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Thursday, 7 February 2019

Academy Offence

A photo-story featuring Lucy Bailey from Privilege Club 13
She knew that she was in deepest trouble. Her offence was considered among the gravest a senior girl could commit. She had been instructed to report precisely on time, smartly dressed in Academy uniform, nails polished, hair swept back from forehead as regulations decreed, the books she had been studying in late prep tucked neatly under her arm.
Breathlessly she paused outside the daunting door, waiting agonising minutes until the exact moment when she must announce her presence. Her heart slammed, her mouth was dry, her legs felt weak and wobbly. She didn’t feel like Judith Parslowe any more, captain of netball and Classics scholar: her name had dissolved into the mute and terrified entity she had become — a frightened miscreant reporting for the most serious punishment the Academy could administer short of outright banishment.
It was time.
She lifted her hand and bunched her fist.
And knocked on the door.
‘Come.’ The voice was deep, plangent with menace. She opened the door and stepped into the punishment room and stood to attention before him, trembling.
He too had changed. No longer the benign academic Head but a pitiless stranger whose stern gaze bored into her. She had never been punished before. Perhaps he would be lenient because of this. She wondered if she should plead, but found her lips so dry no words would come.
‘Close the door.’
Not a trace of emotion. No compassion, no sympathy. No pity for her plight. For she had got herself into this appalling situation by being caught. The room was sparsely-furnished, dauntingly functional. She simply couldn’t believe she would be beaten. It had never happened to her before — only praise and encouragement for work and play well done. Even Detention was alien, so surely it was unthinkable that he would…
‘Place your books on the floor, please.’
That was when she knew that what she dreaded most, had barely dared to even contemplate, might be about to happen. She felt her eyes moisten with fright as he reached forward and took out the elasticated band which secured her long golden hair in a pony tail, and made her shake it loose so it hung to her shoulders. She knew the terrible deed she had done in the eyes of the Academy attracted the sternest retribution.
After his solemn words of rebuke, like those of a judge pronouncing sentence, she flinched when she saw the cane. He flexed it in his hands, and she saw its pliancy and sensed its terrible power. Her face went red, then very pale, and she flinched away from its quivering shaft. For a moment she felt dizzy, and wondered if she was going to faint.
‘This is the first part of the sternest punishment it has ever been my painful duty to inflict on any girl at this Academy,’ came the grave words. ‘You will receive the severest thrashing I am empowered to give. Do you submit to your punishment?’
A silence grew. This was a test of character as well as fortitude. A weakling would collapse, sobbing and pleading, at his feet — but she as Head Girl, disgraced though she might be, found that she was still driven by pride.
‘Yes, sir,’ she managed to whisper. A sapphic offence, in her mind, was not shameful: it was the manner of how she had done it, and the way they had been discovered, that was.
‘Lean forward on the desk. Feet apart.’ His tones were strangely mild, almost conversational but laced with steel. ‘But first lift the skirt clear of your seat. He indicated with the cane, and she did so and turned her back, terribly aware of her knickered rear now on display.
Pain is almost impossible to describe. But the first stroke of the cane struck across her bottom with a flash of undiluted anguish. More strokes followed, heat building on heat, hurt intensifying, till she was jerking with anticipation of each impact. When he paused and instructed her to push the white regulation knickers down to bare her already scorching behind, she began to wail and stamp her feet in abject shame.
‘Down, girl! Knickers down!’
Bracing herself, she hooked thumbs in the knickers and did as he demanded. Then bent over again, vainly trying to stifle her mortified sobs. Not until now, with buttocks brazenly naked, did she realise that the opening strokes had really been quite mild, gradually increasing in force. Now, she began to understand what a legendary Academy caning was about. The shaft whistled and hissed, thwacked with lashing impacts which stung and burned, scoring livid tracks of crimson and cerise across the previously pallid globes, raising lines which hardened to ridges she would be able to feel with her fingertips days after this nightmare was over.
Whop-thwack. Whop-thwack. Whop-thwack. He applied the strokes with skill and alarming force, the rattan leaping and biting, cracking smartly across its mark and sinking into the burning flesh before springing away and lining up for the next stinging whack.
Soon her feet were trampling the floor, and her shrieked gasps of pain followed, then accompanied, each lashing crack of whippy wood on tormented flesh. She was adrift on a sea of naked pain, cheeks streaked and scourged by a leaping demon that knew no mercy. Yes, she had heard of canings at the Academy, but never till today had she known how hideously hurtful this form of chastisement was. She lost count of the number of strokes which landed full force across her nates, but it was at least twenty and possibly two dozen. And just when she thought she could take no more, he stopped.
‘Display your buttocks,’ he said. ‘Let me see.’
She could feel it like a furnace possessing all her senses, driving out rational thought, prickling and sparking as it consumed both buttocks livid with crimson weals and streaks. Her pleas had become hoarse sobs. It was like a madness on her, and in this madness through the haze of pain she became aware that she was not bearing up well, and that his respect for her would be diminished by the manner in which she was taking her punishment.
Why this was important she could not understand. She was gripping her down-pushed knickers and showing her punished rear to him, clenching her teeth to try and suppress the smouldering hurt. And as she stood shuddering before him he reached out and removed her spectacles, took off her Academy tie and deftly unfastened the buttons of her blouse, while she cringed in dread of what was to come, her bottom throbbing and hot.
‘Take off your blouse.’
She did his bidding, exposing her breasts — for an unwritten rule of this Young Ladies’ Academy was that a bra will not be worn when reporting for an Extreme Punishment. It had puzzled her why she had earlier neglected to put one on in acknowledgement of this. ‘Surely he can’t know whether I’m wearing one or not?’ had been her thought. Now she knew why it was — to wring the utmost shame out of this unforgettably severe encounter with discipline. When she was then made to hoist her skirt and bare her buttocks once more, she could do nothing but comply.
‘Lean forward on the desk again, legs spread.’
Her grave-faced punisher produced a strap and her ordeal intensified. With the sharp hot streaks of the cane still sizzling on her skin, the leaping leather now set to work, impacting with loud concussions on the tender flesh, hard blistering strokes which make her writhe and howl.
The punished girl lost all sense of time — she was adrift in a haze of hateful pain punctuated by the sound of the splatting impacts which jolted the wobble-soft flesh of her arse into manic motion. The pummelling went on and on while she screeched and jiggled, trampled and sighed.
Beyond the walls of this stark room the other girls of the Academy would be going to vespers, demure and primly clad. But this evening Judith Parslowe would not be attending her devotions with downcast eyes and honeyed voice intoning prayers, for her humiliatingly bared bottom was being profoundly punished, her voice was harsh with pleas, and she would not be sitting comfortably for several days to come.
But even when the terrible strapping ceased, and her choked gasps were all that were heard, he moved her through into the next, even more painful, phase of her chastisement by ordering her to stand up on a chair which had been placed in the corner, and face the wall. He now took some clothes pegs, lifted the skirt and secured it up around her waist with the pegs, as Academy regulations decreed.
This time she did not wait to be told to bend over, but did so of her own accord, presenting her smarting rear for whatever deviltry was next.
Placing the strap next to the cane on the table he picked up the next implement, a wickedly effective black leather-clad riding crop and began to apply it with undiminished force, thrashing in across her fierily-smarting buttocks and causing them to quiver convulsively at each pain-laden smack, the leather lozenge at its tip swiping with demonic ferocity, again and again, across the delicate flesh, rousing the maidenly cheeks to ever-deeper hues of scarlet.
And every stroke, sufficiently strong to make a horse whinny and smarten its step, gave the errant girl flashes of almost insupportable pain.
Now he commanded her to crouch on her haunches in a desperately humiliating posture, head sunk abjectly forward, while he continued to apply the crop, driving it vigorously upwards from beneath against her spread buttocks and into the crack between, each stroke causing her to rock forward and screech at the pain.
And inasmuch as she was able to think at all by this stage of her thrashing, she was all too aware that her punisher knew his task well — not to strike too hard for too long so that her bottom numbed, but to keep the stinging fury of each impact just strong enough to cause the utmost sensation, biting and striking with the speed and venom of a snake.
It was time to descend from the chair. With a bizarre show of gallantry he handed her down, as if she were a lady of old alighting from her carriage. She could hardly stand, yet even now her chastisement was not over. Moving the chair, he sat on it and patted his lap in an unmistakable manner. My God, was she now to be spanked like a naughty little girl? It was too much!
There could be no drawing away. He gripped her arm and pulled her down across his thighs and began to spank her bottom with hard, heavy swipes, rousing her scalding rear to fresh heights of blazing sensation as she squirmed across his legs while his punishing palm rose and fell again and again as if to drive out demons from her red-raw, agonised arse.
More minutes passed, the air loudly filled with rapidly-delivered slaps combined with her groans and pleas, till her bottom — and his pained hand — could surely take no more.
At last he dragged the sobbing miscreant to her feet.
‘Lie back on the table, legs up and bottom exposed,’ came the next command By now she was beyond protest or dissent, but simply complied, watching him from her ignominious position as he pushed her legs high and held them by the ankles while he struck repeatedly at her lewdly presented bottom with a lethal three-fingered tawse which made the tormented cheeks smart and seethe even more.
And even then her punishment was not complete, for he lifted her to her feet, bent her forward and proceeded to treat her scalding behind to further whacks, this time with a twin-tailed leather tanner that spat flame deep into her hams. Then he finished her off with a hefty spank on the back of each thigh, causing pink palm-prints which simmered and prickled.
‘You will beg forgiveness, Judith, for your shocking offence, and thank me for this expiation and atonement.’
Beg forgiveness? She could hardly speak. Her whisper when it came was more like a prayer, hands held in a plea for forgiveness.
‘You will stand in the corner, hands on head, and not to dare move until I say so.’
He left the room, and did not lock the door. Thirty-seven minutes later, when he returned, she was still there, hands on head, the uniform skirt pegged up around her waist, her punished bottom on display. She had not moved. The tears had dried on her face and her eyes were raptly upturned.
‘Will you do it again?’ he murmured.
‘I’ll try not to, sir,’ she said.

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