The first of a four-part story, from Blushes 4
Regarding the substance of your ‘phone call last week, I think I can recommend a couple of girls, and one in particular, who will be leaving at the end of this term and will no doubt be seeking employment.
If you would like to cast an eye over them, I dare say I shall be able to make the usual arrangements given a few days’ notice in which to engineer their falling foul of some rule or restriction in order to provide myself with an excuse. May I ask you to observe the utmost caution, this time, with regard to whom you mention these matters to. A gentleman arrived the other day, unannounced, using your name by way of introduction and quite boldly offering money to be allowed to witness what he called the ‘whipping’ of one or other of the girls. I had to send him away at once, naturally. Please be discreet, Henry, or we shall all be in hot water.
Kindly don’t forget those cuttings you promised; the gardens are looking somewhat bereft of colour this year and I should like to have the gardener put some life into them without going to too much expense.
Your affectionate sister,
The cubby hole into which Cicely had thrust him was a sizable, triangular cupboard built across the angle of two walls in the corner of a room which was connected to her study by a half-glazed door. The cupboard smelled of chalk and old books, and was indeed part-full of both, the chalk in boxes on the shelf above his head, the books in a pile behind him in the very apex of the triangle. He had managed to wangle a rickety chair through the cupboard door so that he could sit down rather than crouch as he had on other occasions, which was no good at all for one’s back. He tried out his knot-hole for height and found he still had to bend forward and downward to see; still, it was better than the crouching. Distantly, beyond the partly open study door, he heard Cicely’s voice, brisk and business-like, then the soft murmur of another, younger, voice.
This must be the first of Cicely’s ‘recommendations’. Henry strained his eyes in the gloom of the cupboard to read the note, the ‘cast of players’ which was to be his guide to the several little dramas about to be played out.
‘Carol Liskeard’ he read. ‘Sixteen and four months’. There was no other information. Impatient to catch a glimpse of the girl, excitement making his throat dry in the dusty atmosphere inside his ‘priest hole’, Henry risked a quiet clearing of his throat, trusting that it would not be heard in the study. A moment’s more conversation, and then suddenly there she was! ‘Good Lord!’ Henry whispered, almost too loud.
She looked absolutely delightful! Henry could feel at once that he was going to need to make certain adjustments in the underpants department. Why on earth Cicely still insisted on her pupils wearing skirts which would have raised more than an eyebrow even back in the nineteen-sixties he couldn’t imagine, but he had no intention of lodging any objections. If the girl’s skirt came more than three inches lower than the gusset of her knickers he’d have to revise his ideas on feminine anatomy. Her legs were bare from the knees up, and there was a lot of ‘up’, and bare too down to her ankle socks. Her skirt’s grey pleats nipped in at her waist over softly curved hips which promised a plump and spankable bottom; her blouse, which was white and relieved by a diagonally-striped school tie, was filled in the right places by breasts which seemed to have discovered the secret of levitation, so uplifted and pert was their presentation of themselves. She was blonde — a honeyed, warm kind of blonde — with big blue eyes which followed Cicely’s face unblinkingly, anxiously, at every instant. So appealing was this picture of old-enough-for-it (just about) schoolgirlishness that the finishing touch of shiny black-strapped shoes was almost painful in its completion of the perfection. Henry closed his eyes but the girl was still there. Her timid, worried voice made him look again.
‘Ma’am — kn-knickers down, ma’am?’ she was saying, and the way she stumbled over the word ‘knickers’ and the dubious, little-girl look of apprehension on her angelic young face was quite excruciatingly arousing for Henry in his cupboard.
‘Have I ever slippered your insolent bottom any other way?’ Cicely cooed malevolently, and the girl’s cheeks pinkened as she stuttered ‘No-no ma’am,’ and reached at once for the fastening of her skirt.
Henry blinked — perhaps it was chalk dust — and then there she was, skirt magically removed, her young hips cuddled in soft navy knickers which dived irresistibly into little creases between the very tops of her thighs to outline the full, pouting succulence of her pubes and to torture Henry with imaginings of what must be beneath that close blue knicker material. Before he blinked again — it must have been chalk dust — the girl had pulled hesitantly and then resignedly at the waistband of her pants and then they were stretched across the tops of her legs and she was walking directly towards him, her skirt in her hand, with Cicely saying ‘Hang your skirt up,’ unnecessarily, because plainly the girl had been in this punishment room before and knew that skirts were to be hung on the hook on the cupboard door.
Henry had the impression that the girl must have stood on tip-toe to reach, but anyway the close proximity of the top line of her pubic hair at the base of her belly translated itself into an upward-stretching lift and there was daylight between the soft, satin-looking inner sides of the very tops of her thighs, with the unseen onlooker’s nose a bare three or four inches away, pressed against the other side of the cupboard door. The tantalisation of that secret, tender, moist-looking place translated itself by a swift rotation to a close-up glimpse of bare, bouncy bottom cheeks as the girl turned to face her headmistress. Henry imagined that he could almost feel the warmth of that naked femininity through the panelling. Then she was moving away, her slightly side-to-side walk bobbing her bare buttocks together, their weighty resilience making them tremble faintly with each pace.
A chair was produced from outside Henry’s field of view, and placed at an angle to his hideaway such that when the girl was put across its back he would have a three-quarter view of her impudent young bum.
‘Bend over!’ She did, the muscles at the backs of her legs tight and shapely, the fullness of her bottom-cheeks curving up and over so that the crease line beneath them disappeared, her black shoes neatly together at the heels, one white sock a fraction lower than the other, her knickers tenaciously clinging still to the tops of her legs, with just enough of a space between the white insert of the knickers and the demure peeping of her no-longer-so-secret little place to allow another glimpse of daylight between the inward/outward soft curves of the extreme upward limits of her inner thighs.
‘Ma’am? Please ma’am?’ she sounded frightened and apologetic — but mostly frightened. ‘M-may I go to the toilet, ma’am?’ Perhaps it was simply a piece of theatre, but the girl slid one knee behind the other with a slight bend of both legs, looking back and upwards plaintively and the faint wiggle of her bottom as she asked her question suggested that her need was indeed rather pressing.‘No,’ said Cicely, loftily, and perhaps she had enough experience of knickers-down slipperings to know that a girl’s sudden plea to be excused had more to do with the proximity of that shiny-soled and well-used implement of chastisement to her naked, helpless bottom than it had with physiological necessity. Right or wrong, the girl’s headmistress weighed the gym slipper in her hand for a moment and then with a Splatt! which rang round the little room, brought it down wickedly hard across the helpless, waiting buttocks. Henry caught himself wincing when the girl’s bottom shivered, squeezed its cheeks together, then jerked convulsively sideways as her knees bent, all, so it seemed, in a fraction of one long, painful, exhilarating, cock-twitching second!