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Sunday, 27 October 2019

Detention with Mr Reddy

Story by James Eames from Roué 44
‘Amanda Sterne!’
The teacher’s deceptively gentle voice startled the pretty sixteen-year-old and riveted her attention back to the front of the detention room.
The front of the room — and Peggy McKee’s bottom. Her bare, red bottom. Now considerably redder from Mr Reddy’s attentions of the past five minutes.
‘Remind me of your inattention when you come up, please, Sterne,’ Mr Reddy said. ‘An extra two, I should think.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Amanda said with glum acquiescence. Another two! She promised herself not to take any further risks. Mr Reddy insisted that all girls kept in for Detention must watch each one of their unfortunate number receive her punishment after completing her penalty assignment. Amanda had let her eyes drift away from Peggy’s suffering bum, and she had been caught out.
Peggy was crying now. He was giving her 24 swats, and Amanda knew too well how the supple strap in his hand could sting. She watched the girl’s bottom receive number seventeen, and heard the choked-off cry before Peggy gasped out the count. ‘Seventeen, sir!’
Amanda was careful to keep her eyes fixed on Peggy’s painfully red flesh and tried to avoid looking at the bits in between her naked cheeks. The private bits, covered with a dense carroty fur that Amanda was fascinated by in spite of herself.
A girl’s bits always showed when Mr Reddy spanked her, of course. He made sure of that. You could go up there resolved to keep your thighs tightly together in order to protect your modesty. It made no difference. Sitting next to you as you bent over the penalty desk, Mr Reddy would just insert his hand between your legs, so far up it would make you gasp, and he’d say, ‘a little further apart, Sterne, I think.’
With the strap in his hand, of course, who argued?
To look at, Mr Reddy was not imposing. Ginger Lawton said he was just 27. She said she knew because her mother knew his family. Whether you believed her or not, he did seem young; certainly younger than most teachers. In class he spoke in a soft voice that he never raised. In class he seemed sweet. Girls would develop a protective, almost maternal crush on him.
His demeanour didn’t really change when he took detention, but once over his penalty desk to taste his penalty strap, a girl lost any feelings of puppy love. Other feelings — quite strong feelings, might well develop, but they were hardly maternal. Quite the contrary, in fact.
Poor Peggy was sobbing steadily now. She missed the count at 22 and Mr Reddy gave her the stroke again. Amanda didn’t think she even knew. Her crimson bum just shook as it was beaten, but her legs stayed dutifully apart and her maltreated bottom high and waiting.
‘Tw… Twenty-four,’ Peggy cried at last, and it was over. ‘Thank you for my correction, sir. I’ll try to improve in future.’ She gasped out the required formula between sobs, and then slumped on the desk.
Mr Reddy let her lie there a moment further, while he appeared to study her inflamed bottom. He always sat in an armless chair next to the penalty desk, positioned somewhat behind it as well to allow for good aim and a full view of her bum and adjacent areas.
He tapped Peggy’s red cheek and said softly, ‘Up you go, McKee. Ten minutes at the side, I think, and then you’re through.’ Peggy wobbled slowly to her feet. Holding her skirt bunched at her waist. She moved slowly to the wall of the room and stood facing it. The two girls who had already received their spankings — Joy Barlow and Lucinda Crane — were still there, holding their skirts up like Peggy, their strapped bottoms on display.
Amanda turned her attention to her assigned penalty exercise. Detention with Mr Reddy always produced a mixture of strong but conflicting feelings. You wanted to delay completing the assignment because the sooner you did, the sooner the strap was falling on your bottom. Also of course, the more girls were still sitting there to see your naked bottom and watch you get your spanking. But for the slower girls, later in the afternoon, Mr Reddy often added extra whacks. So if you delayed, you went home with an even sorer bottom.
Amanda glanced around her. Four other girls were left. She decided she ought to get it over with. She hurried through her remaining maths.
‘I’m finished, sir,’ a voice called out as Amanda began her final geometry proof.
Damn! She thought as Sharon Barnes took her paper up to Mr Reddy. She eyed the teacher and pupil as Sharon handed over her paper. You didn’t have to stop work until the strapping itself started, but Amanda could never tear her eyes away from the preliminaries.
Sharon was a tall, slim girl with a sweet face. She must get Detention frequently, Amanda thought, for she didn’t even blush as Mr Reddy lifted her skirt and peeked underneath. She watched his face complacently as he slipped his fingers into her knicker elastic and slid them down her thighs. She didn’t even twitch during the part Amanda hated most — when you had to step out of your knicks and hand them to him as he watched. You didn’t get them back until you were ready to leave Detention, by which time you seldom wanted to put them on over tender flesh.
Sharon stood patiently in front of Mr Reddy — her dark nest a few inches from his face — as he scanned her penalty exercise. He stared reflectively at her curly bits before delivering her sentence.
‘Not a bad effort, Barnes. Let’s have twenty today, shall we?’
‘Twenty, sir,’ Sharon said agreeably, as if the number bore no relation to the beating her bottom would receive. ‘Thank you for my penalty, sir.’
She ought to sound relieved, Amanda said to herself as the tall girl arranged herself over the penalty desk. Peggy had taken 25, and she wouldn’t have been surprised if Sharon received 26 or even 30. Amanda’s bottom shifted nervously at the thought of her own punishment still to come.
The unmistakeable whacking sound of strap meeting unprotected flesh resounded through the room. Hastily, Amanda focused her eyes on Sharon’s bare buttocks as they began to take their beating. Mr Reddy was very methodical when he strapped girls. The strap rose and fell with a steady rhythm. The girl’s responses — whether gasps or cries or sobs — provided a counterpoint to the strap’s steady tempo, but never varied it. Sharon’s bottom was surprisingly round and full for such a slim girl. It bounced and jiggled with each fall of Mr Reddy’s strap.
Without letting her eyes drift away from it, Amanda focused her mind on the last calculation she had to complete on her penalty assignment. As the tall girl received her fourteenth stroke, Amanda knew she had solved it. Now all she needed to do was get it on paper once Sharon had joined the three girls at the side of the room.
Then it would be Amanda herself over the desk, her bottom burning.
Seventeen. Sharon’s voice wavered as she counted now, but she had taken it very well indeed. No sobbing, no shrieks; only a sharp hiss when he hit especially hard. Her legs had drifted further apart as she squirmed and shifted, and her bottom now was a raging crimson.
‘Twenty, sir!’ Sharon nearly shouted, and as she completed the formalities, Amanda hurried to finish her own work. She jotted down the last number, checked quickly for accuracy, then raised her hand.
‘I’m ready, sir.’
Time took on an elastic quality then. It seemed mere seconds before she was standing before Mr Reddy, skirt at her waist, her nest of curls in front of his face. Then time seemed suspended; the minutes frozen into eternities while he contemplated her bareness, somehow weighing the sight before him together with her penalty assignment. Let there be no errors, she fervently prayed as he determined the number of strokes she must take.
‘Twenty-four, Sterne,’ he said at last.
A pause. ‘Plus two,’ she prompted in a very tiny voice.
Then she was over the desk, gripping the low crossbar on the far side. His gently insistent hand urged her thighs still further apart, and then the strap fell upon her bare bottom.
‘One,’ she called in a steady voice.
Whhackk! ‘Two.’
Whhackk! ‘Three.’ A little quaver crept into her voice. The pain was warming her bottom, and sending alarm signals throughout her body.
Thwaack! ‘F-four!’ That one was the hardest yet.
Whaack! ‘Five.’ Amanda realised her nipples were stony hard and erect. She blushed at the recognition.
Whaaack! ‘Ooooh! Six.’ He had struck across an earlier stripe, and it hurt!
Whaaack! ‘Seven.’ She was panting now, out of breath.
Worse, as he delivered eight, and nine, ten, and eleven, her bottom began its irrepressible strapping dance. She hated this, and yet she couldn’t control it. She couldn’t stop her bottom from rolling down under the strap and then rolling up again, as if lifting itself and pleading for it.
Whaaack! ‘Ooof! Fifteen.’ Her voice was cracking with each count now, straining with the effort to repress her bottom’s sinuous weaving dance under the strap — that, and repress the other, unspeakable thing too.
Whhaackkk! ‘Sixteen.’ Her eyes were squeezed tight with the anxiety of self-restraint and with the stinging pain too.
Whaaackck! ‘Aaogh! Seventeen!’ Uninvited, an image of her bottom invaded her mind, an image made vivid by watching Joy and Peggy and the others earlier.
Whaaackk! ‘Eighteen!’ She screamed out the number as she saw in her mind the deep red stripes she could also feel against the pale white of her bottom. But she also saw the uncontrollable weaving and reaching out for the strap that none of the other girls ever seemed to do.
Whhaaackk! ‘Ni-nineteen!’ She pictured her unruly bottom, seeming to glory in its humiliation, and hated it for looking like it loved taking the strap.
Whaaackk! ‘Twenty! Unnghh!’ She groaned with the count — a sudden groan of defeat and self-awareness, because that other thing was happening too. In spite of her attempts to prevent it, she suddenly knew her private bits were awash with secret wetness.
Whaaack! ‘Twenty-one,’ she counted, almost a sob. Her bottom stung with pain, and she had lost both her battles — as she always did. She felt the tears begin to well in her tightly clenched eyes, imitating her wetness elsewhere.
Whhaackk! ‘Twenty-two!’ Mr Reddy didn’t know, of course, but the other girls certainly must know — bared and spread as she was. His arm never tired, his pace never faltered. And in harmony, her bottom kept up its own rhythm.
Whhaack! ‘Twenty-three, sir!’ Just one more, and then her humiliation, her self-betrayal, would be over.
Whaaack! ‘Twenty-four!’ A pause, just long enough for her to cherish the hope he might excuse her from the extra strokes, which she had forgotten and then remembered just as this one fell.
Whaaackkk! ‘Aaagghh! Twenty-five!!’ He hadn’t forgotten; indeed he was laying these on as hard as any. Her extra strokes for looking away from another girl, whose bottom never weaved, who never moistened either.
Whaaackk! ‘Twenty-six!’ Over at last! Amanda collapsed on the desk, all the tension suddenly gone out of her body, except for her obstinate, bright-red bottom which continued to bob and weave as though the strap were still coming down.
She took a breath and stammered out the required formula, thanking him for her penalty. She rose shakily to her feet, clutching her skirt above her waist, and hobbled over to face the wall. Now there was a fourth crimson bottom on display in the Detention room.
Amanda wondered about the other girls standing there. Were their hearts still racing, their blood still teeming, as hers was, and would continue to do until she could seek relief in the loo? Did they also feel themselves a swamp, high up and hidden from view? She watched for clues in every girl who had been strapped, and then hated herself and looked away. But she couldn’t help reverting to the same question that tormented her every time she had Detention.
Am I the only one? she would ask herself. Am I the only one who likes it?


  1. The girl in the final picture looks almost as though she could be a young Jess Phillips, nowadays a mouthy feminist Labour MP. Although seeing as she was born in 1981 I suppose that's an impossibility (good grief, where does the time go?). A bit of old fashioned Roue/Blushes treatment would have done her a lot of good though.

    Talking of lookalikes the girl on the magazine cover looks awfully like either Nina Carter (later to be Mrs Rick Wakeman) or Jilly Johnson, a pair of interchangeable UK 1970s blondes (I'm never sure which one is which) who even formed a pop act together called Blonde on Blonde. And very nice they both looked together also. But again I'm assuming that this is someone else.

  2. Bob here.
    Love that second to last photo.All long
    legs,white socks and navy blues.
    What's not to love,eh ?
    Nina Carter and Jilly Johnson! Blimey!
    That took me on a trip down memory lane,Anonymous.
    Don't think they ever appeared in Janus
    etc (not as far as I know at least) but
    then again,who knows ? Anyone out there in the community know anything about that ? I know there was at least one "page 3" girl who appeared in at least
    a couple of spanking films years ago.
    Can't remember her name though.She was
    a very pretty girl.A brunette,I think.
    Anyone remember her ?

    1. Are you thinking of Vida Garman? If so, she has her own label on this blog you can use to find her stuff.

    2. The more I'm looking at her the more I'm thinking that the girl on the Roue cover is one I'm remembering from more mainstream 'girlie' titles (such as Parade or something like that) of 1980s (not Jilly Johnson or Nina Carter obviously!)

  3. I have often wondered how many spanking models went on to be famous. I'm also sure I've spotted a couple in old 70s and 80s classic era stuff.

  4. Bob here.
    Vida Garman.Yes,that was the girl I meant.Thank you for that,fleas63.