There were one or two odd things about St Alwyns College. In fact once you were there, an inmate so to speak, there were more than one or two of them, but by that time the chances were you couldn’t do much about it. You were probably there due to your parents having to go abroad because that was the sort of pupil (or girl because St Alwyns only took girls) that it catered for. And if your parents were off abroad on business or whatever, they were not going to take much notice of moaning letters because they wouldn’t want to know. ‘Just stick it out, dear. It’s bound to be a little strange at first.’
It was more than a little strange. St Alwyns could be very strange indeed. Unless of course you were used to that sort of thing. And girls nowadays mostly aren’t, are they?
Take knickers. Knickers? Well, it may sound a trivial matter but as it happens knickers were a not unimportant item at St Alwyns. Because girls’ knickers were quite a thing with Mr Glamling, an item close to his heart. Mr Glamling was Headmaster and Principal and everything else at St Alwyns. St Alwyns was his school. He owned it. So what Mr Glamling said and thought, and was dear to his heart about girls’ knickers, went. Mr Glamling liked rather old-fashioned ones. Not exactly bloomers but knickers that properly covered a girl’s bottom. And as we are talking about the 16 to 18 (occasionally 19) age group, which was what St Alwyns took, we are talking for the most part about good-sized, substantial bottoms. Mr Glamling’s — or St Alwyns — knickers were a medium blue, close-fitting without being too tight and came properly down to the tops of a girl’s thighs.
This, as most of us know, is not at all the sort of thing girls like to wear nowadays. Mostly they seem to prefer the vestigial sort that almost at once work their way completely into the cleft of the wearer’s bottom so that you have to look twice — or feel twice — to be sure a girl has any on at all. That state of affairs was definitely out if you were going to St Alwyns. As a girl quickly found out on her visit to Twidgett’s, sole outfitters to the school (or to Mr Glamling), and to be found in the High Street of the neighbouring town.
Alison Milthorpe for instance. Very pretty and very blonde (so much so that one might suspect it was not entirely natural) 17 and her parents off to Hong Kong for a year. St Alwyns just the place for her, and pretty Alison just the girl for St Alwyns. My word yes, with, in addition to the prettiness and the cascading blonde locks, a fine mature shape about to be kitted out in the St Alwyns rig. Old Mr Twidgett quite beside himself at the prospect. Showing her the knickers. Alison, like many a girl before her, looking at them wide-eyed. Oh!
‘Let’s see then,’ urged old Mr Twidgett. ‘I should say this pair’s about your size. Nice big girl, eh! But try them on. Let’s have a look. And then the rest, but we must, ah, get the knickers right first, eh?’
Alison realising to her dismay that she was meant to strip off and try on the uniform right there, in Mr Twidgett’s back room, and presumably in front of the proprietor. No, there wasn’t a private cubicle, he told her. Why would she want that? She wasn’t shy, was she? Not a big girl like Alison. Mr Twidgett, eager eyed, informed her he had seen many, many girls before — and intended to see many more after her. So come on!
Alison most reluctantly divesting herself. Everything off was the requirement. Because one other thing, an odd thing no doubt, was that one did not wear a bra at St Alwyns. Mr Glamling’s rule, along with the knickers. No bra. Alison was very well built in that region — though not at all keen to display this fact. Mr Twidgett sharply told her to take her hands away. And get going. So her own skimpy nylon knickers came off, like everything else. Diving desperately into the blue St Alwyns ones. Oh Cripes.
Standing there in just those awful knickers while Mr Twidgett (‘No we don’t need the rest on yet.’) grabbed and groped. (‘Get your hands away. My word, you’re like an eel.’) You were suffering of course only what every other girl about to start at St Alwyns had to suffer. Mr Twidgett did not give Mr Glamling those very attractive rates on his uniforms, which the latter then failed to pass on to the parents, for nothing. Oh no. Mr Twidgett needed his pound of flesh. To be taken hold of in both hands.
Alison Milthorpe may, it is true, have had to suffer just a little more than the average. But what could you expect with such an arousing form. Those remarkable tits for instance, doubly remarkable on a still budding 17-year-old, with their nipples under Mr Twidgett’s ministrations soon sticking out like nobody’s business. And what the decorous but body-hugging blue knickers now contained as well: ripe, roundnesses, entrancing declivities. Oh yes, she was bound to need some extra moments — quite a few — before Mr Twidgett could proceed with the other garments.
These proved to be a quite long, below-the-knee-length grey skirt plus blouse and red tie. No bra, as already mentioned, though in colder weather, at Mr Glamling’s discretion, a light vest could be worn. The outfit was completed by white knee socks and shiny black strap-over shoes. There was also a blue blazer but you were not going to be wearing that in school; for if you were how could Mr Glamling admire those nice, pert, girlish (in Alison’s case not so girlish) glands?
Yes, a very demure, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-the-mouth outfit. Not really the sort of thing your modern girl of 16 to 18 would choose to be attired in. Not at all. Though usually, as with Alison, they were thankful to be finally allowed to get it on. You were now attired as Mr Glamling wanted you. More or less, excepting the times when he would want parts of it off, or in one particular case, down. But that would come later. Not necessarily much later but later. For the moment you were clad as a new St Alwyns girl should be. And already, clearly, aware that there were one or two odd things, things unexpected, if only in terms of the uniform, at St Alwyns College for Girls.
You were now ready to meet Mr Glamling himself, if you had not already done so in a preliminary meeting with your parents. Alison Milthorpe had not met Mr Glamling. Nor had she actually visited St Alwyns, that attractive old building set out in the country in its pleasant grounds behind a mellow but substantial brick wall which kept girls in and likewise kept out any overheated males with ideas of getting at the choice inmates. Clad in her uniform and with her own outfit transferred to her suitcase Alison found an ancient motor waiting for her outside Mr Twidgett’s, with Mr Glamling’s equally ancient handyman at the wheel. Mr Biggings.
‘Ah, Miss Milthorpe is it? All set then, are we?’
Mr Biggings seemed very friendly. Perhaps too friendly, Alison thought, as she removed his hand from her leg. But she didn’t want to antagonise him. Mr Biggings was saying he could show her the ropes. A cackly laugh. ‘‘Ow to survive at St Alwyns. ‘Ow to survive Mr Glamling.’ Another cackle. ‘Are you, er, a virgin, young lady?’
Alison, flushing, did not intend to answer that, and told him to mind his own business. To get such a question from the school servant after five minutes acquaintance was clearly another example of the oddness of the place. ‘Odd’ indeed was hardly strong enough. Alison’s unbrassiered breasts tingled. Mr Biggings said he was ‘just curious’.
Whatever next, she wondered. Next, naturally, was Mr Glamling himself. Lord and master of St Alwyns, and of its toothsome pupils, enjoined to his task by parents mostly dispersed to the various corners of the globe. Alison followed Mr Biggings to Mr Glamling’s office with some trepidation. Not surprisingly, given those knickers and the no-bra edict. There was also Mr Biggings’ ‘Are you a virgin?’ but presumably the Headmaster was not responsible for that.
Mr Glamling in fact had the appearance of a kindly old gent of mature years with a reassuringly rounded shape and an amiable expression behind his spectacles. Surely this man would not enquire if she were a virgin — and it was difficult to believe he could be making girls go without bras. Perhaps it was for some sort of health reason. Alison smiled winningly. Make a good impression. Because after all…
Mr Glamling proved just as pleasant to talk to as he looked. Asking about this and that: her parents, her other school — non-boarding of course which was why Alison’s parents had had to find St Alwyns. Oh yes very pleasant. Mr Glamling might be glancing at her blouse front occasionally — but then again it might be her imagination. He would take her on a little tour of the school, he said. Which was very kind, because he must be a very busy man. It was no trouble, Mr Glamling said.
St Alwyns was quite large for a private house, which it had been before Mr Glamling started up his school, but for a school it wasn’t big. Just a small number of girls, something like 10 normally, though the numbers did go up and down with demand. A nice sort of number because anyway did a man need more than 10 girls? Especially if he was of mature years. Mr Glamling had two assistants to carry out the great bulk of the teaching load. He himself was more concerned with administration. And of course discipline.
‘What was your other school like for discipline, Alison?’ he asked pleasantly as they walked along a cream-painted corridor.
How did you answer that? What did it mean? There hadn’t been girls rioting or burning the place down. ‘All right, sir,’ said Alison. ‘Good, I should say.’
‘Good,’ said Mr Glamling approvingly. ‘Discipline is always most important.’
He opened a cream-coloured door and they went inside. What was it, a bathroom, a changing room? There were wash-basins, and showers. Towels hanging up. Also on the floor and elsewhere items of clothing. ‘Untidy girls,’ Mr Glamling said shaking his head. Bending with some effort he picked something up. It was a pair of those blue knickers. The sort that Alison now had on. St Alwyns knickers. What was that pair doing on the floor here, she wondered.
‘Needs her bottom smacking, that young lady.’ Mr Glamling was examining the inside of the knickers’ waistband, looking at a name tag. ‘Ah…’
He dropped the knickers on a chair, then went back to the door. Alison heard a bolt slide home.
‘Not got your name in yours yet I daresay, Alison?’ He meant her knickers. Alison shook her head. Mr Twidgett had done a lot of messing about with the knickers once she had them on but it hadn’t included putting any name tag in.
‘See Mrs Fulmer about it. You need your name in your knickers, and of course other items. Mrs Fulmer is our housekeeper, a very capable lady.’
Mr Glamling was close up now. ‘Now then, Alison, here is as good a place as any for your first lesson. In fact this bathroom is a place I find quite handy for it. One is not disturbed, once the door is locked, that is.’
Her first lesson?
‘Not that you have broken any rules, Alison. Not at all. Not yet at least. But I like to show a girl what’s what. So she knows what to expect.’
What was happening? What was happening was that Mr Glamling was telling her to raise her arms and take hold of some wall hooks up above her head. He was going to spank her bottom. Had she heard that right? He was going to spank her bottom. Not really able to take in this unbelievable statement Alison nonetheless, somehow, raised her arms and grasped the hooks. Then gasped. Mr Glamling was close against her back. And his hands had come round and taken hold of her boobs. Those very impressive boobs that in the St Alwyns manner were free and unharnessed under her blouse. Mr Glamling was cupping them. And then tweaking the nipples.
‘Just checking, Alison. You have a very good development. Very good. Now then…’
Mr Glamling let go of her, which was something, but only to grab up her skirt at the back. That demure grey skirt pulled right up, to Alison’s neck. Mr Glamling telling her that he was going to tuck the skirt’s hem into her collar. Which meant that behind her…
Mr Glamling in a no-nonsense manner was taking Alison’s knickers down. Pulling them right down, to the region of her knees. Her splendid bottom was quite bare. And Mr Glamling’s hand was on it. Two hands. She hung onto the hooks. Then squealed. Mr Glamling had begun spanking. Hard, stinging smacks cracking into her tender flesh. She was squealing and yelping, sounds which this bathroom had heard plenty of in the past for it was a favourite venue of Mr Glamling. Alison’s skirt slid down in her jerky writhings but Mr Glamling gathered it up again and held it aloft. A man after all only needed his good right hand free to smack a girl’s bottom. He kept on. Smack!… Smack!… Smack!… He might look somewhat overweight and out of condition but when a man’s heart is in a task it is amazing what he can do.
He was perhaps a little out of breath at the end as he breathed, ‘There, my girl. That’s better.’
Poor Alison. The whole of her body it seemed was tingling, smarting. Not just the glowing bottom and backs of her thighs but everything. She had never been smacked like that before. Not ever. Nothing remotely like it. And she hadn’t done anything. Mr Glamling had just… The sheer enormity of it was enough to cause those fat tears brimming from her eyes, never mind the stinging pain.
Mr Glamling was saying something. His hand was squeezing her poor bottom and he was saying something. What…?
‘That’ll do for now, my dear. You can pull ‘em up. I shall want them down again to give you a caning but get them up for the moment. Then we’ll have a look at the rest of the building.’
Because it was such a small school St Alwyns had the advantage of individual rooms. Bedrooms. Each girl had her own. If that was an advantage of course. Because… well, you might consider there was safety in numbers. That was what one of the other girls had said to Alison earlier, at tea time.
Making a little face, a grimace, as she said it. Alison had wondered what she meant but now, at just after ten, as the door to her room opened and Mr Glamling came quietly in the thought came that, yes, perhaps there was safety in numbers.
Mr Glamling was smiling his friendly smile. But he had been smiling that same smile when, right after tea, he had beckoned to Alison and taken her out and back into that bathroom. And beaten her again. Only this time not his hand but with an awful, awful cane. With her bent across a chair. Her skirt up. First with her knickers up, the cane across those tight, blue St Alwyns knickers, and then with them down. The cane across her bare bottom. ‘Just showing you what it’s like,’ he had said, in quite a friendly voice.
Alison could still feel it now, the cut of that truly awful cane, as she prepared to go to bed. In her pyjamas and just thinking about getting into bed as the door opened. Mr Glamling. Smiling.
Odd, you might say, for Mr Glamling to be calling in at this time of night. Closing the door quietly behind him and then going over to sit on the bed. Smiling still. Beckoning Alison over.
Mr Glamling of course would say it was not odd at all. Just looking after the girls. Individual attention. Personal individual attention, that was what St Alwyns could offer. And that surely is what girls need with parents so far away. Oh yes.
No doubt you could classify as personal individual attention what has mostly taken place in the bathroom. And yes certainly Mr Glamling would put what he was now proceeding with in that category. Sliding Alison’s pyjama bottoms down. Pulling her over his lap.
The pretty girl trembling with fearful anticipation. Was she going to get another of those dreadful spankings, on her still cane-marked bum? For the moment with her pyjamas down Mr Glamling was merely stroking it.
But was that a prelude to spanking… Or what?