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Saturday, 25 August 2018

Half Term Hiatus

Story from Blushes 24 (and New Blushes 2.23)
The stairs creaked alarmingly as Alison crept up, one step at a time, trying to keep to the sides in an attempt to prevent discovery.  She could see the strip of light under the living room door, where Mr Davidson would probably be sitting dreaming up ways to make her life a misery for the remainder of the mid-term break.
Altogether it hadn’t been an easy term at all. First the appalling mid-term exam results, and then her parents’ insistence that she keeps her nose to the grindstone through half-term with extra tuition from the redoubtable Mr Davidson, at his house a few miles from the college.
The biggest blow was not being able to get home for the holiday, where she had planned to spend a long weekend with Ian, her boyfriend, and Jackie from the stables. Her plans were now in ruins as she worked to save her academic career.
Alison winced as the stair gave a particularly loud groan. She tried stepping further over, but the effect was even worse. And then the noise she dreaded. The creak of moving furniture as a body moved in the living room, and a broad bar of light spilled across the hall.
‘Is that you, Alison?’ came the voice. That voice. Mr Davidson’s voice.
‘Er, yes, Mr Davidson, I just popped down for a snack…’ Alison turned and smiled, unconvincingly.
‘Did you not have enough at dinner?’ came the question, probing delicately as he walked to the bottom of the stairs.
‘Well, I just felt a little peckish, sir, and I thought it would be all right if I…’
‘It would have been nice if you’d asked before rooting through the cupboards: Mrs Macfarlaine will wonder who’s been raiding her larder when she comes in tomorrow morning.’
Sorry, sir.’
An awkward pause.
‘And can you also explain the mud on the back of your legs, Alison?’
She glanced involuntarily down and back and sighed as she saw the tell-tale splashes of mud. It must have been when the bike crossed the lane. Tractors had left mud right across the road and Ian had been forced to drive through it when he brought her back from their illegal outing to the pub.
‘Oh, it must have been when I went out for a walk earlier,’ she smiled again. Unconvincingly.
He was coming up the stairs now, reaching down, rubbing his hand across her bare calf, and holding it up for inspection.
‘This mud is fresh. Where have you just been?’ Another unanswerable question.
‘Just for a walk, sir, that’s all.’
‘Come downstairs, I want to have a word with you.’
Alison sighed again, and trod wearily down to stand uncomfortably in front of the unremitting tutor. She felt more and more like a naughty schoolgirl than the mature young lady she was. Her new college gave her a great deal more freedom than she had expected: a freedom which she regularly abused. The poor mock exam results had been her comeuppance.
‘Now, young lady, let’s get to the bottom of this, shall we? Lift up your skirt and turn round.’
‘What for, sir?’ Alison asked, half turning as she had been instructed.
‘I wish to see if the splashes of mud are consistent with your story, or if you may be attempting to deceive me. Now lift your skirt please.’
The girl shuffled round and hitched her skirt up above her knees. ‘Higher,’ came the order. A hand on the back of her leg as he bent and inspected the marks. Alison lifted her skirt to mid-thigh. For some silly reason, she thought he was going to smack her on the bottom, though why this idea had come into her head she couldn’t imagine. It must have been the incongruity of standing there with her skirt raised. He wouldn’t dare to hit her.
His hand was on the back of her right thigh now, above the level of her skirt. He pushed her hands higher, forcing the skirt up. ‘Christ,’ thought Alison, ‘he’ll be able to see my bum in a minute!’
‘Tell me, Alison, do you lie to your parents?’
‘No, Mr Davidson,’ she lied.
‘I don’t believe you,’ he confirmed. ‘This mud is fresh, and extends well up the back of both legs. Hardly the result of a stroll, I think…’ His voice drifted away, letting the thought lie gently in the air while Alison’s brain fought to get into gear. She normally prided herself on the resourcefulness of her excuses.
‘I, er…’ she began.
‘I would suggest that the truth might be an idea.’
All of a sudden, as if of its own volition, Alison heard her voice explain that she had been out for a ride with a friend on a motorcycle, to get some cigarettes from the village.
‘The name of your friend?’ he asked.
‘Ian Hamilton,’ she heard herself say.
‘I see.’
Mr Davidson went to the desk and extracted a single sheet of paper from a file, glanced at it and passed it without comment to the girl. She read it slowly.
Name of pupil: ALISON MORTON. School: St Andrew’s. Form: VI. Examinations: English, French ‘A’ level July 1986. Age: 18.1.
There were two or three paragraphs relating to the terms and conditions of her private tuition, payment and so on, then at the bottom:
In common with schools conforming to the European Court of Human Rights’ ruling about corporal punishment, we offer parents the option of excluding their daughter from such punishments, which are normally given only for serious breaches of discipline. If you would prefer to exclude your daughter from receiving corporal punishment, please initial below.
The space was blank.
Alison looked at Mr Davidson. His face gave nothing away. Surely he couldn’t be thinking of beating her? She was no longer a child, and had never been hit in her life, although she knew the cane was still used as a last resort at her school.
‘I think you had better go upstairs and have a bath, get cleaned up, and then I’ll come up to your room and deal with you,’ he said.
She didn’t dare to ask what ‘deal with you’ meant. Bleating an obedient ‘Yes, sir,’ she let her skirt fall and turned to go. ‘Ten minutes, Alison, please.’
Upstairs, she had a swift bath and returned to her bedroom, a blue towel wrapped round her still dripping form. Standing nude by the door she patted herself dry and tied her hair back with a ribbon, before wrapping the towel round again and sitting on the bed. Picking up a second towel, she began to dry her feet, when a creak outside the door announced someone’s presence. The door swung open.
Alison’s arm went up across her front to hold her shoulder, although the towel protected her modesty completely, and turned to face him. Her eyes widened in surprise and alarm as she registered the long, slim, crook-handled school cane he carried.
‘You’re not…?’ she began.
Mr Davidson nodded: ‘I have your parents’ authority, my girl, as I have shown you. You must learn that you are here to work, not gallivant around the countryside with young men on motorbikes, however old you are.’
He swished the wicked Malacca through the air, and noticed the girl flinch at the evil sound.
‘Could you give me a minute to get dressed, Mr Davidson?’ she asked.
‘That won’t be necessary, Alison. The part of your anatomy we shall shortly be educating will not require clothing.’
He came round to the other side of the bed, and her eyes followed him disbelievingly. Surely he wasn’t going to use that thing on her bare bum? It was unheard of at school.
‘Lie face down,’ he ordered.
‘But Mr Davidson…’ she thought desperately. ‘What happens if Mrs Macfarlaine hears?’
‘Mrs Macfarlaine is not in this evening. She is spending the night with her sister. And if she were here, she would of course witness your disgrace.’
Realising there were no options, Alison mumbled: ‘Ummm, how many…?’
‘Six of the best,’ he announced with a slight smile.
‘Six?’ she gulped. He nodded.
As she turned round, the towel pulled free to expose her breasts, and she rolled swiftly onto her tummy to hide them from his flickering eyes.
Davidson missed nothing, savouring the brief glimpse of her rounded, bobbing globes and remembering how enticing they had looked the other day when Alison had arrived for her tutorial wearing a T-shirt but patently no bra. It was after that lesson, when he watched her denim-clad bottom undulate gently from the room, that he had decided to seek an excuse to soundly thrash this pretty redhead.
He ran the slender Malacca up the back of the girl’s thighs, and reached over with his left hand to tug the blue towel firmly off the target area. The broad expanse of her soft, pale buttocks was exposed, the hips well-rounded, the smooth thighs pressed tightly together.
‘Put that pillow under your hips.’ He tapped the object with the tip of the cane as she reached out, pulled it down the bed and lifted her hips while she slid it deftly under. Her bottom was now raised to a position Davidson thought perfect, the cheeks’ soft contours waiting for the arrival of the initial stroke.
He swished the punishing length through the air again, and smiled slightly as he noticed the girl’s bottom tense momentarily.
‘Have you been caned before, Alison?’ he asked almost concernedly.
‘No, sir,’ came the subdued reply.
‘Well, I think you will find the experience a salutary one at your age: you’re old enough to be beaten properly. How many did I say?’
‘Six of the best,’ she confirmed.
For the next minute or so, Alison’s modesty and self-control were lost as she received as sound a beating as it was possible to administer, the meaty, flesh-parting strokes delivered with full force in a regular tattoo. The cane marched steadily down from the upper curve of her buttocks to the final stroke just below the crease between bottom and thigh which wrenched a shriek of distress from the prone teenager.
The first and second strokes extracted a gasp of surprised pain at the burning, cutting Malacca, the next two warranting high-pitched yelps, before the final strokes — delivered with precision — slashed across her unprotected rear-end to remind her of the error of her ways.
Alison’s body was wracked with sobs, her shoulders heaving as she fought to control the pain in her ravaged backside. The caning had been a great deal more painful than she had expected, but nothing could have prepared her for that skilled onslaught.
With a brisk and cliché-laden ‘Let that be a lesson to you, my girl,’ Mr Davidson slammed the door behind him and stood outside grinning to himself.
On the bed, Alison rolled onto her left side and attempted to stop the flow of tears caused by her embarrassing and painful experience. Her right hand went down to gingerly feel the reddened corrugations on her bottom.
‘After this,’ she thought, ‘it can only get better.’ Or perhaps not…

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