I was twenty minutes into my last class of the day, ‘O’ Level English Literature, extolling the virtues of Jane Austen to a roomful of sceptical adolescent girls, when the door opened and in trooped the four troublemakers — Heather, Catherine, Janice and Jane, grinning and sniggering half-defiantly, half-apologetically. They invariably created such mayhem in my classes that I’d been feeling relieved at their absence, however illicit it might have been.
‘We went to the wrong classroom, sir,’ Heather volunteered airily, to the accompaniment of smirks and nudges from the other three. It was a lame, feeble excuse and I knew it.
‘You need your bottoms smacking, all four of you!’ I retorted, throwing it in just to see what effect the remark would have on them. Sweet little Janice recoiled and pulled a face of mock alarm.
‘Oh no!’ she pouted appealingly, her hands defensively cupping the well-filled seat of her tight green skirt. Heather giggled and whispered something outrageous to Catherine who regarded me inquisitively, then blushed violently when our eyes met. Jane just stared at the floor in helpless embarrassment at the mere mention of such a thing.
Miraculously the lesson continued without further interruption until Patsy, a likeable though obstinately stroppy Irish girl, caused a minor commotion by claiming she was ‘bored’, retiring to a window ledge, and adamantly refusing to return to her seat. I coaxed, cajoled and threatened her — all to no avail. It was like arguing with a donkey, so I let her be.
‘Why don’t you smack her bottom, sir?’ Heather goaded. She was determined not to let my idle threat go unchallenged; it seemed to have rung a bell with her, and I mentally noted her down as number one in my list of most likely candidates….
The lesson ended and the room emptied noisily while I gathered up the books. But the four late-comers lingered at their desks, their pretty heads together deep in discussion. I only managed to catch fragments of their whispered conversation.
‘No! He wouldn’t dare!’
‘OK… Anything for a laugh!’
I was about to leave the room when Heather, provocatively clad in tight blue jeans (it was a ‘liberal’ establishment and had long since abandoned school uniform) sauntered casually up to my desk. She was the cheeky one — the one who’d climb the highest tree and not give a damn about the boys seeing the colour of her knickers; the one who’d scrump the most apples, the one who’d get chased by the farmer — and probably let him catch her, too. Toying with the medallion at her throat, she tried to affect an air of girlish naivety, but I knew her of old and could detect the cool insolence that lay behind it.
‘Sir, we’ve been thinking about what you said when we came in late… If it would make you feel any happier…’ She broke into a fit of giggles and looked back for support from her companions, who were themselves tittering and smirking fit to burst.
‘…if it would make you any happier, sir, p’raps you ought to smack our bottoms!’ The titters abruptly ceased as, with bated breath, the girls awaited my reaction. Heather was trying her best to appear humbled and penitent, but her eyes sparkled forth a challenge — a challenge I found hard to resist.
‘Heather, I can’t! I’m not allowed to!’ I protested, almost apologetically.
‘Oh go on, sir!’ she pleaded archly. ‘We wouldn’t say a dickey-bird to a soul, honest! We don’t really blame you for wanting to smack us — we are awful to you sometimes — we play you up something rotten, don’t we, girls?’
‘Not ‘alf we don’t!’ chimed the eager chorus. I was at a loss to know what to do. Four nubile, naughty seventeen-year-olds, practically begging to go across my knee. How could I resist such an offer? I wavered a moment, teetering on the brink, before capitulating. Oh, stuff professional ethics! They’d made my life utter hell for two terms, I was leaving the school in two weeks’ time with another, better, job to go to. I hadn’t really much to lose.
‘OK,’ I murmured, trying to seem calm and nonchalant, but my mouth had gone dry and my heart was beating double-time.
‘Shall I go and lock the door, sir?’ Heather offered helpfully.
‘Y-Yes, what a good idea,’ I managed to croak, trying manfully to pull myself together. From a practical point of view it was safe enough. School was out, the coast was clear, and the cleaners wouldn’t be around for at least another hour. I watched her closely as she walked over to the door. Close-cropped blonde hair; small, compact breasts jiggling within her red tee-shirt; a beautifully ripe, succulent bottom, the broad cheeks well-defined by the flesh-hugging blue jeans. Her bum didn’t wobble, it wasn’t fat, but it bounced about appetisingly enough — a prime target if ever there was one. Heather was the ringleader, the one who’d set it all up, hoping, no doubt to set me up with it. If so, she was in for a rude awakening — and I did mean rude! But I resolved to deal with her last; save the best till the end.
Heather turned the key in the lock and re-joined the others still seated at their desks near the back of the room. No going back now! My manhood stirred in excitement at the prospect.
‘Who do you want first?’ Heather enquired, seemingly as anxious as I was to get things started. I gave the matter careful consideration before deciding on Catherine. Tall, raven-haired, big-breasted in a brown jumper, and wearing beige trousers that did nothing to hide her sturdy, childbearing hips and ample buttocks — plenty of meat there, good for getting my batsman’s eye in! I told them my choice. Heather grinned impishly at Catherine and stage-whispered, for my benefit: ‘Lucky old you, Cath, cheap thrills and all that!’
They were all determined to brazen it out, obviously expecting it to turn out to be a bit of fun (girls will do anything for kicks these days) all, that is, except Jane who apparently thought better of it and who, in fact, had been the sole dissenting party to the plan, probably because she was painfully sensitive about the size of her bottom which, admittedly, was the plumpest of the four. She’d never been spanked in all her life and was dreading it, yet she dared not back out for fear of losing face with the others. She breathed an audible sigh of relief when I called out Catherine’s name: she felt like a condemned prisoner who’d been granted a stay of execution.
‘Well, girls, wish me luck!’ Insouciant as always, Catherine slowly rose to her feet and bum-wiggled her way defiantly up to my desk.
‘How do you want me, sir?’ she purred, curtseying in sham humility. ‘Over the desk or over your knee?’
It hadn’t occurred to me that there was a choice of positions, but I decided to try the latter since it sounded the more interesting of the two.
‘Over my knee!’ I snapped. My pecker was now fully up and I was itching to begin. I detected the faint suggestion of a blush spreading over Catherine’s face. ‘Not so jaunty now, madam, eh?’ I guessed, and I recalled all the times that acid young tongue of hers had mocked and lampooned me. Now she’d quite literally played herself into my hands, as had the others — and all because of a silly, girlish dare. I was going to smack that saucy insolent, wide-cheeked bottom of hers till she howled and begged for mercy!
I grabbed the nearest chair and plonked myself down on it, while Catherine hovered uncertainly nearby, her confidence visibly ebbing by the second now that she saw, from the look on my face, that she really was going to get her bottom smacked, good and proper, and there was no getting out of it. To chicken out now would spell disgrace and forfeiture of her envied, privileged rank as Heather’s lieutenant. No teenage girl worth her salt will back out of a dare. Nevertheless, the bold audacious trollop of a few minutes ago had vanished, and in its place there stood a foolishly trembling, apprehensive little girl about to get her bum soundly spanked, and dreading the very thought of it! Her eyes were lowered and cowed, and her mouth hung open, unable to articulate the rising panic welling up within her.
‘Cheer up, Cath! You never know, you might even enjoy it!’ came Heather’s ribald comment from the back stalls. ‘That young lady is storing up a whole load of trouble for herself!’ I mused grimly. The other two watched in silence as, with ill grace, Catherine lowered herself awkwardly across my knee.
Heather, meanwhile, had every intention of providing a running commentary: ‘You don’t intend to smack her over her trousers, do you sir? She’ll never feel it! Make her take ‘em down and do it properly! Go on, Cath, be a brick! Give sir a treat and show him your bum!’
And who was I to pour cold water on such an eminently practical suggestion? Might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb.
‘You follow her dictates in other matters, so you’d better do as she says, Catherine,’ I quietly reasoned with her.
‘Oh bloody hell, do I have to?’ she groaned, blushing scarlet to the roots.
‘Yes you bloody well do!’ yelled Heather, overcome with the hilarity of the situation. ‘We do it properly, or not at all, right?’
‘Right!’ I confirmed, gravely nodding my head in agreement. I felt I deserved some say in the matter, too. With a profound sigh of resignation Catherine lifted herself off my lap then, glowering first at Heather then at me, reluctantly unzipped herself. As she shamefacedly tugged her trousers down to her knees, exposing a pair of pale-blue nylon briefs stretched tight across her belly, her three colleagues honoured her bravery by bursting into a spontaneous round of applause.
‘Just you wait, you bloody buggers!’ she hissed venomously, then once again resumed the traditional posture reserved for the correction of naughty girls. She was tall enough to rest the palms of her hands quite comfortably on the polished floor, her long legs splayed out untidily on the other side of me, bottom raised plumply and prominently. There was plenty of it, sure enough. I wouldn’t have missed it, even in the dark.
‘I haven’t had this done to me since I was nine!’ she muttered bitterly, her voice sounding small and frightened from her upside-down position, inches from the floor.
‘Well,’ I observed, ‘it won’t do you any harm at all to renew your acquaintance with the practice. Your bottom must have developed a lot since then and I’m sure it’s capable of sustaining a darn sight more now, when it comes to this!’ and I smacked her resoundingly, right across the full width of her big saucy bum!
‘Ow! That hurt!’ she protested loudly, bruised more in ego than in body.
‘And this!’ Another smack! Harder than the first, in exactly the same place. Another angry exclamation from Catherine.
‘And this!!’ Harder still, accompanied by a string of unprintables from the owner of the bottom that was starting to sting and smart. Her little knickers were wrinkling at the crotch, so I pulled at the waistband until they clung tenaciously to her cheeks and insinuated themselves vulgarly into the deeply-defined cleft. I could detect a shadow of dark pubic hair beneath the nylon, and the peach-like mound of Venus. Then, encouraged by Heather’s shrill cries of excited approval, I speeded up the pace and commenced walloping Catherine’s reddening backside for all I was worth, until a rosy glow appeared at the naked extremity of both buttocks, so colourful that it even shone through the knickers. She began to thresh about and kick. She tried to shield her bottom with her hand, so I turned my attention to the delicate flesh at the tops of her thighs, warning her that I’d continue to smack her there until she took her hand away from her bum.
Most girls hate having their bottoms smacked — more still hate it on their thighs, and Catherine must have belonged to both these categories because she yelled in distress and withdrew her hand double-quick, allowing me to resume my former task of warming up her big, red, round sit-upon until it was utterly and completely unsituponish! As for me, I don’t mind admitting I was enjoying myself immensely — but I doubt whether the same could be said for Catherine. She’d ceased to swear and, instead, had begun to whimper… the whimpers in turn changing to stifled sobs as the sharp stinging sensation in her bottom developed into pain. I knew then that she was near the end of her tether, but I deliberately continued to rain down spank after spank on her wildly cavorting derriere. I had old scores to settle with her and I had no wish to let up until I could practically hear the tears splashing onto the tiled floor.
When I did stop smacking her she carried on crying for a little while, reaching back with both hands to ruefully explore the damage I’d done.
‘Ooh it burns! I’m on fire!’ she complained, but gallantly rose from the undignified position she’d been occupying for the last ten minutes.
Then I heard the sound of someone crying. Not Catherine, but Jane. The mere sight of what had happened to Catherine had been enough to transport her into paroxysms of weeping. God alone knew what she’d be like when her turn came!
Dolefully rubbing her sore, fiery-red bottom, Catherine retrieved her trousers from where they lay crumpled around her ankles, did them up, and tottered back to her seat, scarlet-faced and totally demoralised. Ever so gingerly she eased herself down onto the hard wooden chair — much to the amusement of Heather, who seemed entirely unconcerned that the same fate would shortly overtake her, too.
‘There! Wasn’t that fun?’ she enquired of her stricken companion.
‘Why don’t you go next and bloody well find out!’ poor Catherine bitterly retorted, still fighting back the tears.
‘OK, I will!’ quipped Heather.
But I was only just getting into my stride. I still gloatingly intended to preserve Heather for the climax…
‘Janice next!’ I commanded briskly, like an impatient customer in a restaurant ordering up his next dish.
And what a mouth-watering dish she was, too! Sweet little Janice — five feet nothing of disarming girlish innocence. Mousey brown hair with an old-fashioned grip pinning it on one side; demure white blouse and tight green skirt falling discreetly to just below the knee — I longed to find out what she had on underneath.
She smelt all fresh and fragrant, and she went over my knee like a lamb. Not a murmur of protest or reluctance. She may well have been scared stiff and embarrassed as hell, but she did her best to disguise the fact and I had to admire her for that. Her girlish hands failed to reach the floor and when I hoisted her still further over my lap, to bring her bottom into line with my hand, her feet left the ground and she was suspended in mid-air. It was like spanking a twelve-year-old, except that Janice had soft generous breasts and an equally well-developed bottom, as I discovered when I pulled up the back of her skirt and draped it high above her waist. The knickers she wore were much prettier than Catherine’s. They were pink with lace edging, and so brief that half her bottom was spilling out of them, much to her chagrin. Despite her childish innocence, beneath her clothes she was all woman.
‘Not too hard please, sir!’ she whimpered, betraying for the first time the true nature of her feelings about the affair. The prospect of a well-smacked bottom held no attractions whatsoever for her. She found herself bitterly regretting her choice of underwear — if only she’d worn those ‘sensible’ pants her mother had bought her at Christmas! Far less revealing and considerably more protective!
I placed my palm upon her left buttock and it trembled at the touch. I raised my hand and delivered the first sharp smack. The girlish bottom-flesh yielded to the stroke, bouncing about endearingly as I quickly unleased a volley of heavy wallops to the same spot. Then I switched to the other cheek and repeated the process. I could hear Janice draw breath and start to gasp and pant as the spanking gained momentum. Soon I was smacking her rhythmically and her bottom began to rise and fall under the impact of the smacks in a thoroughly sexual way that belied her sweetly demure manner. I felt myself gaining the most enormous erection, despite all my efforts to suppress it. Janice, too, must have felt it nudging and snuggling up against her belly, and I wondered what she must be thinking.
Her previously lily-white bottom was now speedily attaining the same blushing hue as Catherine’s. She was such a lovely little thing, was Janice, that I felt tempted to let her off with less than I’d given her friend, but my innate sense of fair-play soon overcame these qualms and I resolved to spank her every bit as soundly as I’d spanked Catherine.
‘AArgh! AArgh! AArgh!’ she cried each time my heavy palm made violent contact with her cute bum that, in colour, was beginning to resemble the pinkness of the knickers she wore. Her skirt was a bit of a problem, though, because every so often it fell back over the target area, causing me annoying little delays in pulling it out of the way.
Then things started to happen in a blur. My arm began to ache and for the first time in my life I wished I was ambidextrous. The trickle of girls awaiting spanking seemed to grow into a procession. Janice received her full quota and retired red-bottomed and tearful, to be replaced by big, silly, wobbly Jane — weeping miserably before I’d even laid a finger on her bottom. Plump and dowdy she was, a real ‘plain Jane’ in every respect. Straight brown hair parted down the middle, faded grey jumper several sizes too small for her, as demonstrated by her bulging, rather graceless breasts; grey pleated skirt that was doing its best — but failing conspicuously — to conceal the width of her thighs and swelling amplitude of her buttocks.
She was all carbolic soap, breathless, and smelt of tears and Mars bars, which she consumed by the dozen. She was thoroughly intimidated by the whole business and her eyes blinked and flickered like a frightened rabbit’s. I felt sorry for her, yet she, too, had to be made an example of, even though she was implicated only by default. I took her by the arm and hoisted her puppy-fattened body across my lap. There she lay, puffing and blubbering like a stranded baby whale. When I flipped up the edge of her skirt I discovered the main reason for the poor girl’s distress. Not only was her bottom plump to the point of fatness, but it was barely decent! She was literally bursting out of a faded, threadbare pair of ancient navy-blue school knickers that she must have had since she was twelve. The other three collapsed in helpless laughter. Jane uttered a loud groan of dismay at the degradation she was suffering.
‘They were the only clean pair I could find this morning!’ she wailed pathetically. ‘How was I to know I was going to get my bum smacked?’
I gazed in incredulity at the large pear-shaped figure sprawled over my lap. I certainly had a lot of ground to cover! I felt the mere public exposure of the ludicrously childish knickers to be sufficient punishment in itself, though I knew, for the others’ sake, that I had to go through the motions of chastisement.
‘If you’re a brave girl and promise not to wriggle too much, I won’t make it too hard,’ I whispered comfortingly. But the unfortunate Jane was patently not a brave girl, and she began to kick about and boo-hoo unashamedly.
Then there was a sudden liquid gushing, an exhalation of horror from Jane, and her whole body went rigid. She was wetting herself! I felt a warm damp patch spreading on my trouser leg. Heather had realised Jane’s predicament, and tittered callously.
I was absolutely furious with Jane, and immediately set about belabouring her cringing wobbling buttocks while she lay there all limp, crying her heart out for shame. My hand sped up and down in a blur, like an avenging angel. The luckless girl copped for a hell of a lot more than the other two. And the little blue knickers were so pathetically inadequate — they exposed a wider area than they covered. I spanked Jane relentlessly, unremittingly, her cries of pain and humiliation echoing round the room. It even reduced the vociferous Heather into awestruck silence as, for the first time, she began to contemplate what might lie in store for her, the unrepentant architect of the entire proceedings.
It was left to docile, timid little Janice to plead for mitigation on Jane’s behalf: ‘Go easy, sir! You aren’t half laying into her!’
Guilt at my anger, as well as concern for Jane halted me in my tracks.
‘Alright Jane, that’s all. You can get up now,’ I said softly. But the well-spanked, weeping girl just lay where she was, lifeless and anaesthetised over my lap, like a grossly overweight rag doll.
‘I can’t get up! I can’t move!’ she hiccupped. ‘I feel too ashamed!’ But somehow she managed to struggle up, cupping her sore wet bottom painfully in both hands, before adjusting her skirt and shuffling, shame-faced, into a far corner of the room, away from the others, where she continued to weep quietly and despairingly.
‘Poor kid!’ Janice’s succinct remark aptly expressed the feelings of us all at that precise moment. Jane contemplated sitting down, but decided against it, possibly for two reasons. Firstly it would only remind her how acutely sore her bottom was, and secondly she didn’t want the damp patch in her knickers to penetrate her skirt. So she stood by the wall, pretending to study a poster, with one hand endeavouring to wipe away the tears still trickling down her cheeks, while with the other she ministered to her other cheeks, rubbing and massaging them, trying to soothe the awful burning and at the same time eradicate the memory of what I’d done to her, and what she’d done to me.
Then the grand finale. Crooking my index finger I beckoned Heather over to my chair. The tall blonde with the urchin cut and cheeky insolence to go with it looked a lot less aggressively confident than she had at the beginning, now that she’d seen what had happened to her three friends. They’d all had their bottoms soundly tanned on account of her — she’d been the instigator all along. Catherine and Janice were still perched very gingerly on their chairs, two thoroughly chastened young ladies; and as for Jane wetting her pants in abject fear of the walloping she’d been about to receive — well that was surely the ultimate indignity that could happen to a sensitive teenage girl. Yes, Heather had really been to blame for all this, and now it was her.
As she approached me I caught her by the arm and, in precise, even tones, I proceeded to put the fear of God into her: ‘Now, Heather. Since you found it so amusing when the others were being spanked, let’s see how you behave when it happens to you!’
She tried to smile bravely, but all that emerged was a sickly grimace. Her face had grown pale and she was biting her lip anxiously. ‘At least I won’t wet my knickers like Jane did!’ she retorted, in a last-ditch attempt at bravado before her ordeal. But, boy, did I have news for her!
‘You certainly won’t Heather, because you won’t be wearing any! Unlike the others, you’re going to get it on your bare bottom! And when I’ve finished smacking you with my hand I’m going to bend you over the desk and tan your big backside with this!’
So saying, I produced a battered rubber-and-canvas plimsoll which I remembered lay in the desk drawer.
Heather didn’t like this one bit. She blenched and made as if to back away, but I gripped her firmly round the wrist and drew her closer. With my free hand I unzipped her jeans and dragged them unceremoniously down her superb honey-tanned thighs. Her little white knickers followed suit, and there she was, displaying a rich growth of blonde pubic curls and a buxom, though girlish, bare bottom that, had it been sculpted in marble, would not have disgraced the Louvre. She was about to protest at the indignity of receiving a spanking on her bare flesh, but the determined look on my face effectively silenced her. I pushed her pants and trousers further down below her knees to hobble her and make escape impossible, then over my knees she went, and my word, did that big naughty bottom of hers stick up defiantly, almost begging for what it so richly deserved!
She grumbled something semi-audible like: ‘Don’t see why I should get it on the bare!’ but I drowned her out with a barrage of bottom-slaps that quickly got her wriggling this way and that in a vain endeavour to escape. I was quite bloody-minded and systematic about it, and, with no knickers to conceal or protect her, I was literally able to smack every inch of Heather’s plump ripe bottom, from the apex of the cleft right down to the tops of her sunburnt thighs.
Rather than smacking each cheek in turn, I concentrated on one at a time. She demonstratively found this much more painful than the alternate-cheek approach, and soon her protests of: ‘Oh fuckin’ hell it hurts!’ changed to pathetic bleats and gurgling sobs. She made more fuss about having her bottom smacked than all the others put together. She turned out to be an even bigger baby than Jane. She’d conceived the whole thing as a huge joke, assuming that all I’d do would be to administer a few half-hearted taps to their collective sit-upons. It was as much a means of playing me up as all her other ventures into educational sabotage. But it had totally misfired, and Heather’s lush, melon-like cheeks were finally getting their fair share of corrective discipline, and a lot more besides!
She possessed magnificently sturdy thighs, broadening out at the tops where they met the fleshy underside of her lower buttocks, and for a couple of minutes I smacked her there, vigorously, continuously — the flesh pinkening, then reddening, and finally growing an angry crimson. Heather yelled and shrieked and wept for all she was worth, because this was the most sensitive part of her bottom and it had never occurred to her that I’d spank her there. Sprawled untidily across my knee — an unladylike pose to say the least — legs kicking like a cornered colt’s, lungs lustily being exercised in all manner of vocal distress signals, tear ducts flowing like the Niagara Falls — Heather was definitely getting a lot more than she’d bargained for. She’d obviously been hoping that the whole charade would lapse into a sexy romp, a bit of slap and tickle in which I’d be implicated, thus enabling them, if not to actually blackmail me, then certainly to capitalise on my complicity. All the more reason, then, to tan her bottom for all I was worth in the name of corporal punishment, pure and simple.
Nevertheless, she, too, must have felt my rock-hard erection threatening to burst forth from my trousers, and must have formed her own conclusions; and was it my imagination or could I detect the unmistakeable musky aroma of flowing female sexual juices? I dared not touch her down there, but a closer inspection yielded evidence of moisture — little dewdrops clinging to her pubic hairs and around her love-bud….
Pantomime transformation scenes consist of frogs, pumpkins, down-trodden kitchen maids turning, respectively, into princes, resplendent carriages and princesses. When you soundly spank a seventeen-year-old girl there occurs a transformation of a different nature — in this case a rebellious, stroppy, sexually precocious young lady is suddenly metamorphosed into a blubbering, red-bottomed, penitent, pre-pubescent little girl.
Heather made this regression into childhood when the plumply sensual, sexually-ripe bottom that she was so vulgarly and suggestively displaying to me was nothing but a mass of searing red blotches, superimposed finger-marks, and a quaking, equatorial heat emanating from the outer reaches of her wide buttocks down to within a hair’s breadth of her intimate, secret parts. She was the shuddering, twitching epitome of hot, perspiring, well-spanked girlhood. No enraged father had ever tanned his diminutive little tomboy daughter so frenziedly as I’d walloped this insolent, teenage sex bomb. Through her fast-falling tears she howled for mercy:
‘Stop, sir, stop! blubber-blubber… Ow!… Oh… Ouch!… Boo-hoo! — My bottom’s so sore! Please stop!… Aargh! Oh Christ it hurts! I’ll never sit down after this… sniff, sniff… blubber-blubber… ’snot fair! The others never got it this hard!’
‘Get up, Heather! Get up!’ I practically yelled. ‘Now, over that desk! Do as I tell you!’ She tried to run for it, but I caught her arm and, twisting it cruelly, forced her to lie face-down across the desk, her big red bottom tartily displayed to her horror-stricken, yet spellbound friends. They were loving it to see her taken down a peg or two, or three or four. I knew then that they’d never ever tell a soul, and that gave me fresh courage to do what I’d resolved to do.
Gripping the heel of the plimsoll I launched into the attack, and it rebounded with skin-blistering impact against Heather’s most prized sexual attribute — her shimmying, curvaceous derriere. She flinched frantically and tried to dodge the blows, but I anticipated every sideways lurch her bum made, and scored bull’s-eye after bull’s-eye, as each resounding Thwack! across both cheeks testified. For bottom-wiggling alone she’d have won a disco-dancing prize! Each Splatt! of the plimsoll left purpling, mottled patches where it landed, and I judged it best to bring things to a halt before the marks changed to bruises. I didn’t want to carry things that far — simply reduce her to the level of a thoroughly-spanked junior miss. And that had already been achieved with honours.
I laid down the tatty old plimsoll on the desk, beside the upturned form of the blubbering girl. Then gently patting her hot, chastened bottom-cheeks, I helped her to assume an upright position, which she did with a lot of exploratory bum-clasping and many a tearful ‘oohing’ and ‘oh-ing’. As she bent down to retrieve her lowered pants and trousers she unintentionally treated me to a splendid panorama of scarlet-bottomed maidenhood and the honey-blonde curls surrounding her love-nest. I was momentarily troubled by lustful images of stripping her naked, laying her down on the floor, and brusquely penetrating her while her shrill complaints about the soreness of her bum melted into moans of pre-orgasmic pleasure.
But she looked so crestfallen, so stripped of all defences, that I had to feel sorry for the girl. I doubted whether she’d ever ask for another spanking as long as she lived. If she did, and I was the lucky one she asked — providing I’d safely relinquished my post at the school — I’d be in for a rare treat. Girls who ask for second helpings invariably do so because, despite all the pain and humiliation, there is something indefinably exquisite about the experience that gets them hooked — often for life.
Easing her bottom with extreme caution into her knickers and jeans, lest they aggravated the throbbing soreness, Heather tidied her dishevelled hair, blew her nose, dabbed at her tears, and hobbled over to join her comrades who had been quietly ruminating on her downfall. For obvious reasons, like Jane, she elected to stand.
‘Right!’ I barked, gathering up my books for the second time and preparing to make an impressive exit, ‘Not a word to anyone about this! It was all your doing — you, and you alone were solely responsible. You in particular!’ I snapped, eyeing Heather balefully. ‘You’ve all learned your lesson and I don’t want any more trouble from you for the rest of the term!’
‘No, sir!’ they meekly chorused, blushing in unison at the shameful memory of the last half hour.
And they were as good as their word. I never had the slightest problem with any of them again. Which only goes to show…