Story from London Life Vol.1 No.3
‘Damnation!’ The headmaster glowered at his watch, ‘that new school secretary to interview in half-an-hour and I’ve still got Sandra Watkins to attend to!’ Dr Tutt was a hard man to please. He set himself high standards and expected the same of all his staff at the mixed High School where he had been headmaster for fifteen years. Today had been particularly taxing. For the second day running Sandra Watkins had deliberately flouted school rules by not turning up in the approved white blouse, gymslip and knee-socks. Despite the fact that she was not a third year tomboy but a tall, rather sophisticated flaxen-haired sixth former, the stern unbending Dr Tutt had not the slightest compunctions about punishing her.
‘That ridiculous mini-skirt you’re wearing is a mockery of all that the school stands for! Yesterday I let you off with a warning but today I must take more positive action. I’ll tolerate no disobedience! Come to my study this instant, young lady!’
With butterflies already in her tummy, the gorgeous Sandra timidly entered the Head’s inner sanctum. There she was obliged to perch precariously on a cane-bottomed stool, vainly endeavouring to conceal glimpses of black stocking-tops while he lectured her relentlessly on ‘standards of dress’ and how she was expected to set an example to the younger pupils. After what seemed to Sandra an interminable harangue, Dr Tutt ordered her to her feet.
‘Raise your skirt… Just as I thought! Your choice of underwear is positively indecent. Does your mother know that you come to school in these preposterous, transparent briefs?’
‘Yes sir,’ she gulped appealingly, her doe-like eyes meeting his… ‘She wears the same sort, actually, sir.’ Sandra hoped that the last piece of information would somehow testify that her womanhood had arrived and thus placate her mentor. In this she was sadly mistaken.
‘Turn around, wretched girl! Raise your skirt at the back!’ he thundered.
‘Oh sir… no sir!’
‘Do as I say!’ he barked mercilessly. Obediently she turned and raising her tiny skirt revealed black stocking-tops, taut white suspenders disappearing tantalisingly beneath a pair of extremely diaphanous red knickers. Sandra’s magnificently swelling bottom cheeks, with the tight vee of the gusset disappearing between her nether cleft were enough to melt the heart of any man — save the merciless Doctor! The aesthetic appeal of Miss Watkin’s derriere clearly escaped him.
At that precise moment a knock was heard and, without waiting for an answer, the door opened to reveal a confident, rather sensuous brunette in her early thirties. Sandra, blushing furiously, whipped down her skirt-hem. Completely undeterred by the rather unconventional scene she’d just witnessed, the newcomer briskly announced her business.
‘I’ve come about the post of school secretary that’s vacant. Would you be Dr Tutt?’
He nodded, beckoning her over to a chair by the window. ‘I’m sorry there’s nowhere else I can ask you to wait. It’s Mrs Forsyth, isn’t it? Would you be so good as to wait for ten minutes while I deal with this other matter,’ he added gravely, indicating the luckless girl by his side. ‘I have an unpleasant task before me. This girl has persistently failed to conform to standards of dress and is about to be punished.’
The flicker of an intrigued smile played across the newcomer’s face as she realised the meaning of the scene she was witnessing. She settled down comfortably in the chair the Headmaster had indicated and tried not to look at the miserably embarrassed girl nervously shuffling her feet, and did her utmost to gaze out of the window at the rolling vista of playing fields. But now and again she couldn’t resist a quick glance at the fascinating tableau about to be enacted in that very room. Sandra’s eyes gaped in horror. She hadn’t counted on there being an audience!
‘Damn and blast!’ An infuriated Dr Tutt confronted an empty cane cupboard. ‘I forgot I broke my last cane on Blenkinsop minor last week.’ For once in his distinguished career the Headmaster was well and truly stumped.
Sandra coughed discreetly, regarding this as a heaven-sent deliverance from a fate worse than death.
‘I’ll do you a thousand lines, if that’ll make up for it, sir,’ she ventured tentatively.
‘Nonsense! A short, sharp lesson is what you need, young lady. I just can’t have you parading about my school in that disgraceful attire!’ All the time he was racking his brain for a solution. Perhaps Mr. Birdseye, the woodwork teacher, could be prevailed upon to supply a length of dowelling? The idea was hastily abandoned as the highly indelicate spectacle of Sandra lying across his knees having splinters picked out of her bottom flashed through his mind.
It was the self-possessed Mrs Forsyth who at a stroke shattered his reverie and resolved his dilemma. From that moment forth the job was undoubtedly hers.
‘If it’s any help, Headmaster, I’ve a fairly strong wooden hair brush with a longish handle that might do the trick.’ So saying, she produced the rather old-fashioned looking article from her handbag. Sandra eyed it with horror; and as for its owner… if looks could kill!
‘Full marks for initiative, Mrs Forsyth! The job is yours if you want it!’
‘Under these circumstances I can hardly refuse your kind offer,’ she replied somewhat enigmatically, but with a hint of a twinkle in her eye. Handing him the hairbrush she settled back in her chair to view the proceedings with visible signs of mounting excitement.
‘As you will by now have realised, Mrs Forsyth,’ the Head boomed, warming to his theme, ‘I am a firm believer in corporal punishment for females. The feminine — er — backside — is admirably resilient, as I shall now demonstrate,’ and seating himself on a plain wooden chair, he drew the trembling girl down across his lap until her hands and long, flaxen hair were touching the floor.
‘Oh no, please sir! Just one more chance. Oh my God!’ But all her mumbled protestations were in vain.
‘Silence, girl! This humiliating posture I’m making you adopt is all part of the punishment, and if it does nothing else it will certainly bring home to you the absurd inadequacy of the costume you are wearing.’ To underline this statement, he delivered a resounding Smack! to the mini-skirt that barely covered her plump behind. She uttered an agonised yelp, more out of surprise than pain: her long, black-stockinged legs trailed disconsolately on the floor; white expanse of thigh gleamed; her tiny red panties peeped out from beneath the raised skirt. Slowly, almost ceremonially, Dr Tutt completed, with his hand, the skirt’s ascent. Sandra’s delectable bottom swelled out sensuously below her waist. Those knickers were indeed pathetically inadequate — they concealed hardly anything. With his left hand holding Sandra’s skirt up to her waist, he slowly raised the hairbrush in the other hand again and brought it down smartly, flat side downwards, on the broad expanse of her twin cheeks. Again more yelps, but this time in genuine pain as renewed contact with Mrs Forsyth’s hairbrush brought home sharply to the girl the unpleasant reality of her predicament.
Again the brush was raised — this time to make its pistol shot Crack! upon her right cheek. Each point of contact left a reddening, blotchy mark on the plump white flesh.
Four more strokes on the right buttock, each in quick succession. Result: a furiously blushing all-over redness. Sandra’s yelps increased in urgency until they were howls. In vain she gritted her teeth; in vain she clenched her fists. The pain was swallowing her up like a tidal wave.
Then Dr Tutt switched to the virgin territory of her left cheek. A little more difficult this, as it was pressed fairly tightly against his side. However, with deft manipulation of the hairbrush he soon found his target. Soon there was little to choose between the redness of either cheek.
‘You’ll not want to sit down for a while after I’ve finished with you, young lady!’ The Doctor’s admonishments were all but drowned in the bedlam of smacking and wailings. For the next few minutes he concentrated on smacking the lower, more vulnerable area of her bottom, down to the tops of her thighs. Every inch received due attention: the Doctor was nothing if not diligent.
By now poor Sandra was blubbering fit to break her heart. Her bottom was writhing most shamelessly and quite involuntarily until it seemed she was in the endless throes of an enormous sexual climax. Maybe she was. Mrs Forsyth stared in excited fascination at the scene before her. Her breasts began to heave as she began breathing heavily… her right hand strayed to between her thighs……
But when Sandra’s legs began to execute scissor-movements and her shoes flew off at tangents (one narrowly missing the Head’s favourite potted plant) the excellent Mrs Forsyth felt bound to intervene.
‘If you’ll allow me, Headmaster, I’ll hold her legs to make things a little easier for you.’ The Doctor merely nodded his assent to this suggestion and resumed his work with undiminished vigour, while Mrs Forsyth gazed with ill-concealed fascination at the ever-writhing, ever-reddening bottom of the unfortunate young lady. At one stage, a bald head thrust itself around the door in amazement, but abruptly withdrew when Tutt roared, ‘Get out, whoever you are! Can’t you see I’m busy?!’ Even the Minister of Education himself would have been bound to beat an ignominious retreat!
After what seemed to Sandra an eternity of spanks, her punishment ceased. Sobbing uncontrollably she stumbled off the Headmaster’s lap and stood unashamedly rubbing her scarlet bottom. But her punishment was not yet over. ‘Now Sandra,’ he commanded, ‘Remove that disgraceful undergarment and hand it to Mrs Forsyth.’ When she had eased the offending knickers down to her ankles, Sandra gingerly stepped out of them, trying at the same time to hold down her skirt. Then, as Doctor Tutt directed, Mrs Forsyth gathered up the crumpled knickers and placed them in the cane cupboard, beside other confiscated trophies. The excellent woman’s next task involved a short journey to the clothing room from where she returned, as directed, with a pair of regulation navy-blue gym knickers. Sandra was then told to put them on, which she did with the greatest difficulty, since they were at least two sizes too small for her well-rounded buttocks, and the roughness of the material did nothing to ease her stinging flesh. When ‘decent’ she was instructed to re-join her class. They, no doubt, would by now be fully aware of the fate that had befallen her and would find it vastly entertaining (the boys especially) to watch her wriggle and sigh at the discomfort caused by the hard school benches.
When the sniffing, tear-stained girl had gone, Doctor Tutt turned to his new school secretary.
‘I am most grateful for your help in what might otherwise have been a tricky situation. Your initiative saved the day!’ he exclaimed, handing her the hairbrush.
‘You’re very kind, Headmaster,’ she ventured. ‘As a matter of fact, my husband shares your views on corporal punishment. And as for me,’ she winked knowingly, ‘I’ve been on the receiving end of it many a time!’
‘Oh really,’ he murmured politely, ‘when you were at school, I suppose.’
‘On the contrary, never at school! My husband believes in keeping me in line and indeed uses this very same hairbrush on me. That’s why I have to carry it everywhere I go.’ The Head raised his eyebrows in utter amazement. ‘In fact, only last night he gave me a good hiding for denting the car… I — er — see that you don’t believe me.’ (She’d noticed Tutt’s flabbergasted expression). ‘Here, let me show you,’ and, bending over she raised her skirt to reveal, through silky white knickers, a bottom almost as red as Sandra’s, but with what seemed to be pinpricks, dotted all over it.
‘Goodness gracious! What are those peculiar marks… like pinpricks?’ (Despite the incongruity of the situation, the man’s curiosity as a professional caner was aroused.)
‘Why — those are simply the bristle marks of the brush, Dr Tutt. My husband uses the bristle side halfway through my punishment. It’s most effective, I assure you. Perhaps it’s a tip you might remember for future use. Anyway, my husband will be delighted when I tell him the news.’
‘What news? What do you mean, Mrs Forsyth?’ The august Headmaster had never been more bewildered in his whole life.
‘Why, Dr Tutt! Surely you, with your vast experience and the technical expertise you’ve most ably demonstrated, surely you, purely as a professional man, would have no objection to taking the hairbrush to me as and when I deserve it. I’m sure the occasions will arise, and as I mentioned, my husband will be most grateful. You see, the doctor has told him the exertion is bad for his heart. But he does so want someone to carry on with ‘the good work’ as he calls it. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I must go home now to tell my husband the good news. I assume you’ll want me to start tomorrow, in which case the first thing I’ll do is to order a fresh consignment of canes. You never know when you might need them — or whom you might need them for!’ she added impishly, as she walked out of the room, her buttocks swinging superbly.‘Remarkable woman!’ Dr Tutt expostulated, as the door closed.