From Phoenix 3
The Headmaster’s door opens and a tall man, not young yet not old, closes it quietly behind him and walks unhurriedly across the wide entrance hall, his footsteps echoing up in the stairwell which leads to the upper floor of this the older part of the school. From above comes the clatter of feet along a corridor and the excited squeal of a girl being chased by another. The racing footsteps clump loudly on the stairs and a straw hat sails languidly over the bannisters and skids to a stop on the old varnished floorboards of the hallway.
A girl appears at the turn of the stairs and starts breathlessly down, the sound of her pursuer’s feet close behind her. Her voice is shrill, undisciplined.
‘You bloody cow!’ she squeals, and pounds down the stairs, skirt fluttering, legs bare to halfway up her thighs.
In one heart-stopping instant she realises who it is that is standing nonchalantly watching her precipitate descent. She stops dead within the space of two stairs. Another girl rounds the corner of the landing close on the heels of the first girl and plunges down the stairs. She cannons into her friend, who is jolted hard against the handrail, and then she too realises that they are not alone. As if stunned the two girls stand side by side and gape helplessly at the Headmaster, who looks up with an air of affronted dignity from below. The straw hat lies guiltily at the foot of the stairs.
Thus presented with this ready-made excuse to pinken a couple of girlish bottoms, the Headmaster allows himself an interval for its delectation then he strolls forward in a casual way and nudges the hat with his shoe. He speaks with practised gravity, a tone readily assumed from years of authority.
‘And which of you owns this?’ he enquires.
The girls stand helpless in their consternation. The shoe nudges again. A small voice floats timorously down from the stairs.
‘Er — I do sir.’
‘Indeed? And what is your name?’
‘S-Sandra Miles, sir.’
‘Sandra Miles. And you’re Margaret Hawkes, aren’t you?’
The other girl stutters ‘Y-yes, sir.’
He pushes carelessly at the hat once again.
‘Well now Miss,’ he says to Margaret, ‘since, as I presume, you threw this object, I think you’d better come and pick it up.’
The girl comes dubiously down the stairs. The Headmaster walks a pace or two away from the hat and watches as she stoops to retrieve it. Her gymslip rides up the backs of her thighs and then she straightens up again, hat in hand.
‘And now you can both come with me.’
He turns his back on their panic-stricken faces, walks briskly along the corridor, turns the corner with the sound of their hurried footsteps behind him, and turns through the door in the alcove below the stairs.
In anguished silence, and clutching their books, the two girls follow him into the little room.
Inside the girls find themselves standing almost at attention, the austerity of the depressing place seeming to demand some such demonstration of respect. They wait side by side, fright plain in their faces, as the door swings shut with a ponderous finality. It thuds against the jamb and the latch clicks loudly. Casually the Headmaster turns the key in the lock. Well-oiled, the bolt slides across, and then the key is placed prominently on the windowsill. Steely eyes flicker from one girl to the other, catching the one named Sandra unawares as she looks timidly around the room. She has never been here before, but to judge by the gas fire hissing in the grate it is a well-used room. She nips her lip between her teeth, and then notices the penetrating gaze which is now wandering undisguisedly down her body. She clutches her books more tightly under her arm and looks demurely down at the floor.
Margaret too glances uneasily around, the features of the room’s furnishing all too familiar to her.
The Headmaster brushes against the single chair as he moves over to the cabinet behind the door, and Margaret’s back feels suddenly damp and chill as the chair scrapes across the squeaky lino, the sound shockingly evocative to a girl who has paid tearful penances more times than she cares to remember across that very chair. Yet even she, whose name appears in that thick, untidy book on top of the chest half-a-dozen times every term, is near to panic. Though he must by now be the only male member of the school’s staff not to have relished the girlish twitch and tremble of her plumply smackable bottom suitably poised across his knees, a punishment at the Headmaster’s hands is something which the frequently-spanked Margaret has so far avoided. Until now. And now, the frightful moment seemingly at hand, it is Margaret’s soft blue eyes which dampen along their lower lids, whose lips quiver as she struggles to hold back the tears, while in her unknowing innocence Sandra keeps her fingers crossed and wonders why the Head gave her that funny look just now.
Not being blessed with Sandra’s naivety, Margaret finds that she has to hold her breath every now and then so as not to burst into frightened sobs, while her snug navy-blue knickers seem to be clinging with sudden intimacy to her round young buttocks, the almost certain knowledge that they and she are soon to part company making the feel of them temporarily the most comforting thing in the world.
Margaret’s unease is not unfounded, neither is it illogical, for whereas hitherto, being not yet seventeen, she has not been old enough according to the rules to have had her first taste of the cane from those members of staff who have found the firm succulence of her youthful bottom so tempting in the past, yet the Headmaster has the authority to ignore that and indeed any rule should he, in his wisdom, consider it necessary to do so. The girls’ universal dread of being summoned for punishment by the Headmaster himself is no mere whim of the imagination. His authority is absolute, and it is no secret that he uses the power of his position to the full. Margaret knows, she just knows, that she is going to be caned. The trickle of tears on her cheeks is nothing to be ashamed of. There is no girl in the school who would not have sympathy with her at this moment, had she been at St Evelyn’s long enough to have heard the stories about what it meant to be punished by the Headmaster.
Standing next to Margaret, Sandra is just about the only girl in the school who doesn’t know what it’s all about. She doesn’t even know that this is the punishment room. She has heard it said that girls at St Evelyn’s sometimes get punished on their bottoms, and some of her new form-mates have tried to kid her that a girl could even get her pants taken down. For herself, she is half-convinced that it’s just possible that a girl might get her bottom smacked if she’s very naughty, but it would have to be something pretty serious, like stealing or something as bad as that. As for getting her pants taken down, she simply refuses to believe it. Sandra has been at St Evelyn’s rather less than a week. She has a lot to learn. She wonders why Margaret is crying.
Leaning with one elbow on the top of the cabinet, flicking through the book to find the day’s date, the Head hears the half-stifled weeping behind him. It is not a sound which is unfamiliar to him, nor indeed is it unusual in this room. He wonders which of them it is. He resists the urge to turn round and see. He finds the page and under the entry which says: ‘Lucy Harris, 6A, idleness and unfinished prep. Twelve with the strap.’ he writes Margaret’s name and her form number. He speaks rather brusquely without turning round.
‘What’s your surname again Sandra?’
‘M-Miles, sir.’ Her voice sounds timid and breathless. The crying continues quietly as the girl speaks so it must be the other one who’s weeping.
‘Er — six B sir.’
‘Six B,’ he echoes as he writes. ‘Take ‘em down then,’ he says casually, still not looking round. He puts down his pen and picks up another with red ink. He initials the entry above Margaret’s name, the customary seal of approval, then out of speculative curiosity he turns slowly back through the pages, remembering that ‘Margaret Hawkes’ is a name which he has seen before, and not infrequently.
‘P-pardon sir?’ comes the little voice, almost whispering.
He runs a finger down a column, turns back another page.
‘Down, please,’ he says unemotively.
He finds Margaret’s name on the new page.
‘I’m s-sorry sir — I don’t know what you m-mean.’
The entry says, ‘— caught out of bounds, ten with the strap.’ It is signed ‘P.L.E.’ That’s Evans. Naturally. If there was a nice little bottom in the offing, and if its owner was one of those girls who let themselves get caught doing nice, punishable things, Evans would be there with his eager fingers tucked inside their knicker elastic even before the blush on the little sweetheart’s cheeks from being caught in the first place had paled to a maidenly pink.
‘I am about to smack your bottom Miles, so take your knickers down girl. Now that’s clear enough, isn’t it?’
Silence, save for the weeping.
He flicks back another page and finds Margaret there again. ‘— sky-larking in the dorm. P.L.E.’
Then, accompanying the sound of the other girl’s weeping, his ears catch the faint, hesitant rustle of clothing being rearranged, and then, after a pause, the slow, reluctant ‘Swoo — oo — ooosh’ as a pair of school knickers are inched down young hips and tugged dubiously down bare thighs.
‘And hold your skirt right up, front and back — right up to your waist now!’
Still he doesn’t look. A pleasure to come.
He finds the other girl’s name yet again, at the top of the same page, so that means the same day. ‘— late for registration, six with the strap.’ signed ‘P.L.E.’
‘R-ready sir.’ A very nervous voice.
He turns round, leaving the book open at the last, incomplete entries. Sandra’s eyes dart away, down to the floorboards, and her cheeks flush vividly. Her tummy sweeps down to a delicate ruff of golden hair nestling above her pubis, her knees are together, her knickers stretched across the tops of her thighs. Her knickers, for some unaccountable reason, are maroon.
Margaret is still weeping, though almost silently now, the unhappy tears rolling down her face. She manages to look pretty even so.
On the room’s solitary chair is a pile of schoolbooks.
‘Oh — y-yes sir?’
‘Take those books and put them on there.’ He indicates the cabinet.
‘Yes sir.’ She goes over to the chair and scoops up the books, of which there are obviously too many for her to carry at one attempt. A book tumbles to the floor, her gymslip slides tantalisingly up her legs as she stoops to collect it, another book falls from her grasp, she scrambles about trying to retrieve both the books, manages to do so and at last gets up. As she does so two more books fall to the floor.
‘For, goodness sake child — those books cost money!’
‘Yes sir — s-sorry sir.’ She is as nervous as a kitten.
She regains the lost books and carries them all to the cabinet. They tumble noisily onto the wooden top. The Headmaster winces at the awkwardness of the girl as a couple of the books spill off the back of the cabinet. One seems to be wedged between it and the wall. Margaret leans over the cabinet to get them back. Her skirt is too short by a year’s growth. She can’t quite grasp the wedged book so she leans further across the cabinet. The tuck of her navy knickers as they disappear between the tops of her thighs teases with just a glimpse. She yanks at the book, the cover rips, she gasps a kind of strangled, hopeless cry.
‘For goodness sake —!’ Words fail him. The smooth, bare firmness of her thighs quivers as she reaches desperately again for the book. She squeals in a startled, anguished way as the Headmaster’s palm smacks in exasperation across first one thigh then the other.
‘You wretched child —!’
She wriggles backwards, her gymslip rides up, the plump knap of her knickers invites the hovering hand.
She’s got a lovely fat little bum. It shudders under the spanks and she wriggles it around frantically until she finally extricates herself, standing distractedly in front of him, her expression more one of surprise than pain.
‘S-sir — sir — sorry s —’ she gasps. He feels genuinely incensed at her stupidity.
‘Get across there!’
He half shoves her face-down back across the cabinet, pushing her gymslip up to her waist He spanks her solidly on the tight seat of her knickers a dozen times. She struggles half-heartedly, her cries out of all proportion to the sting in her bottom. He lets her up.
‘Get back there, you foolish girl! And get your skirt up!’
‘Y-yes sir!’ She scrambles back to her place beside Sandra, who looks utterly stunned by the proceedings.
The Headmaster draws a deep, calming breath, irritated with himself for losing his temper. He looks at Sandra, who is still clutching her skirt up to her waist. The out-of-place maroon knickers stick out like a sore thumb. Whatever does the girl mean by it? He asks her point-blank.
‘S-sir — I haven’t been here long sir — an-and my mum said that my old school’s knickers were too g-good to throw away sir — so —’
‘Well it won’t do my girl. It won’t do at all!’ He glares at the oddly coloured knickers a moment longer then walks round behind the girl as if to look more closely. Her young bottom is full and round, indeed the sweet innocence of its saucy charm quite distracts his mind from what else he was about to say. The cheeks are very smooth and naturally blushed with pale pink. They look tender and eminently smackable, as tender and tempting as the girl herself.
He paces up and down behind the two girls, his gaze on the delectably bare cheeks of the one and his mind’s eye considering the implications of the other’s apparently regular visits to the punishment room. She’ll need a taste of the cane — meanwhile Sandra’s cute bottom is simply pleading for his palm to pinken it a little more. He won’t keep it waiting any longer.
Sandra’s bottom wiggles coquettishly as he strokes a hand across first one cheek then the other. Her firm young buttocks resound crisply to an experimental spank, and then she bleats helplessly as he hooks a finger into the elastic of her non-uniform knickers and leads her like a sacrificial lamb to the slaughter.
He takes the chair in one hand and positions it away from the cabinet so that the girl won’t bump her head if she struggles too much. He sits down, Sandra’s warm bottom cupped partially by one hand. He coaxes her down across his lap. She lies stiff-legged, with the stillness of a small animal trying to avoid discovery. Her peculiar knickers slide helpfully down another inch or so, and her bum feels alive and vibrant as he pats it, teasing both her and himself.
Margaret is watching the performance with startled eyes, though she’s no stranger to such things herself. He begins to spank Sandra, quite lightly at first, though less out of consideration for her little bottom than out of a gourmet’s self-indulgent reluctance to rush the best bits.
A dozen crisper spanks later Sandra is rather more lively. Her bum bobs saucily as the smacks land, and already her naturally pink cheeks are blushing patchily. She makes little panting sounds between her teeth and her bare legs are beginning to kick spasmodically. Poor Margaret can’t drag her eyes away from the other girl’s reddening bottom and she twists a pleat of her gymslip frantically between her fingers.
The Headmaster slows the rhythm of his spanking, but gives each slap a little more impetus. Immediately the girl starts to react, the smart in her wriggling bottom making her bounce her hips with every smack. She gasps a few meaningless words: ‘Oooh — my-m — bot — bottom — sir! Oooooooo — oooow — please!’
He doesn’t want to punish her too much on this first occasion. Just so she learns who’s boss — and learns to take her knickers down when she’s told, like a good girl.
She begins to cry, then to sob. Her bum is brilliantly crimson and hot to the touch when his hand lingers a little to enjoy her involuntary wriggles. A spank — a caress — a spank and another spank. And now a Headmasterly word.
‘So in future my girl —’ Smack! ‘— you will not —’ Slap! ‘— indulge in —’ Smack! ‘— horse-play —’ Crack! ‘— on the stairs —’ Whack! ‘— will you?’ Smack, smackitty smack!
‘Oooh — n-no sir — OOW — honest sir — OOOOOGH!!’
‘And one more thing young lady —’
She stands, tearful though choking back her sobs bravely, beside his thigh. He strokes and pets her burning bottom up under her skirt, and tells her to take her knickers right off.
‘Yes. These are not part of our school uniform. Navy-blue my dear — or white in the summer.’
He helps her step out of them. It amuses him to notice that, though darker, the rich maroon colour complements the fresh-spanked glow of her punished bottom beautifully.
‘And tonight, before you go up to the dorm, and every night until you have arranged to have yourself dressed in the school colours, you will report to me in my study and we will consider the matter of your knickers, or indeed your lack of them, because if you are unable to modify your wardrobe to comply with the rules you will not be permitted to wear any knickers.’
‘Oh — but —’
‘And no ‘buts’ my girl. That is my decision.’ He watches her tear-dampened face. She seems to have recovered her composure quite quickly which might be a sign of a realistic approach to these matters. He adds: ‘I dare say there will be a little penance to pay, should you be slow in doing as I have said regarding the school colours.’
Having confiscated her silly pants he sends her off to her class. And now, as he relocks the door against the possibility of interruption, he drops the half-friendly bantering tone and assumes his ‘stern headmaster’ look.
Margaret meets his eyes for only a moment. Her bottom lip seems to be trembling as she looks away, still weeping quietly.
‘Now then —’ Her eyes snap back to his.
‘— looking briefly through this book, it seems you are one of our most frequent visitors to this little room.’ He looks her up and down, at her fiddling fingers and her firm, youthful breasts under her gymslip. ‘How do you account for that my girl?’
Margaret stifles her crying enough to say, ‘S-sir — I don’t know sir. I just seem to get into trouble all the time sir. Sometimes —’ She stops, regretting that she has started to say anything more.
‘Go on, ‘Sometimes —’’
‘Sir — sorry sir, but I was going to say that sometimes I think I get into trouble just because some — some teachers like to take my knickers down an-and spank me sir.’ Now she knows she shouldn’t have said it. She’ll get the cane for sure now. She swallows audibly and squeezes her bum-cheeks together under her skirt.
The Headmaster looks at her with raised eyebrows, indicating his displeasure, but he is thinking ‘How astute of her.’ She is quite right of course. That is exactly the kind of thing that goes through people’s minds when one of the senior girls lets herself get caught doing something to deserve punishment. Not ‘that girl ought to be disciplined’ but ‘I’d like to get her knickers down.’
‘What a disgusting thought!’ he says archly. ‘What a disloyal, childish idea! You ought to be ashamed of yourself girl.’
‘Yes sir.’ Margaret whispers ruefully, wishing desperately that she hadn’t said it.
‘With ideas like that in your head it’s no wonder members of staff have reason aplenty to punish you!’
Margaret starts to weep again, but he carries on.
‘And you have certainly confirmed my opinion that what you need is the feel of the stick across your backside!’
Margaret’s worst fears are confirmed. The Headmaster goes on.
‘And now, you will take your own knickers down — now — and get yourself over the back of that chair.’
He paces up and down in mock indignation as the wretched girl fumbles about under her skirt and slips her navy-blue knickers down.
‘Come on — over the chair!’
Her gymslip drags up as she sidles reluctantly towards the chair, first her lowered knickers, then her bare thighs, and finally her lovely, round, plump bottom coming into view to confirm her own dim realisation that she is punished for her desirability, rather than her disobedience. She certainly does have a beautifully smackable bum.
‘Sir — d-do I have to get the cane?’
‘Do as you’re told girl! Get across there and put your hands on the seat!’
Her firm, resilient-looking buttocks curve temptingly over the chairback, her knickers slithering down to her knees as she bends.
He goes to the cupboard and takes out a thinnish cane, which he swishes confidently several times while Margaret winces at the very sound of it.
The cane is rested lightly across both bending buttocks and tapped insistently. He gives her his usual warning.
‘No wriggling, no standing up, no bending your legs, and —’ Whack!! ‘no rubbing your bottom. Got it?’
The first gratuitous and unexpected stroke jolts the panicking girl into doing all those things she has just been told not to.
Smack!! The cane flicks across both thighs at once.
‘Get down girl! And stay down!’
‘Oooooh — oooh —!’
But she gets back down as instructed.
Her bare cheeks bounce as the cane delivers its first proper stroke. Margaret sucks in her breath and seems to hover on the verge of a piercing yell, and then the cane lands again.
Her pent-up breath hisses between her teeth in a long, pained sigh, and then the sobbing starts, shaking her body as the sobs come bubbling out.
He canes her methodically, not listening to her crying and relying upon the fact of her frequent spankings to have disciplined her into staying obediently in position despite her discomfort.
Her bottom well-caned she is allowed up, her pretty face contorted with her blubbering.
‘Pull your knickers up girl, and blow your nose!’
He sends her back to her classroom still sobbing, puts the cane away, and goes out into the hallway on his way up to the staff common-room as the break-time bell rings. It is only as he sips his tea and passes the time of day with Miss Frost, who glances rather oddly at him in between trying to pay attention to his words, that he realises that the ridiculous maroon knickers are dangling very obviously indeed from his jacket pocket. Nonchalantly he stuffs them out of sight and wanders away from Miss Frost and over to the window.Down in the quadrangle he catches sight of Sandra leaning in a rather woebegone way against a wall, while a crowd of other girls chase each other in the sunlight. He smiles, understanding at once that she would not want to do any running around, especially in that short skirt of hers, if her new school-friends were likely to catch a glimpse of her freshly-spanked bottom — considering that under her skirt she is quite naked. Which reminds him — he must not forget to tell Matron not to be too helpful in the business of Sandra and her new knickers. It would be a pity to spoil what might become an interesting little adventure.