardian was one of the gentlemen waiting outside lent a particular irony to the statement. Her parents lived in the Far East, and had appointed a Governor as her legal guardian during her period at the school. Sammie spent half-terms at his large house on the outskirts of town.
‘Surely it won’t still be bare, sir?’ asked Sammie anxiously.
‘I see no reason why not…’
‘Oh.’ Sammie’s shoulders slumped.
‘Come over here, lift your t-shirts right up onto your shoulders, and then pull the back up to cover your head. Tuck your hair up, and that way you won’t be recognised.’
The teenagers busied themselves with the disguise, the potential for exposure making them particularly careful with the job. The sun had moved round, the slits crossing the floor to lie over the back of the settee. The Principal prodded them into the right positions, about four feet apart, standing facing the back of the settee, which he had turned round to face the centre of the room for the purpose. The girls dared not turn round as he crossed to the outer door and opened it, allowing the two other men to enter in silence. A series of squeaks and creaks betrayed them getting comfortable in the two armchairs.
The men drank in the sight of the two young, honey-brown bodies standing in front of the settee, their hands clasped behind their heads, the straps of their brassieres crossing the expanse of bare flesh which led down to the taut rounded globes of their buttocks, sheathed in crisp white cotton, and the bare legs below them. The blue trainers and uniform t-shirts betrayed their membership of the cheerleader squad, but no other clue was visible.
‘Bend over.’ Two bodies inclined, the hands coming off the backs of their heads to support their bodies’ downward descent into the softness of their soon-to-be reddened bottoms.
The Principal reached over and forced the heads lower with an encouraging hand, the briefs straining to contain their fleshy contents. The fingers hitched into Victoria’s waistband and she lifted her hips up slightly to allow the downward passage of the protecting layer. A murmur of appreciation from the two guests, which increased as Sammie’s well-rounded posterior was also exposed, the knickers resting just above her knees.
Sammie’s guardian leant forward expectantly, marvelling at the smooth unmarked globes. He tensed as he noticed a slight blemish on her upper thigh, a small birthmark which he immediately recognised from seeing her sunbathing at his home as belonging to his ward. He gestured to the Principal.
‘Is that Samantha Collinson?’ he hissed.
‘We agreed you should not know the girls’ identities,’ the Principal whispered.
‘I know it is Samantha, Mr Digby. She has a distinctive mark on her upper thigh. Look.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid it is her,’ the Principal agreed.
‘Then I must ask you to let me deal with her myself. In the manner you would approve of, of course.’
The Principal sighed. ‘If you wish.’
Victoria’s bare buttocks became the focal point of the room as the strap rose and fell almost monotonously over a full minute, the eight strokes resounding round the room and causing the young recipient to heave about over the back of the settee as if struggling to dodge the punishing onslaught. The cheeks were aflame with the tawse’s ministrations, the flesh livid in protest.
Victoria’s bottom was patted with a restraining: ‘Stay there,’ as she almost stood up. The tawse was passed in silence to the Governor, who slapped it experimentally across his palm, and immediately wished that he hadn’t.
The Principal held up all ten fingers, then added a further two, to indicate Sammie’s sentence. The Governor smiled grimly and turned to his task, placing his hand in the small of the teenager’s back, which was warm to his touch.
Sammie shuffled her feet a few inches apart to brace herself, and her bottom tensed momentarily as the length of leather travelled up to the top of its punishing arc and descended to explode across her unprotected cheeks, forcing the flesh into a quivering contortion. She gasped at the pain, as the second slapping, smarting, burning lash arrived, driving the breath from her with the shock of its impact.
The Principal and second Governor were leaning forward in their chairs as Sammie’s legs gave way and one leg kicked up in reflex, catching her tormentor on the shin; ‘Sorry, sir,’ she gasped automatically.
Her legs parted even further as the punishment progressed, the privacy of those folds breached for the onlookers’ satisfaction, the buttocks bouncing rhythmically on the settee with each blow of the tawse. Sammie was crying now, the sobs quite loud, but her guardian ignored them as he completed the allotted dozen strokes, the last catching her just above the crease between thigh and bottom and eliciting a high-pitched yelp of pain and surprise.
Sammie lay limply over the settee, and when ordered to stand, struggled to get up for a moment or two remembering to ensure that her head was covered. Finally, the two girls stood, red raw bottoms heavily striped, while the Principal showed the two Governors out.
‘Get your clothes back on, you two, and don’t let’s hear any more about it.’
By the pool at her guardian’s house the following day, Sammie relaxed on her tummy in a light summer dress, having checked in a mirror the still impressive welts across her bottom.
‘Not sunbathing today, Samantha?’ he asked innocently.
‘No, not today. I got a bit burnt yesterday at the match,’ she smiled at him.
He smiled back.