From Roué 42
The rebellious nature of Samantha Jane Hollingshead was first brought to the attention of her Headmaster, Oswald Cantrell, during a chat with the school’s PT teacher, Amanda Luke. On one of his pre-prandial prowls around the establishment he had — as was his wont — popped his balding head around the door of the gymnasium changing rooms, and found the young woman in her office disposing of a pair of knickers. Like the gentleman he was, he cleared his throat discreetly. At first startled, Miss Luke, having regained her composure, welcomed the old man, who entered her office, his eyes focussing on the waste-paper basket wherein lay the feminine garment. Realising an explanation was called for, the woman told Mr Cantrell that one of the girls — the aforementioned Samantha Jane — had chosen to turn up for gym that morning without the regulation clothing. In answer to the questioning look on the man’s face, Miss Luke went on to expound upon her statement.
‘She did not have her navy-blue gym knickers, Mr Cantrell,’ the woman explained and, leaning over towards the receptacle, produced quite the skimpiest pair of diaphanous light-blue, lace-trimmed panties. ‘These,’ she continued, holding the miniscule strip of material under the Head’s nose, ‘were what she brought along instead.’
He enquired as to what action the woman had taken over this flagrant insubordination, and was told that, fortunately, a clean pair — albeit three sizes too small — had been found, and that the girl in question had performed her gymnastics in these.
Mr Cantrell demanded to know the girl’s name and then told the woman that any repetition should be reported to him without fail. Miss Luke agreed and, for two weeks, nothing more of the girl was heard by the Head.
That fortnight having passed, Mr Cantrell, looking in on a PT lesson, espied at the far end of the gym a girl cavorting about in regulation white vest, socks and plimsolls, but wearing a pair of bright yellow knickers.
‘All stand to attention!’ he boomed as he strode across the polished floor of the gym towards the pupil. ‘What is this!?’ On closer examination the old fellow found the garment to be not so much a pair of knickers, more a pair of tiny bikini-briefs.
Turning to Miss Luke, he stormed, ‘Why is this girl incorrectly and disgustingly dressed!?’ The woman explained that the wrongly-attired girl did not have her navy-blue knickers with her and, as there were no spares available, had been told to do gym in the ones she had in her satchel.
He faced the girl again and asked her name. ‘Samantha Jane Hollingshead, sir,’ she replied in a whisper.
His face growing even redder, the Head raged, ‘Take those off this instant!’ and, when the blushing Samantha Jane had handed the offending garment to him, ‘You will complete the lesson with no knickers on whatsoever. Perhaps that will teach you not to be so openly disobedient.’
With that, he strode off out of the gym amid the sniggers of the other girls.
Fortunately for Samantha Jane, there were only another ten minutes left of the lesson, but they were ten minutes which were made practically unbearable for the half-naked girl.
Notwithstanding the utter shame suffered during the lesson and the taunts and jibes which for some days after followed it, Samantha Jane found herself in trouble for precisely the same offence a mere four days later.
Netball practice was in progress in the playground — a match between the Probables and the Possibles, prior to the game against the girls from St Jude’s the following Saturday. Bored with the seemingly endless piles of paperwork on his desk, Oswald Cantrell lit up his pipe and strolled casually over to his window.
The sight that met him necessitated the old boy taking off his spectacles and wiping the lenses. The glasses perched back on his nose, he stared in disbelief at the figure of Samantha Jane Hollingshead.
Amid the dozens of tightly-encased jiggling breasts and the equally tightly-packaged wobbling buttocks, stood pretty, blonde Samantha Jane, her hair tied in bunches with scarlet ribbons, her torso covered by a skin-tight vest, her lower limbs and feet in white socks and tan-coloured plimsolls, but — where there should be navy-blue school knickers — a pair of indecently minute panties the colour of which matched the bright-red of the ribbons on her head.
The Headmaster opened the window and barked, ‘That girl!!’ The action on the netball court came to an abrupt halt as every player stopped in her tracks and looked over in the direction of the rasping voice. ‘You!’ he boomed, pointing out the pupil in question. All eyes turned to Samantha Jane who, blushing deeply, walked across the playground to the Head’s study window.
‘Me, sir?’ enquired the girl as she approached the fuming man.
‘Get yourself over to the changing rooms!’ he ordered, barely able to contain his anger. ‘I shall join you there presently.’ Samantha Jane slunk off amid howls of delight from her team-mates. ‘Miss Luke!’ the Head’s voice again echoed around the netball court, ‘Control your class and continue with the lesson.’
Five minutes later found Samantha Jane sitting on a bench in the gymnasium’s changing rooms, perspiring from her earlier exertions but undecided as to whether she should take a shower. The Head, she mused, might appear at any moment, so she settled on postponing her ablutions for the moment.
The door flung open, admitting the gowned figure of Mr Cantrell, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘Stand up, girl!’ came the order. Nervously, Samantha Jane complied. ‘Take those… things off!’
Wriggling her hips, the girl inched the garment down over her bottom, down her legs and off, offering them to the man. ‘Put them in the waste-paper basket in Miss Luke’s office,’ he told her, and off she went, bottom-cheeks wobbling. He then instructed the girl to return to the bench and sit down. ‘You will remain there for the rest of the lesson,’ he continued, ‘after which I shall return for a… er… discussion as to your persistent insubordination.’
He departed, and within minutes the changing rooms were full with several hot, sweaty schoolgirls, chattering and giggling as they stripped, showered and dressed. The centre of attention was young Samantha Jane, sitting, head in her hands, hands in her lap attempting to hide her bare tummy.
Miss Luke enquired of the girl what the Head had said to her and, upon hearing her reply, remarked unfeelingly, ‘And a good job, too, young lady. Perhaps Mr Cantwell’s… er… discussion will teach you once and for all not to make a mockery of my lessons.’
Having twice heard the dubious phrase ‘…er… discussion,’ Samantha Jane was more than a little apprehensive as to what awaited her on the Headmaster’s return. Three times she had disobeyed the rules regarding clothing, and this, she couldn’t help but think, would be likely to result in something punitive — certainly more severe than a ticking-off.
Showered and dressed, the other girls filed out of the changing rooms to be followed, a couple of minutes later, by Amanda Luke. A little while later all was silence. It was the end of the school day and the building would be empty — save, perhaps, for the ancient caretaker and, of course, Oswald Cantrell, Headmaster…
The click-click of a man’s shoes met Samantha Jane’s ears — a click-clicking which became ominously louder as he neared the changing rooms. The door burst open and there, framed in the doorway, stood the Head.
As ever, he cut an awesome figure. Begowned and with a face like thunder, he glared at the distraught girl. The black gown rustled as he made his way over to her. Then, standing before her, his hands behind his back, he spoke.
‘Pale-blue panties,’ he began, ‘was bad enough. Yellow bikini-briefs was worse. But bright scarlet… well, that is something different entirely. It is patently obvious that you intend to ridicule Miss Luke’s lessons, the school’s rules and me. I will not tolerate this, young lady. You might think it to be a jolly little wheeze, my girl, but I take a very dim view of this gross disobedience.’
‘Since making you perform your calisthenics… er… bare… ahem… bottomed has not served to teach you the error of your ways, I have decided to resort to more stringent methods.’
For the first time since his arrival his hands appeared from behind his back, bringing into Samantha Jane’s view a brown leather, two-tailed tawse, confirming the girl’s very worst fears.
‘This,’ the Head intoned gravely, ‘should do the trick. Very few girls come back for another dose of my trusty Scottish helper. Firstly, though, I think you had better put yourself under the shower.’ Samantha Jane looked up at him, shocked at this development. She did not speak; her eyes told the man what she was thinking, and he responded by repeating the instruction, though in a much firmer manner.
There was, the wretched girl thought, no way out; she was utterly at her Headmaster’s mercy, and mercy was something she expected very little of.
Under his watchful gaze, Samantha Jane divested herself of her vest, socks and plimsolls, and walked tentatively over to the shower room. After a couple of minutes, shivering and wet she emerged and dived for the warmth, comfort and protection of a large towel. When she had dried herself she was just about to get dressed when Mr Cantrell spoke.
‘Er, before getting into your clothes, young lady, I believe you have an appointment with this,’ the Headmaster informed her, brandishing the tawse and swiping it through the air.
Samantha Jane had not expected this, and again her eyes told him as much. Drawing himself up to his full height, he told her that, yes she was to be strapped in the buff; that she had better discard her towel, bend over and touch her toes and, ‘be quick about it, girl!’
The towel was tossed to one side and she bent, only too happy to put herself in a position which denied him a view of her young, naked body. Of course, her bare bottom was well and truly on display — but then that could hardly be avoided.
When the old fellow was perfectly satisfied with the girl’s pose — which necessitated parting her legs slightly, ‘… so that you will be able to keep your balance,’ as he put it — he stood to her left side, raised the leather implement and, with a whoosh, brought it down into contact with the proffered backside. The sound of the strap’s impact with Samantha Jane’s naked buttocks reverberated around the tiled walls of the changing rooms, breaking the silence that had fallen. The next sound to echo about the room was the schoolgirl’s anguished cry as the pain from that first stroke spread from her rear-end through her trembling young form.
Five more strokes followed — five more whooshes, thwacks and gasps — before the girl was told to stand upright. Her hands clutching her bottom, her face flushed and with tears trickling down her cheeks, she stood before the out-of-breath man.
After a few deep breaths and a mopping of his brow, he addressed the woebegone Samantha Jane. ‘Hands on head!’ he snapped and then, peering round to take in the view of the girl’s well-punished bottom, ‘Seeing that you are apparently so keen on sporting bright-scarlet on your naughty young rump,’ he said with a wicked smile, ‘you should be more than happy to learn that you will be carrying that colour for quite some time to come.’
And, with a smug look on his wrinkled face, he departed, swishing his ‘trusty Scottish helper’ through the air as he went.