Photo-story from Janus 52
Frustrated schoolmaster with traditional views on discipline invites naughty schoolgirl to report to his study for firm correction. Uniform provided. ALA.
The advertisement Keith Dobson placed in the contact magazine was the culmination of many emotions, largely suppressed, over many years. A senior teacher of maths and science at a modern comprehensive for girls, he was not alone among his colleagues in the frustration he felt about current educational policy on corporal punishment. With the cane banned by ‘enlightened’ purehearts, Keith had watched with dismay how general discipline in his school had crumbled. The once-mandatory smart uniforms had become sloppy or ignored, standards had slumped, teachers were jeered at, rules flouted, lessons disrupted by trouble-makers — and there were no means at all of controlling them except by cajolery. How often had his hand itched to reach for a cane and swipe it with judicious vigour across the tightly-knickered seat of one of the more raucous, insolent and idle girls.
The study referred to in the ad was a real one — a room in his house which he had furnished and decorated as an old-time Headmaster’s inner sanctum. It was his haven, his retreat — a make-believe world that paradoxically was very real to him, an escape into the values which had reigned when he was a boy, where misbehaviour by pupils was met with by controlled, firm-handed chastisement rather than impotent lectures answered with smirks.
On returning home after a trying day at school, it was one of the few pleasures in Keith Dobson’s bachelor life to escape into this secret den and there don traditional schoolmaster’s garb of gown and mortar-board. Here he would mark books, plan the next day’s work — and dream, longingly eyeing the selection of canes he had accumulated over the years. Canes which had never been used. Canes which, if the good old no-nonsense values were still in force, would have warmed up many a girlish backside long since, turning the tide of schoolgirl anarchy like a team of whippy heroes.
Hence the contact ad. It was of course a dream, the hoped-for enactment of a fantasy. Owing to his educational background Keith understood much about girls, but very little about women. Would any reply? A week went by after publication, then another, and he began to resign himself to a nil response. But one morning came a return envelope, unmistakably from the magazine office. He opened it with trembling fingers, choked by an extraordinary excitement and read: Dear Schoolmaster, Yes, I would like to report to your study. I am 23 and very naughty. Please phone to arrange. Claire Lake.
That evening, after passing the day in a daze of unfamiliar exhilaration, Keith telephoned the number given and a young female voice had answered. Keeping his own voice curt and authoritative, he had introduced himself as ‘Mister Dobson’ and asked for Claire Lake. It was she. Her tones at once lightened to a schoolgirlish timbre, albeit a trifle husky, the accent as racily imprecise as most of his pupils spoke. A time was arranged for Wednesday, at seven sharp.
And now that time was almost upon him. Frankly, Keith was in a dither of excitement. For the first time in his life he was going to thrash a girl. Crisply and robustly upon her bottom. Keith’s head swam at the prospect. As seven o’clock approached he paced about, more keyed-up than he could ever remember.
The doorbell rang! She was here! The school-teacher inhaled steadily to bring himself under control. He had decided that as this was a fantasy for them both, he should begin as he intended to continue. Accordingly, back went his shoulders, up went his chin, and he strode to the front door and opened it.
The first sight Claire had of the man whose ad she had answered was an austere, bespectacled figure gazing sternly down at her. Oh, he was perfect, she thought: the image of the ascetic mentor she’d conjured up in wickedly delicious fantasies ever since she had been at school — where there had been no corporal punishment, but she and her friends had often speculated about how it must be to bend across a chair or touch one’s toes and receive a sound trouncing. Indeed, the idea had thrilled Claire so much that she’d hardly considered the pain which would accompany such rituals.
As for Keith, his rather nervous-looking visitor was more than he had dared to hope for: young and sturdy, the very stuff of which the most disobedient and slovenly of his pupils were made, her features petulant and cheeky. When he snapped ‘Come in, Lake!’ she stepped indoors with thudding heart and followed him silently along a passage into a tidy, polished room with thick carpet and heavy curtains.
‘This,’ he announced coldly, ‘is my study.’
Claire gazed around in awe. It was indeed the beak’s study, frozen in time somewhere in the 1950s — a sensible desk, sober chairs; a smell of books and ink. And beside the desk stood a container with at least half a dozen crook-handled canes. Oh, it was a dream come true!
There were no unsettling niceties, no awkward prelims; the teacher was completely in charge. Fixing the girl with a bleak gaze which chilled her exquisitely, he handed her the uniform he had covertly purchased at the school’s outfitters. ‘Off you go and get changed,’ he instructed, directing her into a vestibule. ‘And be quick about it, girl!’ For Claire his very tone was bliss — hard and authoritative. Breathlessly she hurried away.
Keith Dobson closed the heavy curtains and switched on a lamp. Then, with great and joyful deliberation, he put on the old-style schoolmaster’s black gown and placed the mortar upon his head. Neither were permitted at school. There was a knock at the door.
‘Enter!’ he crisped, and the naughty schoolgirl stepped into his study. To Keith she was a vision made flesh in the familiar grey skirt, white blouse and tie of his school, clutching some exercise books she had brought with her. Keith saw her as a composite of all the unruly, shiftless girls who so richly deserved proper punishment. Claire herself looked as apprehensive as any pupil might who had reported for corporal chastisement — for although it had long been her prime bedtime fantasy to be thrashed on her bottom by a masterly man, she had never actually had it done to her.
And now it was about to happen! ‘I-I’ve brought my books, sir,’ she faltered. ‘Th-the ones you asked to see after lessons.’ Her eyes absorbed the real, real schoolmaster dressed in gown and mortar-board; and her knees began to shake. The imagined fear which had powered her private excitations was now a physical, nerve-tingling fact, chilling her goose-pimpled flesh.
‘Ah yes, Lake.’ For Keith, the fantasy had become reality: this was a pupil, and these her books. He sat at his desk and leafed through the dog-eared pages, quickly realising that they were indeed Claire Lake’s own, from her schooldays. And very scrappy too! Ill-spelt, badly-scrawled essays without thought or merit; the mathematics skimped and mostly wrong. Keith felt sure she had never been adequately disciplined for such disgraceful work. Indeed, it was why Claire had brought these particular books along, for she still harboured an uneasy guilt for her perennial idleness in class.
‘This is absolutely appalling,’ he said at last with terrifying quietness. ‘Look at this, girl. Look!’ Holding up each book in turn he pointed out the girl’s many mistakes with wearisome attention to detail, watching her face crumple with unsimulated dismay.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said.
‘Sorry?’ Keith Dobson flung down the books in disgust and stood up. His ‘pupil’ flinched. He felt real anger, as all the frustrations accumulated during confrontations boiled up in him. But this time things were different, and had become as they should always be. ‘“Sorry” is hardly enough,’ he snapped. ‘You dare to present me with such trash as this? You’ve clearly paid no attention whatever during lessons, nor heeded any attempts at verbal discipline!’ Claire shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, biting a lip, shaken by his vehemence. ‘You leave me no alternative, Lake,’ he went on sternly, ‘but to give you a sound caning.’
‘Oh no, sir — not the cane!’ This was no charade any more, but alarmingly real. She was scared.
‘Yes, Lake, the cane.’ Keith began to count on his fingers, with cruelly protracted deliberation, the number of strokes she was to receive. When he reached ‘six’ Claire was praying he would stop, but the inexorable voice continued. ‘Seven, eight, nine, ten,’ he intoned. ‘Ten strokes, girl. On the buttocks.’
For the moment Claire was unable to speak, could only stare in mounting trepidation as he withdrew the sheaf of canes from the stand and selected one. It was long and slender — beautiful, somehow. ‘Lift your skirt to the waist and turn around, please,’ came the crisp tones. Nonplussed, the girl continued to gape. The instruction thrilled her profoundly, yet now it was actually about to happen she felt completely out of her depth and half of her regretted having come this far.
‘Do you hear me, Lake?’ This time the voice had a harder edge and a steely glare lit his eyes. Hesitantly Claire began to raise the hem. ‘Lift your skirt, I said!’ Impatiently he flipped the pleated garment up with the cane to reveal white cotton knickers beneath, and Claire shuddered with strange delight. She felt helpless, melting, out of control. ‘Remove your underclothing and kneel up on this chair,’ came the curt command.
‘Indeed,’ snapped the schoolmaster. ‘I intend to thrash your naked buttocks. I repeat, you will remove those knickers. At once!’
Weirdly enthralled, throbbing under the spell of his assertive domination, Claire’s fingers found the waistband and inched the panties down. She could feel his gaze tingling on her flesh as the smackably springy rounds of her rump came into view. The sensation was sheer enchantment as she kicked off the knickers and knelt up as bidden on the chair-seat, gripping its back. Her bottom, her bare bottom was fully displayed to him, and she stuck it out proudly in a spasm akin to lust.
Keith Dobson feasted his sight on the luscious, petal-soft, creamy mounds presented to him, and gloried in the notion that they were his to thrash, to control, to spare or condemn. With a curiously peaceful contentment he positioned the girl’s knees just so, arranged the angle of her body a little more upright. Then he drew back the cane, paused for an ecstatic moment, and brought it smartly down to collide with a swish-snap across the exact centre of those delightfully lush buttocks, watching how the rattan sank into the quivering moons of flesh before springing back.
‘Aaaghh!’ Claire’s harsh cry was not just of pain. It was shock! She had never imagined that a cane’s bite could hurt so much, each tender cheek responding to the opening stroke as though a scalding wire had been laid upon it. Keith at once cocked his wrist and, aiming for the left buttock, splatted the cane against it with a whippy flicking motion.
‘N-no-no-o-o!’ came the cawing wail as pain again flared like flame-spurts into the wobbly ripeness. ‘It hurts, it hurts!’ screeched Claire. Agonised tears blinded her, filling her nasal cavities, making her choke.
‘Quiet!’ crisped the schoolmaster, icily controlled. ‘You will take the punishment you deserve, girl.’ He watched intrigued how the thigh and buttock muscles locked and tensed in barely supportable anticipation of the next blazing stroke; then he again brought back the cane and swished it through the air to land with explosive biting precision against the lower curves of the ripely shivering globes.
‘Ah-ah-ah-ahh!…’ Incoherent with distress, Claire fell forward across the chair-back, three magenta lines now marking the previously untouched skin of her mother-naked nates. She couldn’t bear any more, just couldn’t! An inferno raged in the place where she normally sat, and again her voice hit the ceiling in a piercing shriek as the rattan hissed in once more and smacked against the screaming flesh.
‘Four.’ Keith was warming to it now. Already he was in love with this noble bottom that had taken upon itself to represent so many other young feminine behinds that would sadly never feel the lick of his cane, however well-merited. Pausing to savour the crimsoning surfaces, he swung the cane exultantly, feeling it sink with a thwack into the soft lower cheeks of that jutting, swaying arse. The impact jolted up his arm. Her whole body arched like a bow, then sagged as the pain-shock was absorbed. Keith couldn’t withhold a cry of pleasure as it struck — a cry which blended with her shriek of ‘NO!’
The girl jerked her body upright again. ‘I h-had no idea it would hurt s-so…’ she sobbed.
Her protests were unheeded, for this punishment was in earnest. WHACK! Keith continued to swing the cane, lashing it with sweet ferocity across the smooth softnesses of the heroic buttocks. ‘Six!’ he called. Then, before the fiery sting could possibly begin to recede, another swiping blast overlapped the previous vivid pain-slash and caused the girl to grunt like an animal as the stick loudly contacted the tortured nether-cheeks. Claire again arched her back in agony, inadvertently thrusting out her crimson-streaked buttocks towards the cane as if eager for more — and, as if responding to the invitation, the swishy instrument leaped forward to smack meatily against their topmost slopes.
‘Eight,’ gasped Keith. In Claire’s reeling senses the schoolmaster’s voice and the sound of the cane had become as one, stern and slicing, crisply biting.
‘N-no more,’ she blubbered through contorted lips. ‘I can’t…’ As her voice cracked Claire squirmed off the chair with her knees and sank back on to it in a sitting position, grimacing and weeping.
‘How dare you!’ roared the teacher, outraged. ‘Stand up! Turn around! Your thrashing is not yet complete.’
Despite herself, Claire half-stood, bewildered to find her limbs responding to his command. ‘I-it hurts too much,’ she whimpered.
‘Silence!’ Keith grasped the skirt and shoved it high up the girl’s back, the force in his hands surprising him. ‘Feet on the floor,’ he snapped. ‘Present your naked bottom!’
‘No more, please!’ she shrieked.
‘You will do as I say,’ he bit out. Forcing her into an upright stance Keith whipped the hissing rattan once, twice, in rapid succession against the girl’s blazing bottom. ‘Nine, ten,’ he called as the stick bit snappingly into the pliant flesh and sprang back from it.
Claire was sobbing profusely, and after the final stroke she did not move. Incredibly, she lamented that it had ended. She didn’t know why she waggled her blushing derriere, indeed it seemed to waggle itself — and Keith didn’t miss the blatant invitation.
‘For your defiant behaviour in daring to get off the chair before your punishment was over,’ he intoned, ‘you will receive one more stroke.’
‘No-o,’ whimpered Claire — yet she yelped in dark delight as the cane struck a final emphatic blow against her upper buttocks in a salute to her willingness and fortitude. Keith tried to disguise his gasp of joy, and stifled his desire to smother her burning seat with soothing caresses.
So utterly absorbed had both been in the chastisement, it was difficult to struggle back to the reality of their situation. The caning had hurt far more than Claire had imagined, yet now it was over warm pulses were swarming through her blood, radiating heat and pleasure throughout her body from a point centred on her wickedly smarting bottom. And Keith saw that she, after all, was not one of his slovenlier pupils, but a woman.
A minute or two passed in which they contemplated one another; then he reached out, unfastened the school tie, and tugged it off. Claire regarded him intently, with a mysterious yearning. ‘Yes, oh yes,’ sang the words in her mind — ironic after all the pleas of ‘No’ she had uttered. ‘Take it off,’ he said. Slowly, enticingly, she unbuttoned the school blouse and pulled her arms out of the sleeves, to reveal two extremely womanly breasts, full and nakedly swelling.
Keith made no attempt to disrobe himself, but sat down and surveyed the woman, her enquiring face and exposed breasts, a hand resting on the cane he had used to thrash her bottom. The tension became acute. She wondered what he was going to do. Was there a hint of a smile on his stern features as the minutes ticked on; a twinkle behind the bleak glasses? Claire couldn’t be sure, and as the pain-heat in her rear end began to scorch ever more thrillingly, converting to dampness and longing, making her sigh and squirm, her nipples stood out so stiffly and erectly that he could surely be in no doubt of what his caning had done to her.But if Keith Dobson knew, he did not show it. Not yet…