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Friday, 26 July 2019

Time, Melissa, Please

From Blushes 14
Pierre Deauville, a French teacher on exchange at a girls’ school in Berkshire, has been letting us into the secrets of how corporal punishment works at exclusive Kingsmead School. In previous issues of Blushes, he has described the school’s infamous ‘Two-Stripe’ system which awards two strokes of cane or slipper to the girls’ deserving backsides, and more recently the story related to him by a 17-year-old from a wealthy Somerset family of her punishment at the hands of her French tutor at home in the summer holidays (see The Cambridge Candidate in Blushes 12).
Melissa Hammond had been caught by Mr Deauville at a pub in the town some miles from the school: something which no girl, not even a prefect, is permitted to do. She agreed to take a strapping from Pierre rather than face a ‘Two-Stripe’ session which would almost certainly award her more than the minimum two strokes…
Pierre Deauville and Melissa Hammond travelled back from the town together in Pierre’s car, as Melissa had missed the last bus while they sat in the car park and she explained how she had been beaten at home almost a year ago for not working hard enough with her private tutor: a man brought in from over fifty miles away to improve her language skills, at considerable expense. The punishment had had the blessing of her mother, which hadn’t made it any easier to undergo.
Melissa ran a comb through her brown hair as they turned into the darkened rear entrance of the school, shielded from the main blocks by a double row of lime trees, and heavy bushes.
‘I hope I’m not spotted getting back into the house, sir,’ she worried, ‘it’s just I’m pretty late now.’
‘This won’t take long, Melissa, but I think it’s better we get it over with now, don’t you?’ I said.
‘Oh, yes sir. I think I’ll say I’ve been over at the theatre helping to paint the set for the sixth form play: that’s what I’m supposed to be doing this evening. They’ll back me up.’
‘That sounds fine,’ I grunted as we turned into my parking space behind the science block. ‘Out you get: I’ll see you outside my door.’
Melissa slipped out of the car and slunk into the covered archway to my rooms on the first floor. The entire block was in darkness and at some distance from the main buildings. I was the only member of the teaching staff who lived there, in a suite of rooms used for visiting or exchange teachers. All the other rooms were used for teaching.
I locked the car, and trotted up the stairs. There, Melissa shuffled her feet as I unlocked the door and snapped on the light. She shook off her coat and hung it behind the door, revealing her school uniform of crisp white shirt and tie, and grey skirt. As it was the summer term, she wore tan stockings with her black regulation shoes.
‘Can I pop to the loo, sir?’ she asked.
‘Of course; it’s through there, in the bathroom,’ I pointed.
The prospect of applying a leather strap to this mature teenager’s bottom was one which I found, well — exciting, there’s no denying it.
How many men have fantasised about disciplining a schoolgirl, even with just a hand-spanking? But to be in the situation of administering a thrashing with the girl’s full consent was almost as unusual as being placed in a position of authority where one simply informs transgressing girls that they are to be punished, and then carries the punishment out. The chances of that happening to a man in a girls’ school are virtually nil. So, fortunate indeed.
Melissa came back into the room as I was sorting through one of my cupboards for a suitable strap to use. There was a light plastic belt which was of little use, but no sign of a proper leather strap. ‘I don’t seem to have…’ I began.
‘What, no belt sir? What about a plimsoll, then? The prefects use them,’ suggested Melissa.
‘This is hardly an offence for the slipper, Melissa. You’re very lucky not to be getting the cane.’
‘I suppose not, sir, but the prefects make ‘em sting like hell on the juniors in the dorm.’
‘Do they, indeed?’ This was getting frustrating, not being able to find a suitable belt.
Suddenly, I remembered that down in the biology lab there was an old razor strap — somewhat worn — but ideal for the purpose in hand. I resolved to go and fetch it.
‘I’m popping down to the lab to fetch something. Wait here.’ I slammed the door and took my pass key from my pocket to open the biology lab rear entrance. There it was. The handle was still intact, but the other end was frayed and the stitching broken where the hanging ring had torn off. Even better. No metal pieces to remove before it could be used.
I levered the nail out of the wall to release the length of leather, which the science mistress utilised to sharpen old cut-throats she occasionally used, in preference to scalpels, for preparing specimens for class.
As I walked back into my rooms, Melissa jumped nervously to her feet.
‘I wondered what had happened to you sir. Is that what I’m going to get?’ she looked at the worn, wide strip which dangled from my hand. ‘Looks a bit old.’
‘I’m sure it’ll do the job.’ I said, turning to lock the door. I noticed Melissa had drawn the curtains despite the fact we were not overlooked by any other buildings.
‘I’m sure it will sir,’ she agreed quickly. ‘Where are we going to do it?’
‘I think I’ll have you bent over that piano stool. Bring it here, would you?’ Melissa fetched the heavy low stool with its padded leather top, and wound the handle without being asked so that it was set at its maximum height. I had decided that it would be easier to apply the strap in a downwards motion while she lay over the stool than if she bent over and I had to swing it sideways.
‘Take your skirt off, Melissa,’ I ordered, and the girl fumbled at her waist before letting the garment drop to the floor. She picked it up and folded it before putting it carefully over the back of an armchair. There was less of the country-set sophisticate about her now as she stood before me, a mature girl but a schoolgirl nevertheless.
The long slim legs were dusted lightly with blonde hair, the suntan a definite bonus to her appearance. The firm thighs, I knew, led up to a pair of soft half-moon cheeks and a slender waist. Tantalisingly, the top of the cleavage between her buttocks could nearly always be seen in her overtight gym knickers at PE, but as yet I hadn’t had the opportunity to see if her ordinary knickers provided the same benefit, as her shirt was too long.
‘Shall I lift my shirt…?’ she asked.
‘Off, please.’
Equally carefully, she undid her tie, folded it and placed it on top of her skirt, then unbuttoned the shirt all the way, undid the cuffs, and slipped it back off her sun-kissed shoulders to reveal a plain white bra which struggled to contain its charges, the nipples straining almost painfully, it seemed, to escape the thin fabric. The upper curve of both breasts was as suntanned as the rest of the girl’s body, and I wondered idly if she sunbathed topless — or even nude.
Now she stood only in white bra and knickers which did, I was pleased to observe, afford a glimpse of the discreet Y-shape where her buttocks started their plunge to fleshy fullness. She turned to face me, quiet now, no more jokes, as she eyed the strap nervously with the realisation that I was actually going to use it on her.
‘Over the stool, sir?’ she asked.
‘Over the stool — lie over it, Melissa,’ her tall body moved gracefully to stand by the stool, her buttocks undulating softly under the taut fabric, clenching as she prepared to lower herself over the stool. I wondered if I dared order her to lower her knickers, contemplating the risk if it were discovered. She had made no move to pull them down — or lift them up for that matter, as had been the case when she had been punished at home at sixteen. By this time she had dropped down and draped her 5’8” svelte figure across the stool, her backside at the highest point, her legs straight out behind her and her hands taking her weight on the floor in front. She turned her head up to me.
‘Are you going to take…?’ Her question was left hanging in the air as a rapid pounding was heard on the stairs, followed by a ‘rat-tat-tat’ on my door.
‘Christ, who’s that?’ hissed Melissa, lifting herself off the stool and grabbing her clothes off the armchair almost in one movement.
‘Into the bedroom with you,’ I whispered, turning to unlock and open the door. It was Karen Stone, the sixth-former whose caning I had witnessed last week.
‘Ah Karen, what can I do for you this late at night?’
‘It’s Melissa Hammond, sir, is she with you?’
‘No, no she’s not I’m afraid. What made you think she might be?’
‘My younger sister saw her getting out of your car round the back sir… I don’t know that, sir, but I thought Melissa ought to know that we’ve had an extension for painting the scenery tonight to get it finished in time, so we don’t have to be in until eleven. She’s helping sir,’ finished Karen breathlessly.
‘I see. Well, Melissa did pop in to pick up some books for me. I’m sure she’ll be over in the theatre before too long. She may even be there already.’
‘Great. Well, thank you, sir. Sorry to disturb you.’ Karen smiled.
‘Thank you, Karen,’ I said, closing the door, waiting until her footsteps died away, and locking it. Melissa’s head peeked through the bedroom door.
‘Well, that’s a piece of luck, sir,’ she giggled, walking casually over to the stool in her underwear as if this happened every day. Her breasts quivered in the thin bra, and she stood, hands on hips after a moment, facing me. ‘On with the show, then, sir? A Whacking We Will Go, starring Melissa Hammond in her first leading role!’
‘Very funny, Melissa. You were about to ask me a question when we were so rudely interrupted…’
‘Was I, sir? Oh, yes, I was asking if you were going to take these down,’ she said, indicating her blue briefs.
‘Well now, if you were at home about to be given the hairbrush by your old French tutor, do you think you’d have to take them down?’ I asked with a smile.
‘Well, I don’t know, ‘cos he never got the chance to spank me as my work was so good. But if Cookie was on the business end, there wouldn’t be any doubt. Actually, sir, I didn’t tell you the whole truth about home. I told you Cookie hadn’t whacked me since I turned sixteen.’
‘That’s right. You said the last time you were whacked was by your tutor last summer holidays.’
‘She’s a dear old thing, Cookie, but if you cross her she’s a dragon. And I’d nicked a load of sherry out of her stock and daddy had accused her of not looking after things properly. That had never happened before, and when she found me in the wine cellar, she let me have it there and then.’
‘What, a spanking?’ I asked.
‘And a half! She had me over her knee with my jeans and knickers down for about five minutes solid with that bloody hairbrush. She’d rescued it from the schoolroom. I should think the wood was as warm as my bum by the time she’d finished. But she was quite right: I deserved it! Wow, that was a whacking and a half.’
‘And when was this?’ I asked again.
‘Oh, last hols sir.’ She saw my eyebrows go up. ‘Yes, I know seventeen’s a bit old for spanking, but Cookie’s a traditionalist. She’s over sixty, you know. And I didn’t mind her doing it really.’
‘Let’s get on, shall we Melissa? Take your knickers down, and back over the stool with you.’
‘I thought you’d say that,’ she said with a smile as she hitched the thin blue fabric off her bottom and pushed it down to mid-thigh, waiting a moment before lying over the stool with a cheeky grin.
‘I’m going to give you six, Melissa,’ I told her, stepping up to her side and laying the cool leather across her now bare buttocks.
‘Uh-oh. That sounds ominous. Six of the best and all that, sir,’ she joked nervously.
Her bottom tensed momentarily under the leather, then relaxed as I raised it above my right shoulder. The target area, marked in smooth white flesh against the golden tan of waist and thighs, was soft and yielding with her lying over the low stool, and I brought down the strap with a low Swwoosh to set up a ripple above and below the point of impact which made her whole rump quiver as the strap lifted for the second stroke.
The meaty Sllappp of leather and bare teenage bottom meeting had surprised me. The sting had surprised Melissa, for she jerked forward on the stool and emitted a loud ‘Yoowwwwch! That belt’s a stinger, sir.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ I said, bringing it down to cover the upper part of her buttocks with a ringing Sllappp ‘Yoweeee!’ from Melissa.
Her bottom now bore two clear prints, bands of red across both cheeks, as I selected the lower end for the third stroke.
Sppplllaaatttt! The girl’s backside was temporarily driven out of shape by the force of the blow, the bright red of this stroke contrasting with the now deeper red of the previous two strokes. Melissa’s body jerked again, and her hands left the floor for a moment as if to grab her throbbing bottom. But she resisted the impulse, and lay still.
‘That last one was a real whacker, sir,’ she complained. It seemed, strangely, that the 17-year-old’s bottom was more sensitive towards the fleshy lower end, and I laid the next stroke across the very crown of those glowing cheeks with a puff of exertion.
Spplaaattt! A jerk and a complaining ‘Phewww!… wow! Hang on, sir… God, that strap’s a stinger! You know how to lay it on, sir, are you sure you haven’t done this before?’
‘Stop chattering, Melissa. Two more to come. Hold tight!’ I swung the strap down in a curve to bite deep into the lowest part of the bare rump, driving the fleshy masses upwards and outwards in a fierce reaction to the arriving leather.
‘Yowwwwoooooo!’ she yelled. ‘I’ll take Mr Lamont’s belt any time compared to this. And as for Cookie’s hairbrush…’
Her bottom was tensed in anticipation of the last blow, the twin globes concave where the muscles clenched.
‘Just relax. Last one.’ I raised the strap, and her buttocks slowly quivered and relaxed into their now red-blotched softness. A swoosh, sppllaaatttt! as the hide landed across the most jutting part of her bottom, forcing the yielding flesh to accommodate it and eliciting a startled yelp from the recipient.
‘Yarroooo! Aahhhhhh! Wow, Monsieur Deauville, I have to hand it to you, you certainly know how to whack a girl’s bottom. That’s the stingiest whacking I’ve ever had. I’m just glad you haven’t got a cane, sir. You’d have my bum sliced in two.’
As Melissa struggled to her feet, I heard myself saying: ‘With a bottom as well-padded and lovely as yours, Melissa, it’s been a pleasure. And yours has been the first female bottom I have ‘dealt with’, as you say!’
‘Well, next time, you’d better just use your hand, or I won’t have such a lovely bottom any more,’ she joked, pulling up her briefs.
‘Next time, Melissa?’
‘You know, if I need to be whacked for something.  I’m on the exchange visit to your school next year, too, so I’ll have to be extra good, won’t I sir?’ she grinned insolently.
‘I’d better get a good big wooden hairbrush before I go home, then hadn’t I? Particularly for girls who need whacking as regularly as you do!’
‘I won’t give you Cookie’s. She’d be lost without it, especially with Becky needing a dose occasionally. That sister is so naughty sometimes!’ she smiled again. ‘Maybe I should bring her here!’
I grinned too.
‘Could I have a quick bath, sir, to cool off?’ she asked, tripping into the bathroom and peeling off knickers, socks and bra without waiting for an answer. Her firm breasts bobbed as she turned the taps on and then looked in the full-length mirror while massaging her bottom. I drank in the sight of the naked teenager as she bent to turn off the taps, her thighs tensed, her bottom full and rosy. This was one young lady who was bound to need to be ‘dealt with’ again in the future… I slapped her bare rear-end affectionately as she got into the bath:
‘I think I’ll hang on this strap for the moment, Melissa’ I said.

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