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Friday, 2 November 2018

Jane… Goes Back to School

The first of two Jane stories from Blushes 67
She had a funny feeling being back there again. Wheeling her bike through the partially open iron gates and into the deserted yard. A funny eerie feeling with the place empty, deserted, the blank windows of the main building staring vacantly at her on this still, breezeless August morning.
Back to school. Which Jane had left less than four weeks ago thinking she would never be back here. And now… here she was already. Back on this warm Wednesday morning with no one here except herself And Mr Milport of course. Presumably Mr Milport would be here because he had arranged to meet Jane at school. His car would be round the back in the staff car park unless he had walked of course.
Mr Milport. He had been Head of English. And still was of course. He would be back in September no doubt, just like before. Droning on in a bored way as he had for donkey’s years. Droning on and no doubt eyeing the good-looking girls. Only of course Jane wouldn’t be there, not in September. She had left. And she didn’t yet have a job.
That was why she wanted to see Mr Milport. About a reference. Jane had phoned him. And Mr Milport had said… Yes. Come over to the school. He would see her there. See about a reference. The Headmaster’s study he had said.
Jane wheeled her bike across the hot sun-drenched yard, conscious of the windows which all seemed to be staring at her. It was as if the school was alive, the windows its eyes all silently watching her. Staring silently at this girl who had come back in the summer holidays to disturb its peace. Jane shivered: It was a stupid thought. It was just an empty old school. Except for Mr Milport who would be in the Head’s room round the side.
Jane parked her bike in the cycle shed. Hopefully her meeting with Mr Milport wouldn’t take long. She wasn’t at all looking forward to it. For one thing it was somewhat shaming to have to come back and ask for a reference because you couldn’t find a job. And the other thing was… Mr Milport. He had that way of looking at you. Looking at a pretty girl, that was. Eyeing you. His eyes observing a girl’s body through her dress. And not just eyeing either. Mr Milport could say things too. Some girls had even said, whispered, that if Mr Milport got something on you, found out something, a guilty secret perhaps, he would… Breathless little giggles as to what Mr Milport would do.
Jane didn’t really believe those whispered things. But she would certainly rather not be coming here to see Mr Milport on this quite hot August morning. It certainly wasn’t her choice. She had phoned the Head first of all but he said he was going away — and told her to contact Mr Milport. Mr Milport wasn’t going away.
The side door was unlocked as Mr Milport said it would be. Jane pushed it open and there she was, back in school again. That sudden special smell: not really unpleasant and nothing you could really put your finger on. Just a sort of musty old building smell that immediately brought back a vivid sensation of all those lessons. When no doubt if Jane had concentrated more she wouldn’t be here now, she would have got those O-Levels and would already have a nice job somewhere.
She went up the stairs. On tiptoe almost to lessen the sense of her shoes echoing in the empty building. Empty except…
‘Come in.’
Jane’s tentative knock at the door answered after a little space: two seconds perhaps. But long enough for the fleeting thought to come that Mr Milport wasn’t here, there had been some mistake and if she quickly retreated… But it was just wishful thinking. Mr Milport was in there alright. Waiting for her. Jane had to open the door.
‘Ah yes, Jane. Close the door. And come over here.’
Yes, Mr Milport, sitting behind the Head’s desk. With that familiar quizzical look behind his glasses. The eyes glinting at her. He had on a sports shirt, not his usual dark suit but otherwise it was just the same. As if she had never left.
‘Come on Miss. Don’t dawdle. Round here where I can see you. just because you’ve left school doesn’t mean you’re any different, you know. And certainly not if you want a reference. Oh dear me no.’
Jane shuffled forward. Mr Milport was indicating the spot next to him. ‘I… well I just wanted a short reference,’ she muttered.
‘I know what you want young lady.’ Mr Milport reached out to grab Jane’s skirt and pull her close. ‘Or rather what you think you want. Because maybe you really want something else. Eh Jane? Maybe you really want your knickers taking down and your bottom given a sharp spanking.’
The words came as a cold shock. All those vague thoughts about Mr Milport abruptly crystallising. He had never actually said anything like that to her at school of course. Nothing as outright as that. But then seconds later there was an even greater shock. Mr Milport’s hand.
It had taken hold of her bottom. Jane made a gasping sound. The hand was firmly there, gripping the near-side cheek of her bottom through her thin summer skirt. Another shocked gasp and she stumbled backwards, getting her bottom away.
Get back here!’ Mr Milport’s works barking out. ‘Didn’t I tell you to stand right here? Immediately! I thought you wanted a reference?’
Jane hesitated. Still feeling that hand gripping her bottom. And if she stepped in close again Mr Milport was going to do the same thing, she knew he was. Take hold of her bottom again. But… she needed the reference.
‘That’s it. A girl’s got to do exactly as she’s told if she wants a nice reference. Come on here.
He was tugging at Jane’s skirt, getting her in really close. And then the hand was there again. On her bottom. She shuddered… but this time didn’t jerk away.
‘That’s better. Mmm? Being sensible.’ The hand was stroking Jane’s bottom. ‘You’re a big girl now. And big girls have got to be sensible. Yes. I see… you’ve got knickers on. Under the skirt. You didn’t think… it would be sensible to leave them off? Come to see me without any knickers on? Eh Jane. Just to show that you were a nice friendly girl.’
Jane is shaking. tier whole body. The possibility of this sort of thing had entered her mind beforehand but had been quickly dismissed. No… there couldn’t be anything like that. Those silly whispers from certain giggly girls. No. But now…
She stutters some sort of answer. The hand is mounding the full flesh of her bottom.
Mr Milport’s voice, softly: ‘Ever had it spanked, Jane dear? This lovely bottom. I don’t suppose any of the other masters was ever so bold — or so overcome with hot desire — as to give it a thorough spanking? Eh? Or a nice hot caning perhaps?’
Jane is feeling slightly faint. ‘No… I… No…’
‘Well you should have, Miss. All that time at school that you wasted. Gazing out of the window. Or just dreaming. I would have loved to have given you a good hard walloping then. Got you out in front of the class — with all the boys present of course. And really spank the daylights out of you. Over my lap with your skirt up round your waist and your knickers down. Eh? And all the boys no doubt with their eyes popping out of their heads. At the fantastic sight of Jane Simpkins’s bare bottom. Don’t you think that would have done her a whole lot of good, Jane dear?
Jane can’t answer. She is feeling sick. Faint. At Mr Milport’s hand which hasn’t stopped its groping and mauling. And at his words. The things he is saying.
The hand clenches on the full meat of Jane’s right buttock. The soft, caressing voice again. ‘And it’s never too late, eh Jane? We can do it now. Before I write out that reference which will be nice and flattering, and maybe not strictly accurate. But if you’re going to have your bottom smacked that’s alright I suppose. OK? So take your knickers off, Miss. Right off. And we’ll give that lovely bum something to think about. OK?’
Jane is feeling faint now. The room is hot, airless it seems. And beginning to tilt, sway. It is what girls sometimes whispered of course. Those hot, breathless whispers in the cloakroom. This. What Mr Milport is saying now. He had smacked girls’ bottoms. Secretly of course. No one could know because of course he wasn’t allowed to: you couldn’t smack a girl’s bottom. But the girl, whoever it was, wasn’t going to tell because of whatever it was Mr Milport had on her. And so therefore he could do it.
Jane hadn’t believed the whispers. She thought some girls just liked to say things like that. But now… Now she can guess it was true alright. Unless by some faint chance Mr Milport could be joking.
No. There isn’t any chance of that.
‘Come on Jane. I mean it. You should have had it before, and preferably in front of a class of gawping boys. But we do unfortunately have these silly regulations. Not now though, eh? Not now you’ve left. You don’t really deserve a good reference, Jane dear. But I am going to give you one. After I’ve given you a good spanking. On your lovely bare bottom. And after that, Jane… After that a few strokes of the cane as well.’
She can’t believe it. Not that last bit: a caning! Not that Jane can really believe any of this, in spite of the whispers. But she needs the reference. For next week, for her interview. And there’s only Mr Milport. So that means…
What’s it like to have your bare bottom spanked at 18? Mr Milport’s hand spanking her bare bottom. And then… that unthinkable other.
‘Come on, young lady. It’s nothing to be worried about. And no one else is ever going to know of course. It’s going to be our little secret. So come on. Get them off.’
The reference. Just think about the reference. Nothing else. That is what Jane tells herself. Because she’s got to do it. Take her knickers down. And off, he wants them right off. Mr Milport confirms this little detail as with a curt shake of the head he makes clear that just down will not be good enough. Yes, right off. She tries to shut her mind as she does it. Sliding them down. Jane’s brief white knickers coming down. Appearing below the hem of her blue summer skirt and on down her slim bare legs. And then off over first one and then the other of her sandals. Stumbling, almost falling over in the process because her legs are shaky, like matchstick legs, not wanting to support her.
‘That’s it. That’s a good girl. Put them on the desk. Then come here again. Here.’
Close up to him Mr Milport means. Jane has stepped back to take her knickers off and she is out of grabbing range. She shuffles reluctantly forward. Jane’s head is filled with the awfulness of what is to happen, there is no way she can help thinking about it. Over Mr Milport’s lap with her bottom bare. And then, what, bend over the desk or something? To have her bottom caned.
‘Ah… aaah.’
‘Keep still. Just… ah… getting acquainted.’ His hand is going up the back of Jane’s skirt. It is on the back of one bare thigh. She puts her hand on the desk. For support because her legs are trembling so. The hand sliding up the back of her warm thigh. It is going up… to her bare bottom.
‘Good girl. Yes this is what we want. A girl with her bottom bare. To have it dealt with, eh? As you certainly should have had it dealt with before. Two or three nice stinging cuts with the cane, young lady. That would have stopped all that dreaminess. Eh? Boys I suppose. Dreaming about boys. Ian Gillings. Yes?’
The hand is fully on Jane’s bare bottom now. Caressing the silky bare flesh. She leans more heavily on the desk. As Mr Milport begins talking about Ian. Mr Milport knows that Ian is Jane’s boyfriend, as anyone who was at all interested would know. Ian has been her boyfriend for the last two years, though only in a ‘serious’ way for less than twelve months. But Mr Milport has been interested. More than once in Jane’s last term he made little remarks. Remarks that could have a double meaning; designed to make a girl blush. But what he is saying now is not just with a double meaning, there is only one meaning.
‘I assume you were doing it pretty regularly with dear Ian throughout the whole of last year, Miss. And that can certainly have an effect on a girl’s powers of concentration. Having had a boy’s erect penis up her the night before. Yes? Aren’t I correct? Don’t bother to deny it.’
As Mr Milport speaks he is continuing to fondle Jane’s bare bottom. Feeling the ripe jut of the thrusting buttocks. Sliding his fingers in the deep cleft between the soft cheeks. Jane tries to produce some stuttery words of denial but Mr Milport brushes them aside. And says that if she doesn’t admit it he will double what she is going to get with the cane. Six strokes rather than three. And make sure she really feels the second set of three.
To avoid that dreadful possibility Jane says what Mr Milport wants; even though it isn’t true. She and Ian only really started doing it right at the end of term, partly as a result of Jane’s realisation that she was going to fail the exams. She had done it in a way to keep hold of Ian with the knowledge that she was going to leave school without any qualifications.
Mr Milport is triumphant at having got this confession from Jane. And says, on second thoughts he is going to give her the six with the cane anyway. For her initial lying.
Jane thinks she is going to cry. She is sure she is going to cry. But instead she lets out a sharp yelp: as the fingers fondling her bottom give it a painful pinch. The hand comes away. Sliding down out of her skirt. Because Mr Milport is now ready. Or let us say he can’t wait any longer. Even though messing about with Jane’s bare bottom and making her talk about her sexual habits is most enjoyable. But no, he can’t wait any longer. for the real business. Getting Jane over his lap for a start.
He slides himself back in the Headmaster’s chair, away from the desk to give himself room. And beckons Jane close again. Yes, she is to get down over his lap. For a second she feels a surge of panic and the desperate desire to turn and run, back down the stairs and out into the yard and away. But she can’t do that. Not if she wants the reference. No, she can only do it, accept it. However dreadful. And Jane does that. Coming forward and lowering herself.
Down over Mr Milport’s lap. The masculine smell of his trousers. The masculine feel too: an unmistakable hard bulge in the centre which when Jane feels she tries not to push herself against. But she has no choice because Mr Milport is handling her, pushing her into the precise position he wants. And then jerking up the blue summer skirt and her white slip. Baring the twin pale moons of Jane’s marvellous bottom.
Jane grits her teeth. The fainty feeling is back, stronger now. As Mr Milport’s hand fondles her bottom again, but this is only the prelude: the brief prelude. To…
The hand cracking hard down. Knocking the breath out of her. Knocking out also the fainty feeling because the fiercely stinging crack immediately dispels any such sensation.
A second cracking in onto Jane’s now scarlet-palm-printed buttocks. And a third. She is making desperate, shuddering cries but as Mr Milport’s hand continues to slam in there is of course no one to hear. No one except Mr Milport. And perhaps the school itself. The empty building with its vacant window.
Eyes which if it has a life of its own can hear, perhaps with silent satisfaction, the sound of this pretty girl receiving the treatment that some would say all pretty girls should get.
The spanking was dreadful. It hurt and it was dreadfully humiliating. Having a man do that to you. His hand thudding into your bare bottom. But the cane.
When that cane sliced into your bare bottom you wondered if it hadn’t cut you in two. If it had gone right through you like a knife through butter. The pain was… impossible.
Lying across the Headmaster’s desk. Which Mr Milport in a business-like way first cleared of papers, etc. So that there was space for Jane to stretch herself across it, gripping the far edge with both hands so that she stayed in position. A girl needed to do that if she wasn’t used to taking a hard caning, Mr Milport said. If she wasn’t used to having her bare bottom caned it was essential to hang on to something or she wouldn’t be able to stay still like he wanted her.
And that was true of course. It was almost impossible to stay like that when you were hanging on to the desk edge. When that quite impossible cane cut in.
He did give her six. Six awful, awful cuts of the cane on Jane’s bare bottom.
Somehow she straightened up at the end of it. Her skirt falling back down into place over her red-hot bottom. Her hands going to it. Wanting to hold her burning bottom but at the same time not because it was too impossibly painful to touch.
Gasping for breath. Not able to see properly because of course her eyes were all wet with hot tears.
The only thing she could think was that it was over. And she could get her reference now. And go.
But then.
Mr Milport said: No.
Smiling he said No.
Jane could come round to his house tomorrow. He would give her the reference then.
After he had given her another caning.


  1. She is just so fucking smackable. That's her problem.

  2. At school reunions years and years ago my friends and i would reminisce about CP and laugh at it but it was not so serious when bending over for the cane or slipper!