From Janus 11
The bedside clock said 8.23. Jenny Cartwright, hair tousled, eyes still heavy-lidded from sleep, glared balefully at the time, from the snug warmth of the big double-bed. Like a slap on the face, the awful realisation struck her that she was going to be late again for work — for the third morning in a row that week. She swore profanely. That damned clock! There was something wrong with the alarm on it — she must remember to get it fixed at the weekend. Thank God it was Friday!
She only had herself to blame for letting John stay the night again, but he’d been so insistent — especially after that delicious meal and all the wine. Of course, he had his own internal alarm clock — the sod! Up and gone hours ago… hadn’t the heart to wake her, she supposed. He’d said something about having to be in Manchester by ten, to attend a conference, but that he should be back in time to pick her up from school that afternoon. ‘School’ was Oldbury Boys’ Technical High, where Jenny taught Commerce, Bookkeeping and Accounts. She’d been there nearly a term now, and thoroughly enjoyed the unique, privileged position of being the only female member of staff in an all-boys’ school. She was also the first woman ever to be appointed at the school — that in itself was no small honour, and it flattered her ego immensely.
Mr Tyson, the headmaster, had given the matter very great deliberation at the interview. Her appointment would mean a break with tradition — and he was a great believer in upholding traditions — but she was by far the best qualified of all the candidates for the post, and she did have exceptional references. He was a little worried about the matter of discipline, though… whether she would be able to cope with a class of 35 unruly fourth-year lads. Would they take advantage of her sex? She’d taught previously in mixed schools, but Oldbury Boys’ was a different kettle of fish entirely, and Mr Tyson did, after all, have strong views about discipline. He broached the matter when he recalled her to his office to offer her the job.
‘I’m a firm believer in the cane, Miss Cartwright! I expect my staff to use it, when warranted — and you’ll be no exception. Any objections?’
She shook her head, and her brown eyes calmly and unflinchingly met the steely, bespectacled scrutiny of her new employer. ‘None whatsoever, sir,’ she unhesitatingly replied, so he showed her the cupboard in which the canes were kept, together with the punishment book.
‘All punishments with the cane have to be recorded here — it’s an L.E.A. regulation,’ he observed matter-of-factly, flicking through the pages of the book to show her how the boys’ names, the nature of the offences, and the number of strokes awarded had all been duly set down.
‘My staff are allowed to give up to six strokes,’ he told her crisply, before closing the book with a decisive snap. ‘In exceptional circumstances, I myself am empowered to administer more — for serious offences such as bullying and persistent truancy. As you can see, Miss Cartwright, I’m a stickler for the good, old-fashioned methods!’
Unaccountably, her bottom started to tingle, not unpleasantly, at all this talk of canes and caning. It was all new to her and — if the truth be told — it aroused within her no small degree of excited speculation. She’d never used corporal punishment before — neither of her two previous schools had employed it — and she inwardly thrilled to the feeling of enormous power which wielding the cane would be bound to bring her. In no uncertain terms, she assured her new headmaster that she would be as stalwart and as unstinting in her use of the rod as any of the male members of his staff.
Unfortunately, here she was now, nearing completion of her first term at Oldbury Boys’ without any opportunity so far presenting itself for her to use the cane. The boys, without exception, had been so awestruck by a female presence in such an exclusively male domain that they’d behaved impeccably — damn them! They gaped at her each morning in undiminished wonder and amazement as she entered the classroom and took her place at the teacher’s desk, dressed severely but stunningly in a high-necked white blouse, black straight skirt and black nylons. She was a tall, well-made girl. The blouses she wore never quite managed to conceal the rich, soft swell of her breasts, and the skirts tantalisingly hinted at sturdy yet sensual thighs and a quite dramatically flaring bottom. O’Brien, a third-year boy, swore he’d spotted her in Sainsbury’s one Saturday, clad in the tightest pair of Levi’s he’d ever seen on a woman — and the mere sight of her magnificent bum swaying its way up and down the aisles had inspired him to an orgy of self-abuse unparalleled in the folk-lore of Oldbury Boys’. Bagby, the fat, bespectacled, dirty-minded ‘swot’ of 4B — of which Jenny Cartwright was the class-teacher — made the startling discovery one afternoon during a double-period of Commerce, that by sitting at the front-middle desk directly opposite the teacher’s, he could see right up to, and above, Miss’s stocking-tops when she crossed her legs. The news travelled rapidly throughout the school, but the effect it had on the boys was to make them more hypnotised and spellbound by Miss Cartwright than ever.
Yes, she certainly wasn’t lacking in admirers — among the male staff, too. But she found them a singularly unexciting bunch: stuffy and reactionary to the core. Anyway, since she’d met John, other men had ceased to matter to her.
But at 8.23 on that Friday morning all that mattered to Jenny was the mad, panic rush to get to school at least before Morning Assembly was over — she’d miss that now, no doubt about it — so she could be safely installed in her form-room, ready to mark the class register. Tyson would take a dim view of her missing Assembly for the third time in a row, but that couldn’t be helped. He’d had stern words with her about it the day before: ‘I expect my staff to set a better example, Miss Cartwright!’ he’d snapped acidly, and she’d quailed before the death-ray stare she’d only seen him use before on boys sent up to him for the cane. Sheepishly, like a guilty schoolgirl, she’d mumbled something about a broken alarm clock it had sounded all too like a lame excuse. She could have hardly told him the whole truth: that she’d been screwing till dawn with her sex-mad boyfriend!
8.25 — this was no good! If she didn’t shake herself old Tyson would surely have her guts for garters! But the bed was warm and smelt deliciously musky from her and John’s mingled sexual juices. God — she must reek of him! No time for a bath, either! Tits flying, big bum wobbling, she pattered across the carpet and rummaged frantically in her dressing-table drawer for clean knickers. Bugger! They were all sopping wet on the clothes-line over the bath, after she’d washed them the night before while waiting for John to arrive. Nothing for it but to wear the pair she’d had on last night — the flimsy pink French knickers that John had bought her — with the gusset all damp and stained from the caresses he’d given her in the pictures and in the taxi home from the restaurant. She sat on the edge of the bed and hastily peeled on her nylons — she simply had no time to check whether her seams were straight or not. She was dreading the thought of what Tyson was going to say to her… He was so straight-laced it just wasn’t true! So forbiddingly narrow in his outlook… She wondered if his rigid moral principles allowed for the existence of the sexual urge… Yet he had been married: his wife had divorced him about twenty years ago — or so old Mr Donthorp, the Woodwork master, had told her one morning during coffee-break.
‘Frightful scandal, my dear!’ he’d confided secretively in his chalky, pedagogic voice. ‘All came out in the hearing. She claimed he used to —’ (he leaned closer until his thin lips were practically brushing her ear-lobe) ‘— beat her!’ She flinched at the word, and her coffee cup rattled in its saucer. ‘Most unsavoury business!’ he’d continued, with evident relish in its disclosure: ‘nearly damaged his career, it did… but people have short memories — even in Education! Besides, he’s got powerful friends!’
She’d thought it odd at the time, and the more she thought about it the odder it seemed. Surely there could be no connection between that business about his wife and his almost fanatical support for corporal punishment? No — it was absurd of her to think that! John had laughed out loud when she’d mentioned it to him. ‘You’re crazy, darling!’ he’d roared. ‘Caning’s a fact of life — I got it at school and it never did me any harm! Anyway, you’re pledged to support it yourself, aren’t you? Sooner or later you’re going to have to dish out your first caning at that bloody school of yours! So what the hell!’ But what she hadn’t told him was how sick with excitement the idea of actually using the cane on some hapless boy made her feel…
8.42 — she zipped up her black straight skirt, smoothed out the creases, grabbed her grey canvas bag bulging with exercise books that she should have marked, but hadn’t, and hastily exited from the little rented terraced house. Ten minutes later she was still standing, hot and fuming, at the bus stop. She’d run for one but had just missed it. The wait for the next 73 seemed unending… The journey alone took ten minutes… then there was that five-minute sprint down Appleton Road. Shit! — she’d never make it in time! At last another bus appeared, lumbering around the corner. She fumbled feverishly for the right change.
She stopped running when she reached the school gates, and tried to walk nonchalantly through the playground and into the building via a side entrance. Fortunately the corridor she found herself in led directly to her own classroom, and she was about to breathe a sigh of relief at having so successfully escaped detection (the hordes hadn’t yet emerged from the Assembly Hall) when she noticed the tall, angular figure of the headmaster, glowering at her from the other end of the corridor. He said something to her, but as it was a long corridor, and undignified for headmasters to raise their voices at a member of staff, she couldn’t quite catch the exact words — but it had sounded ominously rather like: ‘I’ll see you later, Miss Cartwright!’
After that, nothing seemed to go right for her. 4B arrived, in dribs and drabs, and as was customary, she despatched Bagby for the register. Five minutes later he returned, whistling, with his hands in his pockets, blandly claiming that it was not in its usual place in the rack outside the head’s office — and in fact was nowhere to be found. She could have happily clouted him on the spot! Tyson attached more importance to the marking of the morning register than he did to the content of the lessons themselves! Failure to record the names of those present was, in his frequently expressed opinion, a gross dereliction of duty — ‘and woe betide any member of my staff guilty of such negligence!’ He had a way, at times, of sounding like a High Court judge. Jenny didn’t dare go up and look for it herself in case she ran into Tyson and exposed herself to the full gale-force of his wrath, so she decided to leave it for the time being, in the hope that she’d be able to find it and fill it in unobtrusively later on in the day, when things had cooled down a bit.
Next, when she was dishing out the exercise books which contained the homework she’d failed to mark, one of her rear suspenders broke. She felt the back of the stocking crumple like a freshly shot corpse in a James Cagney film, felt it slide down her leg towards her knee with all the sickening finality of her knickers coming down. There was no way she could fix it — she didn’t even have a pin on her. She’d have to nip out during dinner-break and buy a new suspender belt — that is, if she could find somewhere that sold them! She felt her nerves stretching to breaking point — how in hell’s name was she going to survive the day? Thank God John would be there to meet her after school! At least she could cry on his shoulder.
But the straw that finally broke the camel’s back was Bagby. As was her wont, she conducted the lesson perched atop her desk —she found it more relaxing that way. She was halfway through dictating notes on the introduction of decimal coinage when she happened to glance down at the desk immediately in front of her, and was both horrified and infuriated to find Bagby’s owlishly prurient gaze directed right up her skirt! She wouldn’t have minded quite so much if all had been ship-shape in her underwear department — but he’d obviously noticed the bust suspender, the sagging stocking top: and it was more from hurt vanity than outraged modesty that she blew her top:
‘Bagby, you dirty, disgusting boy — FETCH THE CANE!’
Too stunned to even think of arguing, the wretched boy dragged his overweight, porcine body out from between desk and chair, and wobbled out of the room. Then Jenny realized that he’d have to report to Tyson for the cane and punishment book — today of all days! Just when she wanted to keep a low profile! But there was no going back on it now — Bagby would be halfway there already. An expectant hush had settled over the rest of the class. This was something altogether different, ‘Miss’ caning Bagby for looking up her skirt…
The culprit returned, bearing cane and book, and looking more than a little puzzled: the Head had reacted very oddly when he’d told him the cane was for Miss Cartwright — correction, for Miss Cartwright to use.
‘Sir?’ he’d queried uncomprehendingly.
‘For what offence is she going to cane you? Stupid boy!’ he’d snapped.
There was a vindictive streak to Bagby — she’d taken away his favourite game: besides which, he’d do and say anything to wriggle out of a caning.
‘Sir!’ he bleated indignantly, ‘Miss Cartwright sits on top of her desk with her legs crossed, showing everything she’s got — then she suddenly accuses me of looking up her skirt — and I wasn’t, sir, really I wasn’t!’ he whined pathetically in self-justification, adding: ‘I’m in the front desk, sir, and she dangles her legs right under my nose! Very distracting it is, sir!’
The Head seemed to turn purple with suppressed rage. But his anger was evidently not directed at him, because he almost apologetically handed him the cane and book and despatched him with a kindly pat on the shoulder, saying: ‘Leave it with me, Bagby. Off you go and take your punishment — there’s a good lad!’
Jenny Cartwright’s anger had subsided by now. She was more worried by what Tyson must be thinking. Still, she had to go through with it. She made the following entry in the punishment book: Bagby, 4B… Indecent behaviour… 4 strokes. She flexed the cane in her hand, feeling with a sudden thrill its whippy elasticity.
‘Touch your toes, Bagby.’ Immediately pandemonium broke out in the class. Bagby went all colours of the rainbow and started to stammer out: ‘But Miss! You don’t — that is, you’re not supposed —’
‘Shut up, Bagby — you big baby! Just do as you’re told!’ She’d had about enough of him for one day. ‘And you lot can shut up, too — unless you all want a taste of this!’ she addressed her remark to the sniggers, guffaws and hoots erupting behind her. ‘Come on, Bagby — I’m waiting!’ she demanded, cane at the ready.
Slowly, with the greatest reluctance, the fat boy made a ludicrous attempt at touching his toes; his large, fleshy backside appeared below the edge of his blazer.
‘You’ll be in dead trouble for this — honest you will!’ he warned her in his flat, nasal whine. Her only answer was to draw back the cane and lash him across the buttocks with it — inexpertly, but with full force. Bagby uttered a piercing scream and broke into sobs immediately. Jenny’s lip curled in contempt — he was a big baby alright! She was about to deliver the second stroke when the door burst open and there stood Tyson, bristling with ire!
‘What in God’s name do you think you’re doing, Miss Cartwright?’ he yelled, loud enough for the whole school to hear.
‘C-Caning Bagby, sir,’ she stuttered lamely.
‘YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO DO IT ON THEIR HANDS NOT ON THEIR POSTERIORS — YOU STUPID WOMAN!’ he blazed, absolutely beside himself with rage.
‘Here, GIVE ME THAT!’ he wrenched the cane from her grasp and commenced to belabour her furiously across the backside with it!
‘OW, OUCH! — OOH! Headmaster, what are you doing?’ she cried out in surprise and pain as hot little needles of fire began pricking her bottom.
‘Doing?’ he snarled, ‘I’m giving you a taste of your own medicine — that’s what I’m doing! Can’t you blasted women ever do anything right? Just like my wife —you’re all the same, the lot of you!’ Twisting her arm until she whimpered, he dragged her over to her desk and bent her across it so that her big, womanly bottom stuck out facing the entire class of goggle-eyed, incredulous boys. She went rigid with fear when she realised he really was going to cane her now. He’d obviously gone temporarily insane and was enacting some marital trauma out of his past! He hissed venomously in her ear: ‘You’ve missed three Morning Assemblies in a row, you’ve failed to mark the register (yes, Bagby told me all about that!) you’ve been indecently exhibiting yourself before God knows how many classes — and, not content with that, you’ve openly flouted L.E.A. regulations on corporal punishment! That deserves six in my book, any day!’
He stood back and frowningly inspected the rich curves of her bottom. The skirt, though tight enough, seemed to stand in the way of his goal. The taut fabric was just a little too cushiony, too resilient — so he seized the hem of it and commenced tugging it upwards, above her stocking tops, exposing intimate areas of soft, white thigh, and up over her ample, sturdy bottom-cheeks.
‘Headmaster!’ she gasped in horror, as she thought of the spectacle he was making of her in front of the boys.
‘Like to exhibit yourself, do you, Miss Cartwright?’ his voice was shaking with fury. ‘Well, you might as well show them it all while you’re about it!’ He was making her eat humble pie, all right! She’d never be able to show her face in that school ever again! Bitter tears cascaded down her cheeks and wet the chalky desktop, as she remembered with a pang the shamefully sagging stocking top, the broken suspender and, by far the worst of all, those delicate, silky, transparent pink French knickers, crumpled, caught up in her cleft, and bearing unmistakeable evidence — milky-white stains — of last night’s amorous encounter!
Thirty-five adolescent boys practically gasped in unison, drinking their fill of a sight that would undoubtedly keep them awake for many a night to come! Jenny Cartwright’s skirt was by now up around her waist, her broad, deeply-defined bottom-cheeks exposed in all their sensual splendour for all to see, stocking tops and knickers all wrinkled and shamefully awry! Gaunt and magisterial, careful not to block anyone’s view, Tyson stood to one side of those frantically clenching and unclenching female buttocks, delivering little preliminary taps to them with that long, thin, swishy cane. Jenny had buried her head in her hands, lest she die of mortification. Nonetheless, every person present in that room could hear the low gurgling of her sobs.
‘Six, Miss Cartwright!’ he grimly reminded her: ‘Six of the very best!’ He’d obviously observed the state of her knickers, too, because as an afterthought he added: ‘And the next time you honour us with your presence at this school, perhaps you’ll have the goodness to put on clean underwear!’ That last barbed remark of his stung her to the quick, as much as any cane-stroke could, since it drew everyone’s attention to those guilty stains. She let out a keening wail of anguish by way of reply, but it was lost in the Whoosh-Whack! of the first ear-splitting stroke, and re-emerged on the other side as a shrill shriek of pain that caused several of the boys to wince in sympathy — although the burgeoning bulges in their trousers betrayed a reaction of a slightly less compassionate nature.
Jenny gasped and sobbed for breath as the atrocious smart goaded her into a vulgarly frenetic bout of tail-wagging that taught her young audience more about the exact positioning of the female reproductive anatomy than they’d learnt from Human Biology in a year. Those ridiculous knickers of hers just didn’t hide a thing — not even the vivid scarlet stripe now emblazoned across the cheekiest part of her rear. She could feel, almost taste, that weal right the way up to her fingertips that even now, like busy spiders, were agitatedly scrabbling all over the desktop, knocking over boxes of chalk and piles of books in their wake.
Whoosh-Whack! Another eardrum-piercing impact of bamboo on soft, pampered female bottom — this time lower down, on the more vulnerable, sensitive underside of her cheeks. She yelled briefly but urgently, kicking her right leg as high as she could in the air — thus offering more glimpses, to those boys lucky enough to be in the front row, of erotic delights hitherto only dreamed of. Their reactions to the caning differed according to their point of view. For Bagby it was sweet revenge, and he was determined to savour every last ounce of her suffering and humiliation. Reared, too, on Billy Bunter books, he’d relished the frequent canings to be found within their pages, so he knew all about the folklore of corporal punishment. But with their very own Mr Tyson cast in the role as Quelch, and that arrogant bossy-boots of a Miss Cartwright as the big-bottomed, lazy, shiftless schoolboy whom Quelch commands to ‘Bend over!’ — well, it beat Frank Richards hollow!
But most of the boys reacted in a more directly sexual manner to the caning of ‘Miss’. They saw only a blatantly erotic invitation in the raising of her skirt, the public display of her stocking tops, naked thighs, and love-stained knickers. The flaunting of her buttocks too, and the dark, intriguing recess between was, to them, fertile ground for endless conjecture. They noted as well, with growing fascination, the paradoxical way in which, after each stroke of the cane, she wiggled her reddening cheeks involuntarily (although the effect created was rude and salacious in the extreme) as if to taunt Tyson into whacking her even harder!
And as for Tyson, was he simply exorcising a ghost from his marital past? Was this what he’d longed to do to his wife, but had never dared? Had something snapped within him?… Who knows? All we do know is that the caning continued unabated — coldly, mercilessly. Jenny Cartwright’s generous hips surged and contorted in agony as, with mathematical exactitude, Tyson decorated the as-yet-unblemished areas of her bottom with four more cruelly-blossoming weals. The overall picture was one of tidy symmetry, although the six parallel stripes were starting to blur and spread until her entire bottom looked as if it had been painted red. By the end of the caning she’d run the whole vocal gamut, from shrill, angry protests to abject moans for clemency. She’d preluded the fifth stroke with a long, tear-sodden entreaty about how she’d had enough and simply couldn’t stand any more — but Tyson just whacked her all the harder, low down, where her bottom met her thighs. The result was quite spectacular: for a second she lay quite still, stunned by the searing bottom-smart — then she seemed to rise bodily from the table, and her cries reverberated all around the cavernous, high-ceilinged classroom. When she’d sufficiently gained control of herself again to hold her bottom still for the final stroke, the onlookers could have sworn they were witnessing not so much an arrogant, self-possessed woman of 25 getting her comeuppance, as a tearfully contrite little girl receiving her first bare-bottomed spanking over her father’s knee!
Naturally it was quite impossible for her to continue with the lesson — even Tyson was humane enough to concede that point. So, after rearranging her clothing, she stumbled up to the rest-room, where she lay for several hours, face-downward on the bed, a cold, wet flannel judiciously applied to her burning, welted bottom. By dinner-time she was just about able to hobble out to the shops to purchase a new white suspender belt, and a fresh pair of knickers. It was a miracle that her pink French ones hadn’t split under the savage onslaught of the cane — they simply weren’t designed for such ordeals as that. But somehow they’d remained intact, although Jenny honestly never wanted to see them again — let alone wear them — since they’d always remind her of what she’d just been through…
She spent the afternoon in the staff-room, perched gingerly on the plumpest cushion she could find. She just couldn’t face the boys — she imagined all the rumours and stories circulating round the school like wildfire. At three o’clock Tyson poked his head around the door, and asked her very politely if she’d mind taking one of the first-year classes for the last lesson of the day, since there was absolutely no one else available. She couldn’t very well refuse, and anyway, they were a harmless enough bunch of twelve-year-olds.
Five minutes before the lesson was due to commence, she braced herself valiantly, visited the loo, and then walked stiffly and painfully down the corridor to the classroom, with as much dignity as she could muster. As she opened the door, she was relieved to see them all sitting placidly and studiously at their desks — without so much as a single titter disturbing the ranks.
‘Right, boys!’ she began almost confidently. ‘Open your Commerce books at page fourteen.’ She turned to face the blackboard… and stopped dead in her tracks.
Some pre-pubescent Leonardo had drawn on the board a grotesque representation of her being spanked — knickers down — over Tyson’s knee: and had scrawled underneath it, with characteristically appalling spelling, the title: TIRESUM TYSUN SMAKING MISS KARTRIGHTS BOTTUM!
She burst into tears on the spot. Then she fled from the room, making straight for the Head’s office. She barged in without knocking, for she was past caring. ‘It’s no good!’ she managed to blurt out between sobs. ‘They all know about it! I’m finished here — all washed up!’ Piteously she pleaded with him to arrange for her to be transferred to another school. Surely he, of all people, could fix it? She remembered old Donthrop murmuring sagely: ‘He’s got powerful friends!’
And so he had. But he was still reluctant to let her go. After all, he’d appointed her in the first place and, stickler that he was, he hated and loathed failure in any shape or form.
‘Stiff upper-lip, Miss Cartwright!’ he urged her. ‘Learn to take it on the chin!’ She was tempted to point out that she’d taken it not on the chin, but on the bottom — but she didn’t want to provoke him any further. He made no reference at all to the incident: no apology nothing. She could only conclude that it had indeed been a temporary aberration on his part. The man was obviously unbalanced, and it simply wasn’t safe for a woman to work for him… the sooner she got away from this awful place the better! So, doggedly, she resumed her pleading:
‘Is there anything I can do, Headmaster, to persuade you to view my request for a transfer in a favourable light?’
He thought awhile… yes, there was one thing. But he prefaced it with a warning: when she’d caned Bagby on his backside not only had she disobeyed the L.E.A. ruling on corporal punishment, but she’d also laid herself open to prosecution by Bagby’s parents, for common — possible indecent — assault… But he’d had a discreet word with the boy, and Bagby had agreed, albeit reluctantly, not to tell his parents about the incident.
‘So you see, Miss Cartwright,’ he spoke slowly and with deliberation, ‘you have me to thank for salvaging the tattered remnants of your professional career!’
But Mr Tyson’s timely intervention had a price-tag to it… as do all things. Yes, he would agree to have her transferred… he knew the headmistress of an all-girls’ school in a neighbouring town, who’d be glad to take her on. But, considering the serious nature of Miss Cartwright’s professional misdemeanour, he could not in all conscience allow her to depart from his school scot-free. There had — there just had — to be one further punishment.
‘Oh no! Please!’ she gabbled hysterically. ‘I can’t — I can’t take any more of that beastly cane — it’s left me black and blue!’
‘Come, come, Miss Cartwright!’ Tyson chided her paternally, ‘I’m sure that’s an over-statement! Here — let me investigate!’ — and before she could stop him, he’d hoisted up her skirt at the back and peeled down her brand new white nylon knickers, to inspect the damage…
True, her bottom was still a little bit puffy and swollen, but the marks of the cane were already starting to fade — it certainly wasn’t black and blue!
‘Hmm… it’ll take a sound spanking — that’s for sure,’ he remarked with tight-lipped, callous unconcern. Jenny couldn’t believe her ears — she wanted the ground to open up and swallow her! She tried arguing with him; she tried pleading with him; she even tried tears! But Tyson was adamant: no spanking — no transfer.
And of course, he absolutely insisted that she remove her skirt completely — knickers, too… She felt so foolish and vulnerable, standing before him in his office, in just blouse, stockings and suspender belt. Not only was her bottom on full show, but other, even more intimate parts of her body… School had finished for the day: she could hear the unruly flood of jostling, laughing boys milling down the asphalt drive. Car doors slammed, engines started, and cheery goodbyes were exchanged as the members of staff departed homeward. John would soon be there to meet her — she wondered what on earth he’d say if he knew that at this very minute she was half-naked in the Headmaster’s study, about to receive whatever it was he called ‘a sound spanking’!… Maybe if she was to wave from the window — a damsel in distress — John might rush in and save her — claim her as his own? Hot tears of indignation burned her cheeks… Her bottom still throbbed and chafed her… It was so terribly unfair — not to mention cruel — of him to decide to spank her, on top of the caning he’d already given her that morning…
In response to his bidding, she walked slowly over to him, bent herself unwillingly across his waiting lap, and arched her well-rounded body so that her wealed, aching bottom presented a prominent, ample target. She felt ready to die of shame! A bare-bottom spanking, with all its embarrassing childhood associations, seemed more humiliating, if that were possible, than even the cane!
Tyson spoke to her sharply: ‘I don’t exactly relish the prospect of having to spank a young lady of your age like a naughty schoolgirl — but I’m afraid it’s the only way you women ever learn anything!’
‘Oh please no, Mr Tyson — I beg you — Yeeeeow!’ His large headmasterly hand cracked down upon her blushing, well-caned buttocks with a satisfyingly fleshy Smack, causing them to judder and ripple on impact. Her hands immediately shot up to protect herself, but he grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the small of her back, so she was utterly helpless to prevent him from delivering smack after hearty smack to her plump, white, trembling bottom — right across the middle of its well-stretched crease. She threshed about, kicking wildly in a futile attempt to escape the whirling maelstrom of stinging bottom-slaps. Soon she was crying so loudly in pain and shame that even the percussive sound of the spanking itself was dwarfed by her sobs.
He was certainly doing her large, comely bottom justice! Not a square inch of it eluded his attention: even the not-so-fleshy top of it, where the deep division between her cheeks ended — terribly painful for her there, since it was so inadequately cushioned! But nothing — nothing was worse than the dreadful part of the proceedings when he finished smacking the base of her buttocks, and continued right down to the tops of her legs. That was sheer agony! She felt as though she was being stung by a swarm of wasps.
‘Oh please stop, sir!’ she wailed piteously. ‘I can’t — I can’t take any more there! Not on the tops of my legs — Please!’
Smack! Smack! Smack!
Three more roasters on her legs — no short skirts on her for a day or two! How she yelled and blubbered! All scarlet and goose-pimpled, the backs of her thighs began to look like they’d been birched with stinging nettles!
Then he took pity on her, and reverted to the saucily plump summits of her cheeks…
Smack! Smack! Smack!
‘Yeeeeow!!! Oh Christ!’
… but they were so bruised and wealed by the earlier caning that, again, Tyson’s better instincts prevailed. Indeed, her buttocks seemed to be swelling up under the torrent of angry slaps, and growing deeper and deeper in colour by the minute.
A common-or-garden hand-spanking delivered to the bare bottom of a woman across a man’s knee sounds like a fairly harmless, playful pursuit, it’s true; but there was nothing harmless or playful about this spanking! It was meant to hurt, and hurt her it did — her feelings as much as her person. (She felt as though he was her father, and she his blushing, tearful, eleven-year-old daughter, being thoroughly and humiliatingly walloped on the bare — before getting sent supperless to bed. She knew he’d seen all her private parts: pussy, clit — anus, too! Was nothing sacred in the world anymore?)
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! SMACK!!!
‘Ouch! Oh! Ooh! Aargh! Yeeeeow!!!’
He’d saved the worst till the very end! Those final ear-deafening six slaps caught her napping in the middle of her thoughts, made her crimson, blotchy bum feel like it was being toasted, and prompted her to burst into floods of tears all over again!
‘Oh Mr Tyson!’ she sobbed broken-heartedly, ‘I’m so sorry — really I am — I know I let you down terribly! You will — boo hoo! —’ (she was crying all down his trouser leg) ‘— you will g-give me my t-t-transfer now… won’t you?’
He wished she’d stop stuttering and speak properly! With a deep sigh of exasperation, he released his hold on her and allowed her to stumble awkwardly from off his lap, clutching her stricken bum in both hands. ‘Very well, Miss Cartwright,’ he said with the air of someone making a great personal sacrifice, ‘you can have your transfer. I suppose, after all, you have earned it! But just let that be a lesson to you! Understand?’ She understood alright! She nodded contritely, blew her nose on her hankie, and hurriedly got dressed — she couldn’t wait to get out of that office! Besides, John would be waiting impatiently in the car for her now.
Tyson watched her as she tottered stiffly and painfully down the school drive and out the gates. ‘Hmm,’ he mused in deep thought ‘… only wish my wife had been so accommodating! Things might have been a lot different, then!’
When they got back to the house, John couldn’t wait to get Jenny into bed — he’d felt horny all day! But she seemed strangely, unaccountably reluctant. It wasn’t until much later, after the meal, when they were both getting undressed, that he discovered the reason why.
‘My God!’ he gasped when he saw the scarlet weals ridging her poor bruised bottom. ‘How the hell did that happen, Jenny love?’
She was extremely embarrassed about the whole thing — especially at having to tell him, of all people; but eventually he wormed the story out of her…
‘It was terrible, John, absolutely terrible!’ she murmured. ‘In front of all those boys, too! What if I meet one of them in the street?’ Her big brown eyes misted over with tears at the mere thought. ‘Hold me, John! Hold me close!’ They were both lying naked on the bed — he cupping in his hand the right cheek of her bottom, soothingly, protectively… but he was stiff and throbbing with excitement from what she’d told him, and from what he’d seen.
‘Oh John — I felt so ashamed,’ she whispered into his shoulder, a little calmer now. ‘John?’
‘John — I know he’s. promised me my transfer, but I still feel —’ her bottom fidgeted uneasily, even on the soft quilt, ‘— I still feel… well, he was so cruel to me!’ Her voice rose as she experienced a sudden pang of helplessness. She clung to him fervently. ‘Oh John! — What are you going to do about it all?’‘Do about it?’ he gasped, ‘I’ll show you what I’m going to do about it!’ He rolled on top of her and penetrated her, almost savagely — but she was not unready for him and, after the events of the day, secretly in her heart-of-hearts, she wanted it… needed it.