Grizelda Gutteridge awoke in a filthy temper. This, in itself, was nothing unusual, because that was what she usually did. Grizelda Gutteridge was not noted at St Stricktlands School for being a, ‘happy bunny.’ Hence, of course, her nickname of Grizzle Guts, a fact which pleased her even less. However on this particular morning she could think of nothing else but of the appalling humiliation she’d suffered the previous evening.
She’d been effectively humiliated in front of a dorm of lower 6 th form boys, the lowest of the low, in other words, and by, of all people, The Interrogator himself, albeit unintentionally. How, she thought to herself, could it have happened that Terrence Hayter had actually visited a dorm, and just, it seemed, to see that little bastard David Shagton, too? She shook her head in wonder again. The Headmaster just didn’t do dorm visits. No, she reflected, he had boys and girls report to him in his study, just as indeed she herself had been obliged to do – here she unconsciously gritted her teeth in attempting to stem the painful memories that resulted therefrom – on countless occasions over her years at the school.
She painfully remembered all over again how she had burst into dorm 6W in her usual commanding fashion, in order to give all the boys therein a good thrashing or two, or three, just to show them all who was in charge. And, unbelievably, there was Terrence giving Shagger a nice fireside chat! Hell! It was so, well, demeaning. Of course, Terrence had been terribly polite and all that, but she’d still lost a whole lot of street cred, and that would just have to be made back up over the forthcoming few weeks in impromptu canings for all the boys concerned, especially Shagger of course. Shagger, especially. It would have to be Shagger, wouldn’t it, she thought to herself bitterly. That boy. That wretched, dreadful, awful, no-good, two-timing, and damn his penis to eternity - deliciously fuckable boy.
Memory returned, as it always did. The one she loathed most. She remembered yet again how she’d fucked him during his first term at the school. However, and here she shook her head again for the umpteenth time as she despised her own stupidity, she’d pulled herself off the fuck in order to arrange for some pretty pics to be taken. And in the meantime that little cunt Missus had appeared from nowhere and taken over from where she’d foolishly left off, so that when Sileas Crabbe and she returned with the camera, what they got instead was Brenda bloody Smith getting it where she enjoyed it most.
Grizelda Gutteridge bristled with renewed irritation and annoyance, and sheer jealousy, as she contemplated Brenda Smith. As her fagmistress, of course, Grizzle Guts knew that she could, and did, make Brenda’s life an absolute misery at all times. However it all never made up for the fact that Brenda Smith had somehow, over the intervening months, become the de facto Mrs Shagton, or Missus, as she was now generally known, whereas that title could so easily have been hers. Little bitch, she thought. Little fucking bitch. Regular, prolonged, and outrageously unfair canings were simply too good for her.
And then, of course, had been the final humiliation. Yesterday afternoon, she’d overheard The Interrogator telling a new teacher that he and Missus would definitely be running caning classes this term. She ground her teeth with what amounted to complete despair. It simply wasn’t done. Caning classes were, she knew full well, run every summer term by upper 6th form prefects in order to teach the present lower 6th form cretins how to wield a cane, so that when, the following term, they themselves became prefects, they would all be able to administer the type and style of correction, discipline and punishment to which St Stricktlands School was so justly proud, and indeed famous for. She turned the thought over in her mind again. Yes, she’d heard all the rumours, in fact last term she’d been pointedly made aware that Missus had given several boy prefects their, ‘hot cross bums,’ That was a special style of Eastertide St Stricktlands School punishment, one which was administered diagonally each way across the bare bottom, hence the, ‘cross,’ and also making it, ‘hot,’ of course. She also knew that Shagger had likewise caned a whole lot of girl prefects. She bristled. How dare he? How dare she? How dare they both? And how had they learned the noble art, anyway? Nobody had taught her during her lower 6th form year. No, she’d had to put up with her own year of hell, getting thrashed all the time by a fagmistress who for some unaccountable reason didn’t seem to like her very much, and then she’d had to learn the art of caning along with all the rest at the appropriate time. No short-cuts there, she reflected, bitterly, to herself.
She glanced up at her clock. Nearly 7am. Her junior and senior fags would be along any minute now, and heaven help them if they were late, of course. The study door opened. Fags didn’t have to knock on their own fagmistress’s door. Both together. Karen Eis, the junior fag, and known as The Ice Maiden. A cool cat, well, a cool kitten, anyway, indeed, that one, Grizzle Guts thought, as she always did. Always took her punishments well, and hardly said a word. Her big sister was Kirsten Eis, aka The Ice Queen, and herself a prefect, and was on record as saying many times that her younger sibling would be a force to be reckoned with in years to come. And, of course, Missus, the senior fag.
Grizelda Gutteridge stretched lazily in bed. She was nude. She arose and draped a robe around herself. Although she knew that she had a very good body, and indeed a cunt to die for, she wasn’t going to wander around her study nude like some other sluts of girl prefects she could think of. Her irritation increased again at this point as she thought about Sammy Fuck Me Harder Terrier, who she knew very well had a tendency to wander round her study for the sole purpose of teasing her own senior fag, David bloody Shagton, of course. And that was another thing. How had one of the Terror Twins ended up with a boy for a senior fag, anyway? That was something else which had never been explained properly, or indeed explained at all. She’d asked. It had, accordingly to Sue Sweet, Terrence’s secretary, simply been an, ‘administrative error,’ on her part. So how come nice juicy administrative errors like that didn’t happen to her? It just wasn’t fair. Then she thought sourly that the one thing you could always guarantee about St Stricktlands School was fairness, simply because there wasn’t any. An unwritten rule of the school, in fact, of which there were many.
She inspected her two fags, who were now both standing politely in front of her, heads bowed, awaiting her instructions. “Bitches,” she said to them both, and for no other reason than she could, and that she felt like doing it. She noted with satisfaction the fleetingly quick and small sideways glances which both girls gave automatically to each other as if to say, ‘oh dear, another bad hair day today,’ which was more-or-less the case of course.
Grizzle Guts decided to finally bring herself to do something which she’d never been able to bring herself to do before. She disliked it on principle, and hated herself for having to do it at all, but she simply had to know the horrible truth. Were all the rumours and the stories and the accounts really correct, and just how competently could Missus really carry a cane? She fetched her favourite correction cane from the study wall – most studies at St Stricktlands School had a whole wall covered with such items of correction – and flexed it in front of The Ice Maiden. She consulted Karen Eis’s charge sheet. Good. Four whacks owing. She looked down at Karen Eis, who looked back at her, blankly, as if to say, ‘beat me as you wish, Ma’am, my bottom is yours,’ and said, “Four whacks owing, you naughty little girl….” then she mentally held her breath and said to Missus, hating every word as she did so, “….and YOU, bitch, you can administer them to her,” before virtually throwing the cane into Brenda’s hand. Then she retreated to her bed, and sat down on it in order to monitor events.
What she saw both impressed and appalled her at the same time. Brenda Smith looked up in slight amazement as she took hold of the cane in her hand. Karen Eis looked similarly shocked, of course. Hardly surprising, of course - a junior fag didn’t quite expect to get caned by a senior fag, after all. However, as Missus held the cane for a few seconds, it became immediately apparent to Grizzle Guts that she was used to taking the power, so to speak. At St Stricktlands School, the cane was in itself the supreme instrument of power. Missus was quite obviously becoming a Dominant Lady, or Domme, as Grizzle Guts knew they were called, and it infuriated her. Slowly, knowingly, irritatingly, Missus flexed the cane and somehow grew in size and stature. Missus looked coldly across the room at her, and somehow, despite her strongest resolve, Grizzle Guts felt herself slipping back down into the mindset of a naughty little schoolgirl again. If Missus had suddenly ordered her to bend over for the cane, she was certain she would have done it. She shook her head quickly to try and clear the spell that the bitch had crafted upon her so effectively, and so quickly.
Fortunately, Missus turned her head, and then her body, towards The Ice Maiden. Missus said, lazily, but with hideous power in her voice, “You have been a naughty little girl, and it is my solemn duty now to punish you accordingly. Do you have anything to say before I apply this punishment cane good and hard to your bare bottom?”
Grizzle Guts could see that The Ice Maiden was mildly shocked, but no more than this. Obviously, she thought, young Karen Eis had long since come to terms with the fact that sooner or later Missus would get to wield a cane, and was ready and prepared for it.
“No, Ma’am,” she said, simply, “please beat me good and hard. I know I deserve it.”
Grizzle Guts smiled grudgingly, despite herself. A perfect pre-caning statement of intent. Now, would Missus be able to follow it through with the action? Somehow, Grizelda thought to herself, with an unexpected frisson of excitement in an unexpected place, she might well do just that.
“Very well, girl,” said Missus, dryly, “Skirt up, knickers down, then turn around so that your fagmistress can see your bare bottom, and bend over, nice and tight.”
On the bed, Grizelda Gutteridge fought back a wild impulsive desire to stand up and offer her own bare bottom for Missus to cane alongside that of The Ice Maiden. She couldn’t believe how she was feeling. It was simply… outrageous, and Missus would have to suffer for this. Here she was, a prefect, for fucks’ sake, and she was feeling like the roles were reversed. Meantime, Karen Eis prepared herself for her caning. Then, as if she’d done this many times before ,rot her socks, Grizzle Guts thought to herself, she watched Missus slowly and lazily run the cane up and down The Ice Maiden’s neat little bottom, in order to gauge the angles. Fuck, thought Grizzle Guts, another gesture of a true connoisseur of the cane. Grizzle Guts saw The Ice Maiden wince slightly at the touch, despite herself.
Swishhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
Karen Eis exhaled almost inaudibly, and her pert little bottom moved forward slightly. Clearly, thought Grizzle Guts, it had been a perfect, ‘stroke one,’ of a caning, where the first real sizzler comes in hard, and brings you, if you’re not careful, yeeeeeeeing up onto your toes. Bad form, that was, of course. On the bed, Grizelda Gutteridge shivered with what was almost anticipation. She’d almost felt that one herself.
“One, thank you, Ma’am,” said The Ice Maiden, politely.
Swishhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
“Uhh,” exhaled Karen Eis, with what was quite definitely a gasp.
Damnation and double damnation, thought Grizzle Guts, because that was more than she normally got out of The Ice Maiden on stroke two.
“Two, thank you, Ma’am,” said The Ice Maiden.
Swishhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
“Ohhhh!” gasped Karen Eis, and with a real gasp of pain this time.
Factorial damnation, thought Grizzle Guts on the bed. Suddenly, she realised that she was quite definitely damp between her legs. She crossed her legs rapidly, trying very hard not to come to terms with what she was unaccountably feeling, ‘down there,’ where she was sure she shouldn’t.
“Three, Ma’am,” said The Ice Maiden, wiggling her bare bottom provocatively, an action which didn’t help Grizzle Guts’ demeanour in the slightest.
“Three, thank you, Ma’am,” said The Ice Maiden.
Grizelda Gutteridge shivered again as she tried desperately to ignore an urgent desire to touch herself between her legs. What the hell was going on, she wanted to know?
Swishhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
“Oh… oh… Ma’am, it stings so!” Karen Eis ground out.
Now Grizzle Guts was really cross. Missus was going to have to pay for this. The Ice Maiden had, she was certain, never said that to her during any of her countless canings.
“Four, Ma’am,” said The Ice Maiden, “thank you, Ma’am… and thank you for caning me so well, too. I know that I’m SUCH a naughty little girl, and that I deserved every stroke of your punishment.”
Grizzle Guts seethed inside. It was all too bad. Worse, in fact, than she had first feared.
“You may now rise,” Missus said, coldly, to The Ice Maiden, “you naughty little girl, and adjust your clothes. There will be no rubbing, of course, and should there be ANY violation of that at all, then there will be more whacks awarded.”
Grizelda Gutteridge closed her eyes. Heaven help Missus’ own fags next year, she thought to herself. She opened her eyes again, and saw that Brenda Smith was standing in front of her, politely offering her the cane. Their eyes held, and for a fleeting instant, Grizzle Guts saw an odd expression of sadness. She took hold of the cane. Immediately she began to feel better. At the same instant, Missus switched, quite obviously. She was, in a second, simply a naughty little lower 6th form schoolgirl again.
Grizzle Guts swallowed twice to try to clear her head. She stood up and held the cane under Missus’ chin. “I suppose you think I should be impressed with that little performance?” she demanded. She saw Missus look wistfully at the cane.
“No, Ma’am,” Brenda Smith replied, “I know that I’m just a naughty little lower 6th form girl who needs lots and lots of sound punishment from her fagmistress.”
Grizzle Guts smiled grimly, “Too damn right, bitch,” she said, “and now, bitch, now, it’s your turn. Six of the best for you. And The Ice Maiden can watch you whilst you get it, too.”
Missus shrugged slightly, as if she’d been expecting this to happen. “Yes, Ma’am,” she said, and took two steps across the room to where Karen Eis was standing with both hands on her bottom, obviously trying very hard not to fall into the temptation of rubbing it.
Grizzle Guts always enjoyed caning Missus in front of The Ice Maiden. She would, she thought, as always, try to make it a really humiliating caning. Of course, she thought, happily, it was always highly humiliating for a lower 6th form girl to have to accept the cane on the bare bottom, whilst standing in front of a girl three years younger than herself, but then, of course, half the value of a good caning was all the humiliation which went with it.
She swished the cane a few times through the empty air, and then instructed Missus to bend over. Missus did so. Grizzle Guts lifted Missus’ skirt and draped it over her back. “Look into her eyes, Eis,” she said, knowing that this would have high humiliation value. Then she roughly pulled her knickers down to her knees. Missus had, she thought, bitterly, all over again, a really very caneable bottom, and one which was simply Asking For It. She smiled. As it Asked For It so much, it was only right that it Got It so often. Obviously, it was really Missus’ own stupid fault that she was caned so frequently. Then she proceeded to beat Brenda Smith.
Swishhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
Grizzle Guts watched the offered bottom flinch, but, otherwise, silence.
“One Ma’am,” was the only response.
She saw The Ice Maiden inspecting Missus very closely, as ordered, and with that slight superior smirk, the really knowing, annoying, and humiliating smile which you always give someone when you are allowed to watch them being caned, whilst knowing that you yourself won’t be in for it yourself afterwards.
Swishhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
Another flinch. “Two, Ma’am,” said Missus, flatly.
Swishhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
“Ahhhh!” said Missus, involuntarily.
Now Grizzle Guts began to feel much better.
“Three, Ma’am,” said Missus.
Grizelda Gutteridge decided to place the remaining three whacks over the top of the three previous ones, a trick which she frequently used on really difficult cases, plus Brenda Smith, where she felt that really severe punishment was in order. The whacks themselves weren’t any harder, but the results hurt much more, of course.
Swishhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
“AHHHHHHH!!” gasped Missus, turning her head up towards her, and giving her the satisfaction of seeing Brenda Smith’s face in real pain.“Oh, Ma’am… four Ma’am,” she said, obviously knowing full well in her discomfort that both of the remaining whacks would also be over the top of previous ones.
Swishhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
“Uhhhhhh… uhhhhhh!” gasped Brenda Smith, her bottom wiggling now to try to avoid the further whack which it knew it couldn’t.“Five… oh… five, Ma’am.” she said, with what almost sounded like a sob.
Swishhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
“OW!… OW!… OW!… owwwwwww!” gasped Missus, finally.“Six, Ma’am… oh! Yes, six of your very best, Ma’am,” she went on, “thank you, Ma’am.”
Grizelda Gutteridge smiled. “And that, girl,” she said, coldly, “is an example of what I call a good caning.” She reached over to the wall and checked Brenda Smith’s charge-sheet. Irritatingly, it was empty. Then she remembered that she’d only caned Missus the previous afternoon for her Welcome Back Whacking, a style of punishment which all fags always received on the first day of any term in one guise or another. She’d cleared her charge sheet then. Well, anyway, she thought, that little detail was easily resolved.
“The punishment that you’ve just received is to cover the offence of enjoying caning my junior fag just now,” she announced.
“Yes, Ma’am,” replied Missus, with obvious difficulty, “thank you Ma’am,” before going on, “and thank you for making it so hard, Ma’am… I know that I shouldn’t have enjoyed caning The Ice Maiden so much. It was really naughty of me.”
Grizelda Gutteridge was finally enraged at this blatant piece of provocation, and promptly added another three whacks onto Missus’ charge sheet for incitement. She could have those another time, though, she thought.
Grizzle Guts turned to The Ice Maiden. “Get out, bad girl,” she snapped, “and report back this afternoon at the usual time.” The Ice Maiden quickly got. Then she turned to Missus, “You can get my breakfast on your own, this morning, bitch,” she said, “and if you’re late for your own breakfast… then that’s too bad.”
Missus looked at her, without expression, as she usually did when her fagmistress treated her really badly, which was usually, of course. “Yes, Ma’am,” she said, quietly.
Grizzle Guts had never worked out how Missus managed to stay so placid, despite the intense provocation which she routinely applied. Of course, she was always itching to be able to add further punishment for the righteously indignant charge against Missus of, ‘talking back to fagmistress,’ but she’d never been able to do so. That, of course, was, in itself, further incitement, and Missus would, she thought, savagely, suffer further in due course as a result.
A few doors down the corridor, in Sammy Terrier’s study, David Shagton sighed slightly to himself. It was, as happened on so many occasions, one of her 'naturist mornings', as she so politely termed them, and thus, he suspected, slightly differently from how a number of other girl prefects viewed them. It was certainly hell for him, however. Sammy Terrier had a wonderful body and he always thrilled to it. The rules of engagement were, that if either she, or her junior fag Kelly Morgan, caught him peeking at anything he shouldn’t, then he was awarded the cane. The, ‘bill of fare,’ was straightforward enough… it was simply one whack for a tit peek, two whacks for a bum peek and three whacks for a cunt peek. He gritted his teeth. He’d already had seven whacks awarded to him, and he hadn’t finished preparing her breakfast yet.
He sighed again. He knew perfectly well that when he brought her breakfast tray across to her he’d end up with either one or three more whacks on his charge sheet, depending on whether he peeked at her tits or her cunt as he did so. He tried manfully to think about higher things. He didn’t expect it to work for very long. It never did. Sammy Terrier knew his psyche far too well for that, damn her cunt. But he’d try it, anyway. So he thought about the good news, which was, from his perspective, the news from the previous evening.
He was really looking forward to the opportunity of dishing out a whole lot of beatings during his caning classes, and, he hoped, the chance to unfairly settle a few scores, depending on who was unlucky enough to end up in his particular class. He had no idea who the other classes were going to be run by, of course. Sammy Terrier would, he expected, be on the list.
A vision of loveliness floated past, “Not fantasising over my bottom again, are we David?” murmured Sammy Terrier, teasingly, as she walked past his field of vision.
“No, Ma’am, I’m not,” he replied, with perfect sincerity. In fact, at that moment, he’d been fantasising about her cunt. He kept his eyes cast down firmly to the floor, in a doomed attempt to avoid disrespectfully visually assaulting his fagmistress’s person, at least for the next couple of minutes until he took her breakfast tray to her.
Eventually his period of delicious purgatory ended. Mentally, he counted up his failures. Totting up totty, one might say. He’d ended up, he reckoned, with eleven new whacks on his charge sheet.
“Dismissed, David. Kelly will finish up in here for now,” said Sammy Terrier, finally, with that lilt in her voice which he found so irresistible, “and see you again at 4pm.” She stroked his cheek a gesture which, as always, made his heart jump, even as his eyes drifted downwards despite his every effort to stop them.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he replied, and exited the room with a measure of relief.
“Oh,” said Sammy Terrier, “another more whack for a final tit peek, I think…” as the door closed.
He walked down the long, dark, corridor, remembering that he was now owed a dozen whacks from Sammy Terrier’s favourite punishment cane, and all for no better reason than being continually caught looking her naughty parts. He shook his head, and wondered how she’d listed all the offences on his charge sheet? Probably, he thought, it would be the global offence of, ‘looking inappropriately at fagmistress’s person.’ Guilty as charged, of course. He was also slightly concerned that his mind clearly felt that he deserved all this punishment, and that it was rather looking forward to the prospect.
He walked down to The Canteen. Before entering, he checked carefully to see who was Canteen Supervisor that morning, just in case it was either Regular Beating or Sileas Crabbe, in which case it would have been a, ‘No Talking,’ morning. It wasn’t. In fact, the board was blank, which was, he thought, odd, because someone had to be on duty.
He lined up in the line up, or, as the English say, queued in the queue, for breakfast. He saw Sylvie on duty. A very pretty girl she was too, he noticed, and not for the first time, either. She was on the paid staff. She smiled at him engagingly. He had just reached the hot food counter before he was joined by Brenda Smith, who neatly, ‘pushed in,’ into the queue beside him, and ignoring all the pointed mutters and even more poisonous looks of annoyance and irritation from those behind him.
“Hi, honey,” she breathed, with a wide smile on her face, as she placed a peck on his cheek, the most that was allowed in public.
Obviously, he thought, something had gone well, and unusually so, because things didn’t usually go well for Brenda in the mornings, especially when one had Grizelda Gutteridge to report to every morning. He was just helping himself to a nice unhealthy selection of fried items, all of which would be bad for him in later years.
“So what’s the good news, lover?” he said, selecting another large slice of fried bacon which looked as if it had his name written across it.
Brenda Smith grinned again. “I got to cane Karen Eis this morning,” she said.
He started with shock. He turned abruptly to face her, and promptly made his big mistake. The plate of hot, fried, food was well greased, and it slid straight out of his fingers. It smashed, noisily and convincingly, on the floor, and promptly broke loudly into several pieces. There was an immediate dead silence whilst everyone in the vicinity contemplated his breakfast lying all over a wide area of floor. He blushed furiously, grabbed a spare plate, and at once got down onto his hands and knees to begin the grizzly tasks of reclaiming his vitals.
He’d got as far as the fried tomatoes when he became aware that there was a shapely pair of Lady’s legs standing in front of him. Fuck, he thought to himself, knowing it must surely be the Canteen Supervisor, which indeed it was. He kept his eyes down to the floor and cringed inwardly. He didn’t immediately recognise the feet, or the legs.
“Well, well, well,” said a stern, female voice, which was strange but also somehow familiar to him. It was clearly highly amused, but at the same time equally clearly full of authority. “If it isn’t young Master Shagton,” it said, “up to his old tricks as usual. Look up at me, bad boy.”
Slowly, wonderingly, he raised his eyes upwards, past a pair of legs which were shockingly adorned in black fishnet tights, past a skirt which was impossibly short to be that of a schoolteacher, past a pair of tits which gave David palpitations even as he looked past them, and finally into a face which he knew.
“So, boy,” said the voice, “perhaps you’d like to introduce me to everyone here, bearing in mind that I won’t be officially introduced to the school at large until morning assembly in a few minutes time?”
He sighed. He spoke slowly to the assembled crowd. “Yes, Ma’am,” he replied, loudly, “This is Dr Fiona Allbright, BA, BSc, MSc, PhD.”
Dr Allbright continued smoothly, “And what is my nickname, boy?” she demanded.
He ground out, “Fifi, Ma’am.” Giggles.
Then. “And what do I teach, boy?” she asked.
He swallowed. “Physics, Ma’am,” he confirmed.
“Excellent,” Fifi went on, “and obviously I shall have to teach you a few things about vectors, coefficients of friction, projectiles, latent heat, elasticity, and a number of other things that you currently haven’t considered before carelessly throwing a plate of cooked breakfast onto the floor.”
A sigh.
“Shagger,” she continued, “as you know, I have been waiting for a long time to cane your bare bottom for you. You must clearly have been wanting it from me very badly, otherwise you wouldn’t have done such a stupid thing. So I’m very happy to oblige you. How many whacks do you think you deserve, bad boy?”
David always loathed this particular question. Unfortunately, at St Stricktlands School, teachers and prefects were always asking it from pupils. It put the onus of actually asking for an appropriate amount back onto the victim. Of course if you asked for what the questioner felt was too less a punishment, you not only got the higher amount that the punisher had thought of, but also an additional punishment for asking for too lenient a thrashing. Naturally, if you asked for an amount higher than they had thought of, you still got the higher figure anyway. It was a one-way bet towards more caning. Perfect, in fact, for St Stricktlands School. And having to perform this grizzly exercise in public made it worse still. David considered carefully. He sighed.
“I think that I deserve three whacks, please, Ma’am for breaking a plate, property of the School, Ma’am, and a further three whacks for downright carelessness on my part, Ma’am.”
Slight titters from some of the girls present. David was sure he heard some muffled comments along the lines of, ‘…doesn’t half enjoy a bit of strict and stern with the Ladies, you know…’ However, he kept his head bowed respectfully down to the floor, waiting for the axe to fall.
Dr Allbright considered. The axe fell. “Well, boy,” she said, “you must seriously enjoy being caned, because I had intended only to give you four whacks. That was two whacks for the plate and two for carelessness.” Then she held his chin, “Look up at me again, boy,” she said.
He looked up at her again. She towered over him, although ordinarily she was not much taller than he was. OMG, he thought, what a fuck she would be. The broad outline of her cunt, now only inches away from his face, and clearly visible just above the top of her microskirt, was teasingly close. He didn’t think she was wearing any knickers, either. Fuck your cunt for you, Ma’am, he thought to himself, his penis already twitching inside his Knackerpants at the thought. The coarse, teasing, Velcro material abrasing against his penis ably assisted the sexual stimulus, as it always did, and he was fully erect in a matter of seconds.
Dr Allbright continued, “And the additional two whacks you will receive in order to make up the six you proposed will, of course, be for the offence of thinking, ‘fuck your cunt’, just then.”
He gasped, slightly. So did several of the other boys present. How, he wanted to know, did these bloody Dominant Ladies all seem to know exactly what he was thinking? The Iced Diamond, alias Mrs Jeanette Diamond, and recently a supply teacher at the School, and also his friend John Diamond’s mother, was exactly the same. So, as well, was his own mother. She had always seemed to know what dirty thoughts were going around his brain.
“Unless you wish to deny it?” she demanded.
He shook his head. Guilty as charged.
“Get up, then, bad boy,” said Dr Allbright, with a knowing snigger, “and prepare yourself for the thrashing you’ve been deserving for a long, long time.”
He stood up and prepared himself. It was straightforward enough, even in public, which at St Stricktlands School was usually the case anyway. Knackerpants down, tuck in shirt, so that the cane was not impeded in any way by clothing of any description, turn around facing away from whoever was wielding the cane, and bend down nice and tight.
As he did all these things, he wondered, not for the first time, whether he would have been anything different genetically had Fifi married his father instead of Helen Whapshott. His mum had told him that she, Fiona Allbright, and his father had enjoyed a ménage a trios at college. David decided that on balance it probably wouldn’t have made a great deal of difference to his personal DNA whichever of the two Ladies had taken his father’s hand in marriage. Either way around, David thought, he would still have frequently ended up in his present position of being caned on a regular basis by a strict mother who seemed to know every perverted thought that went through his head, especially the really dirty ones.
The swish of the cane brought his thoughts back to the present.
Swishhhhhhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
He gritted his teeth. It was bad form to say anything after stroke one, despite the provocation. It was, as Fifi had said, his first caning at her hands, and my golly she was GOOD.
“One, Ma’am,” he said, respectfully.
Swishhhhhhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
“Oh,” he said, involuntarily, at the sudden sting, “two, Ma’am.”
Swishhhhhhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
“Oww!” he said, still crying to clench his teeth, with increasing lack of success, “three, Ma’am.”
Swishhhhhhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
“Ahhhh!” he gasped, his eyes screwed tight at the sting of the cane, “four, Ma’am.”
“And now,” she said, “the extra two strokes for thinking impure thoughts about my person, you BAD boy.”
Swishhhhhhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
Swishhhhhhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
“AHHHHHH!!!” he gasped, loudly, as both whacks landed on the same spot on his long suffering bottom, “five and six, Ma’am! Thank you for punishing me, Ma’am, I know I deserved it.”
“Let that be a lesson to you, Shagger,” said Dr Allbright, and sniffed, “Your father is just the same, of course. Butterfingers,” she said, darkly, “I’m always having to cane him, for similar carelessness.”
Slight gasps from around the room at this highly personal and totally unexpected revelation.
Then she added, “Of course, for lots of other reasons as well, but there we are.” Ignoring all the renewed gasps from the assembled boys and girls. “Now, bad boy,” she said, “get back down on your hands and knees where you belong and tidy up the rest of the mess you’ve made! You can keep what food is useable, throw the rest away and make good the deficit. And do hurry up, Shagger, you’ve caused QUITE enough delay to other people as it is. Look sharp!”
He dropped to his knees immediately. One just didn’t argue with Dominant Ladies with canes, of which there were a large number at St Stricktlands School. One didn’t argue with anyone with a cane, in the first place, of course.
He sorted out his Knackerpants and somehow made himself presentable. Finally, he located the second tomato. It wasn’t useable; Fifi had stepped on it. He was only grateful that she hadn’t insisted he lick her shoe clean, or some such thing. David had a suspicion that, as a former professional dominatrix, Fifi would have been well used to ordering men into doing such things. Sighing, he stood up and helped himself to the last tomato in the grill pan, a fairly sorry looking specimen, at that. He walked over to where Brenda Smith was seated and sat down next to her. He winced, as his caned bottom touched the hard wooden bench. The benches were all specially made, he was certain, to be as uncomfortable as possible to a caned bottom, which was, for St Stricktlands School pupils, usually, of course.
Brenda Smith looked at him with some amusement. “I rather feel the good Lady has a point,” she suggested.
He looked at her, blankly.
She went on, “Why ever did you even have to suggest that she apply for the teaching post anyway, you little idiot?”
David flushed. It was true enough. He had indeed suggested it.
“Exactly,” said Missus, answering her own question, “so you have only yourself to blame when she gets the job and then promptly canes you, in public, on the first full day of term.”
He looked at her. Brenda Smith was so incredibly fuckable, especially when she was cross, or aroused, or both. He loved her dearly. “I love you,” he said.
Brenda Smith winked at him. “Fuck you, too, Davy,” she replied.
David glanced around him. The natives were becoming restless. It was time to leave for morning assembly, and they certainly didn’t want to run the risk of being, ‘last out.’ Whoever claimed that prize also gained a caning for the privilege. David and Brenda stacked their plates tidily back in the racks. Anyone who left so much as a crumb on the table after their meal would know all about it, well, their bottoms would, anyway.
Hand in hand, they started the long walk to the main assembly hall. Susan Sweet, the Headmaster’s secretary, waylaid them en route. “Hi, again, Shagger,” she said, “and Hi Missus, welcome back to another term of stimulating and diligent tuition and learning,” obviously enjoying the looks of disbelief which accompanied this suggestion. “Will you stop by my office after assembly,” she went on, “and you can collect your canes for today.”
David and Brenda looked at each other. “Canes, Ma’am?” he queried, confused.
“Today, Ma’am?” asked Missus.
The SS smiled. “Yes, today. The first caning classes will be conducted during teaching channel 3, which is classes E and H on the Tuesday rota. 12.30pm for half an hour before lunch, in other words, and common on all schedules throughout the whole 6th form. They will replace General Studies for the next four weeks.” She giggled slightly. “And you may as well have the enjoyment of wielding your canes for the whole morning. Drop them back into my office at lunchtime please. Same arrangements for each Tuesday.” She tittered, “Have fun, kiddies,” she said, stroking his cheek, and promptly vanishing down another corridor before they could speak further.
“We surely will,” he murmured as they continued on their way to morning assembly.
“You are, Davy,” muttered Brenda, “going to have trouble with that one, you know?”
He suspected that she was quite right. The cheek stroking was fairly indicative of a not-so-hidden agenda, after all, and it wasn’t the first such, either.
David and Brenda took their seats in morning assembly. They dozed, along with everyone else, until the time came for The Headmaster to stand up and make his announcements for the new term.
“A very warm welcome back,” said Iain Terrence Hayter, “to the seats of learning.” There were a few muffled and subdued snorts at this. The Interrogator went on, “You may have noticed we have a new member of staff here today.” He smiled at this point, “Some of you may already have been informally introduced to her in The Canteen.” There were some guffaws at this, and David thought he heard several comments along the lines of, ‘…gave Shagger six…’ and, ‘…caned him HARD…’ and then The Headmaster’s voice became apparent again, “….me the greatest pleasure to welcome Dr Fiona Allbright, BA, BSc, MSc, PhD, to St Stricktlands School. Dr Allbright will be teaching physics, to replace Alice Tetsworth who we all said goodbye to at the end of last term when she left us to take up her new post as head of physics at St Brutus’ School.” He paused, significantly. “I should like to take the opportunity of cordially advising you all that Dr Allbright is an absolute expert at the traditional form of discipline at which this school excels.”
Inevitably there was total silence at this.
The Headmaster continued with other, more routine notices, most of which were, David noted, the usual dire threats about general conduct and what would happen in the event of any infractions. He sighed. Infractions of anything at all at St Stricktlands School always resulted in the punishment cane, of course, so there was nothing much new there. Then came the matter of much more interest, at least to the lower 6th form.
“Finally,” said Iain Terrence Hayter, “and for the principal benefit of the present lower 6th form, I can now confirm the operation of this year’s caning classes. They will be held Tuesdays, starting today, and running for the next three weeks, in the General Studies slot, which, for those of you who still aren’t awake, is at 12.30pm today. I will now advise the list of those prefects who will be conducting the classes: One, Samantha Terrier…”
David heard various snippets from all around him, “It WOULD have to be…” and, “….bloody Terror Twins…”
The Headmaster continued smoothly, “…Two, Patricia Terrier…" Which provoked, “I hope I get Sammy…” David grinned slightly. It was clear that a male someone else fancied the pants off Sammy Terrier. The list continued, “…Three, Walter Torcher…” giggle, “Oo… I want some Water Torture.” A girl, that one, David thought, “…Four, Jennifer Torcher…” male sniggers, “Genitorture for me…” “…Five, Grizelda Gutteridge…” another boy, in fear, “…no, no…” it sounded like, plus, “…not Grizzle Guts… anything but…” “…Six, Katherine New…” “….Cane You?” and, “She can cane me anytime she…” “…Seven, Amanda Holdall…” Male voices, “OMG Randy,” and, “I want you, Mandy, I want you…” He grinned again. Randy Mandy’s reputation was well known, after all, “…Eight, Kirstin Eis…” “…fuck the slut…” and, “…Sex Slut of St Stricktlands…” And, “…The Ice Queen…” “…Nine, Raymond Lee…” Another girl’s voice, “Oo… Relay for me…” and, “…me as well, I hope?” breathed another girl, wistfully, “…And ten, Antony Wright…” “….definitely Mr Right,” he heard, with an accompanying female snigger, “…which makes a total of ten classes,” said The Interrogator, “each of a dozen pupils. The actual class allocations will be made public later this morning.”
David frowned. That wasn’t enough. Then he got it. Of course, he and Brenda would make up the difference. Twelve caning classes of a dozen each made up the round gross of pupils in the lower 6th form.
He just caught The Interrogator’s next words, “…addition to the above list of upper 6th form prefects… this year’s caning classes will be complemented by the addition of David Shagton and Brenda Smith, currently in the lower 6th form.”
Now there were loud gasps of evident disbelief from all over the hall. David smiled slightly at the new snippets, “You’re KIDDING…” he heard, “…bloody Shagger…” “…somehow or other...” “…those two little…” “…how the FUCK…” “...true about learning caning…” “…told you SO,” “…idiot boy…” “…oo, good and hard please, Missus…”
The Interrogator was, of course, entirely unfazed. “For those of you present who feel they may have a soft option by being rostered into, well, Shagger and Missus’ classes,” he went on, “I should add that no lesser authority than Mr Reginald Beesting has personally inspected their caning techniques and confirmed that it is absolutely first class in every respect. That is all. Dismissed.”
David and Brenda made their way together out of the school hall. He noticed that there was a distinct space between them and everyone else. Nobody in the lower years was prepared to hassle them too closely for fear of annoying them. He thought that promotion into the upper 6th form next year was going to be like going from hell to heaven.
They called, briefly, into Sue Sweet’s office. She grinned widely, and handed them two medium length, standard three foot canes. “I know you probably prefer longer than these,” she said, and giggled, “as do we all, of course. However for beginners classes you must use something fairly straightforward.”
She looked at David, casually, “Oh, by the way, Shagger,” she said, “I’d like our first... err… session in a week’s time, if you please. 8pm on the Wednesday evening. You won’t enjoy it.”
David swallowed. He hadn’t had the opportunity to speak to Brenda about all this.
They walked to their first class, French, with their canes stuck through their belts, prefects style. Brenda sighed. “OK, lover,” she said, “exactly which first session with The SS are we talking about here?”
David flushed, and looked hard at the floor.
Brenda giggled. “Has she got you for German tuition again, honey?” she asked, “I had wondered about that gentle stroke on the cheek back there.”
David swallowed. “Yes, she has, Bren,” he confirmed, “but it only happened yesterday afternoon…”
Brenda broke in, “…and it sort of slipped your mind to tell me over breakfast, Davy?” she asked.
He blushed. “It was sort of Dr Allbright’s impromptu caning, you see, honey,” he said, “it went right out of my mind.”
Brenda Smith sniggered. “The same as it went right out of your hand, Davy,” she replied, with obvious amusement.
He thought he’d best try and explain further. “It was a quid pro quo, you see, honey, for Mitches And Ritches fagging placements next term. I told you what I was going to try for, if the occasion arose, and, well, the offer came up. Except the payback is that I get one session a month with Sue Sweet, at her, err… pleasure.”
Brenda sighed. “It almost certainly will be just that for her, you BAD little boy,” she said. Then, darkly, “I just hope those two little cunts are worth it all, Davy.”
First lesson that morning was French. It was a class which they both shared together. Mark Guest, otherwise known as Gestapo Mark, or the Gestapo Marker, viewed them with obvious enthusiasm and a wide smile as they entered the room. “Ah, Shagger and Missus,” he said, as soon as he saw them, “the stars of the show.” Then he turned to the class, “All rise, cretins,” he said, “don’t you remember ANYTHING about school protocol?”
David and Brenda both started. It was protocol, of course, for a class to stand whenever a teacher or a prefect entered the room. And, of course, he remembered, belatedly, only prefects wielded canes. Hence, he thought happily, they’d each got a day ticket, well, a half day ticket anyway, to prefecthood.
The class stood politely to attention. David glanced around the room in order to gauge how many of the class were quietly seething to themselves at being ordered to stand up for them. Out of the twenty two other pupils present, it was, he thought, give or take none at all, approximately twenty two who were well and truly seething. He could see that easily from all the foul looks cast in his direction.
“OK, kiddies,” said Mark Guest, “you can sit down now.” Then, “Make the most of the facility, whilst you still can.” He smiled at his own witty joke. The class smiled, dutifully. Brenda slid onto a vacant bench on the front row. David attempted to do the same, but was stopped by a shake of the head from the Gestapo Marker. David wondered what he wanted? Surely, he thought, it wasn’t likely that he was going to get a caning, not today, at least?
Gestapo Mark surveyed the class. He looked at the class, but was clearly speaking to David, “Anyone in this class you can think of who’s in especial need of a good caning on this bright morning, Shagger?” he asked. Several gasps from various quarters. David started slightly and then looked around the room at all the potential candidates.
Mark Guest murmured, “I’m only sorry that I can’t oblige you with The Green Goddess, but of course she’s not in this class.”
Strained laughter. It was well known that David and Shirley Greene used not to get along terribly well. It was much less well known that on the final day of the previous term, David and Shirley Greene had patched things up, and clearly this hadn’t got back to Gestapo Mark just yet. Or rather, he remembered, things had been patched up for them by Amanda Holdall, Shirley Greene’s fagmistress. Randy Mandy had instigated a quarter hour of mutual face-slapping, followed by a rather choice facesitting session. Accordingly he now rather liked Shirley Greene, and more especially Shirley Greene’s bottom. David knew that he rather enjoyed Ladies’ bottoms in his face at any time.
He ran his eyes along those of the girls’, most of which avoided his. One pair of eyes didn’t. It was one of the two Belles of St Stricktlands, in this case Isobelle Tucker, known, inevitably as Tucker The Fucker. He knew that she knew of a certainty that she was suddenly in Big Trouble, as happened on occasion and frequently suddenly at St Stricktlands School, and that she also knew that there was no way of avoiding it. He knew perfectly well that at this moment Tucker The Fucker would be suffering a sinking heart, knowing today was suddenly and unexpectedly going to be payback time. It was, he thought, painfully obvious to her that her immediate future would obviously be painful.
He smiled. “Tucker The Fucker, Sir,” he said, quietly.
Relaxation and relief from twenty one other bodies in the room. “Any particular reason, Shagger?” asked Mark Guest, in that relaxed tone of voice of one who isn’t especially interested in the question or, indeed, its answer.
David smiled. “Oh, just the usual, Sir,” he replied, “frequently, and most unfairly, getting me caned for no particular good reason other than she can, both the Belles do that, of course, but Hunt The Cunt isn’t in this class. I’ve, well, lost count of the number of unwarranted canings I’ve suffered via the two Belles, but it’s a LOT, Sir. A little retribution would be good for her.” He paused. “Well, it would be good for me, anyway.”
Isobelle Tucker said, just audibly, “Fuck you, Shagger,” which was, David thought, a very, very silly thing to say, and something that he would be more than happy to make her regret very shortly. David sighed.
“I think not, my dear Isobelle,” he said, mildly, “I was going to suggest two whacks, but perhaps I should double that for vulgarity, don’t you agree, Sir?”
Gestapo Mark grinned and nodded. “Surely, Shagger,” he said, “be my Guest.”
The class dutifully tittered. David took the cane from his belt, and flexed it firmly, a gesture which made quite a number of pupils gasp slightly as, no doubt, they imagined it landing on their bare bottoms. “Stand up, bad girl,” he said, sternly, “out to the front of the class with you, skirt and knicks right off, and assume the position, facing the class. Do it NOW, and do it quickly.”
At this, Mark Guest smiled broadly and slipped into the seat next to Brenda in order to watch events.
David smiled, bleakly, “And think yourself lucky, girl,” he continued, didactically, “that this is only a three footer. It would be a whole lot more painful to have a four footer used on that neat little bottom of yours.” More titters from the class.
Isobelle Tucker walked slowly out to the front of the class with, David thought, the look of someone in hell, a position which wasn’t too far off the truth. He gestured to her with the tip of the cane. She sighed slightly, removed her skirt, then her knickers, and placed them tidily on Gestapo Mark’s desk. Then she bent down, smiling that smile of hopeless humiliation reserved for public canees the world over as she did so.
David ran the cane gently up and down her bare bottom as he moved forwards and outwards slightly to get the best possible caning position. It flinched at his touch.
Swishhhhhhhhhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
It was, he considered, an excellent, ‘stroke one’. Tucker the Fucker had clearly not been expecting it to be so hard, as she jumped up slightly before rapidly regaining control of herself, and quickly bending down again.
Silence.
David walked around to her front and looked at her. Her eyes were tight shut in obvious silent pain.
“One, Sir,” she said, flatly.
Perfect, he thought. He returned to the business end of her bottom.
Swishhhhhhhhhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
“Oh!” said Isobelle Tucker, involuntarily, “two, Sir.”
“I think,” said David, deliberately, “that it would be nice for the class to see the results of this caning. Turn around, girl, and show the class your bare bottom.”
Mark Guest said, cheerfully, “A pity I can do lip reading quite well, isn’t it, Hunt? That was, ‘fuck you Shagger,’ again. You just don’t learn, do you girl? Another two whacks for her, Shagger?”
David grinned and nodded at the Gestapo Marker, who seemed, somehow, now to have his arm around Brenda, who wasn’t resisting. “Surely, Sir,” said David, happily, “six of the best it is for the little hussy.”
Tucker The Fucker turned around, eyeing him with obvious hatred as she did so, and presented her caned bottom to the class for their delectation and delight.
Swishhhhhhhhhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
“Ow! Sir!” she gasped slightly, “three, Sir.”
Swishhhhhhhhhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
“Ouch… ouch… it stings, Sir,” she said, “oh, four, Sir.”
Gestapo Mark looked pleased. “That is, girl, the general idea of a caning,” he murmured, now holding Brenda very closely indeed.
Swishhhhhhhhhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
“Ah! Ah! Ahhh,” she gasped, “five, Sir….five.”
David looked at Mark Guest again. Now Brenda was resting her head on his shoulders. Buddies, it seemed. He wondered if Gestapo Mark would be offering her any, ‘out of school,’ tuition at all in the future?
Swishhhhhhhhhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
“Oooooooooooo! Oh, six, Sir,” she moaned, “six….six.” Then, knowing what she had to say next, she said, coldly, as if hating every word of it, which undoubtedly was exactly the case, she added, “thank you for caning my bare bottom, Sir, I know I deserved it for all those unfair canings I got you.”
Mark Guest stood up. He rummaged through his jacket pockets, and offered David a marker pen. “Shagger,” he said, “perhaps you’d like to apply the first ever, ‘DS,’ marque to a caned bottom?”
Various giggles and guffaws at this additional public humiliation. Mark Guest wasn’t called The Gestapo Marker just because of his name. The, ‘MG, ¹’ mark - or marque - was well known. David smiled even more broadly and wrote his initials onto Isobelle Tucker’s bare bottom, feeling her wince as he did so.
“An excellent display, Shagger,” said Gestapo Mark, “trés bon, in fact. Now, back to your seat, bad girl.” He frowned. “Oh, and a warning to you, Tucker,” he said, “you may be thinking about revenge, since there are only three more caning classes after this one today, but, hey, who knows whether Terrence will decide to have a refresher course later in the term, in which case Shagger gets the prefect's cane again all morning? You have been warned.”
David looked at Isobelle Tucker. From the look she gave him, which would have burned toast at fifty yards, she had indeed obviously been thinking about revenge, and her plans for which would equally obviously now all have to be put on hold, at least for the time being.
The Gestapo Marker paused. “Now that we’ve had our morning’s entertainment,” he said, “I think we should all try and learn some French.”
David slipped into the recently vacated seat next to Brenda, very pleased with the way the morning was turning out.
At morning break, David and Brenda looked at the main school notice board to see the caning class allocation sheets, their victims, in other words. David grinned. It really was his lucky day. For his girls, he’d got both the Belles, plus The Green Goddess and her two little friends Ruth Soham and Janet Nicholas.
He saw Brenda smile, too. For her boys, she’d got the whole of dorm 6W, with the exception of himself, obviously. He figured the invisible hand of The SS here. He remembered proudly how Brenda had caned all of dorm 6W the previous term in a memorable evening and had heard how they had all fallen in love with her as a result. Oh, and it appeared that she’d got CBT as well, her star caning pupil.
He was momentarily distracted by a wail of pure horror from Rick The Prick who had just found out, it seemed, that he’d been allocated to Grizelda Gutteridge.
At 12.40pm that day, Iain Terence Hayter, Headmaster of St Stricktlands School, walked along the corridor where all the designated caning classes were being held that day. Everything seemed to be in order, he thought, and certainly he could hear sounds of strict teaching from various rooms, and sounds of strict caning from others. Very quietly, he slipped into the back of David Shagton’s class in order to listen. Shagger was, he thought, obviously working from first principles. He was, it appeared, describing in detail how to hold a punishment cane correctly with a loose wrist-flip. He listened further as Shagger then went on to explain the absolute importance of the correct stance and standpoint from which to effectively and accurately control a cane stroke. Smiling to himself, The Interrogator slipped out. Shagger obviously knew what he was doing. He walked along the corridor to see how Missus was faring.
Brenda Smith was, it seemed, treating things similarly, but she was using models to illustrate her points. The models were Brian Macey, alias Messy, who was providing the bottom, plus his girlfriend Celia Briony Tew, or, as she was now known, CBT, who was providing the cane. He grinned. It seemed as though Messy wasn’t enjoying himself, although clearly CBT was. It must, The Headmaster had to agree, be more than middling humiliating to be caned by your own girlfriend in a public demonstration. He listened with interest. After each whack, Brenda Smith was pointing out more things to the class about stance and position. Once again, he concluded, she had obviously been taught by an expert.
The Headmaster walked a little further down the corridor and slipped into Grizelda Gutteridge’s class. He was not at all shocked to see she had four very unfortunate, and completely naked, boys bending over at the front. She was describing why six was mathematically a ‘perfect’ number, being the sum of its divisors 1 2 3 and 6. She had just applied a standard six of the best to all four of them, but in different ways, and was pointing out the difference this made to the effectiveness of the punishment. There was a spread display of six single whacks, then two whacks each in three lines, which obviously hurt rather more, and then three whacks each in two lines which did so even more. Finally there was the poor blighter with six whacks all on one spot. Terrence Hayter was glad it wasn’t him, and even more it wasn’t from Grizzle Guts. He knew very well how hard the bitch caned. The class was totally silent and The Headmaster could understand why. They were all worried about who was going to be next, of course.
The Interrogator decided he’d best also check up on the Terror Twins. First he looked in on Sammy Terrier. Then on Patty Terrier. He shook his head. The two Terror Twins really were identical, it was uncanny. He knew there were only two ways to tell them apart, the clean way and the dirty way. However if you couldn’t see either their eyes or their cunts you were snookered. He shook his head and wandered down further to see how the Torcher Twins were faring.
Walter Torcher had a whole row of all six girls in his class lined up. He was running through the basics of how to ensure that the canee was correctly bending down to receive punishment. The six girls were being obliged to stand up and then bend down on command. Tough, of course, on them, The Interrogator thought, since they didn’t know whether they were going to get a caning either now or later, or at all. He grinned. Probably the whole idea, of course.
Then he checked out Walter Torcher’s twin sister, Jennifer. This time he really did smile. It was the mirror image. Genitorture had a whole row of six boys out in front, except that she was also demonstrating how to knock the balls with the cane when a boy wasn’t bending over either quickly enough, or far enough. Needless to say all the unfortunates were totally naked and had their legs spread out for her tender ministrations. Genitorture indeed, he thought.
He slipped out again after watching her for five minutes. Actually he rather fancied a fuck from Jennifer Torcher. It had been at least a term since he’d last had the pleasure, and he rather fancied it again. He’d make a note to see how the land lay during the week.
When he’d reached the end of the classes, he retraced his steps and looked in for a final check on Shagger. Uh huh, he thought, payback time. Shagger had got Isobelle Hunt up at the front of the class, and he could see that she was completely nude. He could see Shagger was grinning broadly as he spoke. The Interrogator sat down at the back to listen as Shagger spoke to the class.
“The next part of today’s schedule will be a demonstration of the noble art of caning. I have selected this random volunteer for no particular good reason, of course…” Giggles and guffaws. Then, “…no particular good reason, of course, other than this little cunt has got me the cane on more numerous occasions than I care to remember, and I am therefore going to cane her pert little bare bottom soundly as a matter of simple revenge. Yes, folks, it’s payback time, bad girl.”
Isobelle Hunt wailed, “Please, PLEASE, Shagger, Sir, I mean, please no, Sir, have mercy on my bum, Sir.”
He saw Shagger smile with obvious malice, “Don’t worry, girl,” said Shagger, “of course I shall show mercy.”
A sigh of heartfelt relief from Hunt The Cunt. The Interrogator felt this to be premature.
“In fact,” Shagger continued, “precisely as much mercy as you two Belles have showed me over the past two terms...” Shagger paused, significantly, “...which means none at all, of course,” he concluded, with obvious relish.
Hunt The Cunt gasped at this, and said, woodenly but desperately, “Couldn’t I just make it up to you next term, Shagger?” and rubbed her cunt, hopefully.
The Headmaster watched Shagger smile. Somehow he doubted that Shagger would be swayed by the offer of cunt.
“You mean you’re offering me some free cunt, bad girl?” he heard Shagger ask, politely.
A quick nod. The Headmaster looked closely at him to see his response.
Shagger simply grinned. “Of course, Isobelle,” he said, “naturally, I’ll be very pleased to fuck you next term, however cunt is something I’m not short of at present, and so it’s hardly a bargaining chip.”
To which there were various gasps from the boys and several giggles from the girls. The Interrogator didn’t doubt it, either. Shagger, he knew, seemed to have acquired a knack of finding cunt even though he was in the lower 6th form and strictly speaking wasn’t entitled to any. However if girl prefects and female teachers volunteered themselves to him, well, he thought, it was more a case of, ‘threw themselves at him,’ there was nothing in the school rules which prevented him from taking up the offers.
The Interrogator watched, transfixed, as Shagger placed a perfect line of weals down Isobelle Hunt’s bare bottom. He listened as Shagger pointed out the practical highest point down the back to apply the cane, and the lowest point below which a bare bottom caning was really a thigh caning. It was always considered, ‘bad form,’ to cane the thighs at St Stricktlands School. The Interrogator prided himself that the School always provided an excellent service to the bare bottoms of pupils which needed punishment, which was all of them of course.
The Headmaster got up to go as Isobelle Hunt was saying to everyone, “Ohhh… Shagger… I mean, Sir… I’m SORRRY… really I am… please don’t cane me any more.”
He just caught Shagger’s reply before the door closed. He was saying, soothingly. “Of course not, girl.” Pause. “Not until next week, anyway,” to which there was another loud wail from Hunt the Cunt, plus a number of guffaws from all the boys in the class, most, if not all of whom had, The Headmaster suspected, been treated to a goodly number of unfair canings at Isobelle Hunt’s instigation over the years.
Iain Terrence Hayter smiled slowly to himself and walked back leisurely towards his own study. Things were, he thought, evidently progressing well on that particular teaching front. He frowned. There was, he knew, always a certain slight risk factor involved in having prefects carry out teaching duties on the lower 6th form, but over the years it had become one of those traditions, and as such, most boys and girls in each upper 6th form year looked forward to the privilege of being chosen to run caning classes on their lower 6th form peers. He smiled slightly. Of course, he’d thrown a slight spanner in the works this year by putting Shagger and Missus into the system. No doubt the move wouldn’t have been popular with some members of the upper 6th form, and was undoubtedly regarded as being, ‘unfair,’ in some quarters, however surely to goodness the upper 6th form, of all people, would be now have realised that the one thing St Stricktlands School guaranteed was a total absence of fairness? Anyway, he thought, he’d been very happy with the way both Shagger and Missus had been conducting their classes today. Naturals, both of them, in the art of caning. He wondered, yet again, at the identities of whoever it was who had taught them both. Shagger had never told anyone for definite, and Reginald Beesting had voiced his suspicion that it was young Richard and Lisa Merryweather. He smiled to himself. On balance, it probably was them, he thought. Big Dick and Fuck-Me-Senseless, after all, both had received The Big One in their own school years, both administered by his predecessor, Professor Wodin Thring, and it would just be like them to cock a snook at the normal and established order of things at the school for reasons of simple empathy with a pair of pupils who’d got the same punishment for exactly the same reason, i.e. fucking each other in the lower 6th form.
The Interrogator reached his office. His secretary wasn’t there. Well, it was nearly lunch time, after all, he thought. He walked through into his study and started to read through the various messages left for his attention. There was a knock on the door. Unusual he thought, because Sue Sweet would normally have voiced him through on the office intercom. “Entarrrrrrrrrrr,” he said, his voice a perfect intonation of the traditional Headmasterly style which brought such quivers into the hearts and minds of naughty pupils over the years. The door opened.
Susan Sweet, The Headmaster’s secretary, walked statuesquely into his study, wearing a short skirted schoolgirl uniform that fitted her very well. It was plainly that of the lower 6th form, and Terence had seen it many times before. He sighed slightly. Obviously she had been a naughty girl in some way and needed to be thrashed for it.
“Well, girl?” he said, sternly, “and what exactly have you done, or not done, this time?”
Sue Sweet looked down at the floor. “Please, Sir,” she said, demurely, “I’m very sorry, Sir, but I seem to have made another error in the fagging placements for next term.”
The Headmaster smiled slightly. It wasn’t the first time, either. Somehow or other Shagger had got placed in with Samantha Terrier last year, the lucky little bastard. The Interrogator would have dearly loved to have been thirty years younger at that moment just to have been Sammy Terrier’s senior fag. He shivered slightly at the thought of it all over again. The two Terror Twins were both exceptionally fuckable, as he well knew, having fucked both of them himself. He sighed.
“Well, girl,” he asked, “who is it this time?”
Sue Sweet kept her eyes cast down. She knew the rules. “Please, Sir,” she replied, “I allocated a new starter called Mitchell Murphy to Shagger for next year, Sir.”
The Headmaster considered. “And?” he said. There didn’t seem to be any problem there. There was, though.
“Please Sir,” The SS continued, “unfortunately, Mitchell Mary Murphy is a girl, Sir.” Silence.
Then he said, “You do realise, don’t you, bad girl, that this is a very serious offence? Especially as this isn’t the first time this had happened? In fact, I think it’s the third time, first with Shagger himself, secondly with giving him Kelly Morgan as junior fag next year and now this. What are you trying to do, give Shagger a bloody harem, for heavens sake?” He sighed. What was done was done. “Do you have anything to say, bad girl?”
Sue Sweet looked up at him, with those adorable big eyes of hers. “I’m very sorry, Sir,” she said, “please cane me good and hard, Sir. I know I deserve it.”
Iain Terence Hayter sighed again, got up and opened his cane cupboard. He selected a really whippy four footer for use on exceptionally naughty senior pupils and flexed it in front of her. She looked down, a slight smile on her face. The Headmaster suspected a hidden quid pro quo here. He knew The SS fancied some more nazi training and interrogation sessions with Shagger and had probably agreed him the fag placement as a private deal between the two of them. He decided to test the theory.
“And Shagger is going to have to pay dearly for this service, I beg your pardon, mistake, I suppose?”
The SS grinned suddenly. They knew each other quite well enough, after all. “Yes, Sir,” she said, “I get a lovely nazi interrogation session with him once a month for the whole of this term, Sir. His balls and his bum will pay VERY dearly, I assure you.”
Terence smiled. “I hope his balls are up to it, then, girl,” he said, “now, turn around, bad girl, and assume the position. I shall beat you soundly for this serious infraction. Six of the very best on the bare bottom.”
The Interrogator bared his secretary’s bottom by lifting her skirt. She wasn’t wearing any knickers, he noted. He proceeded to cane it very hard indeed. She maintained a stoic silence until stroke three, which was really very good, he thought, but then her resolve cracked. Well, he was caning her hard, after all, and she did deserve it, the naughty girl.
SWISHHHHTHWACKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” she gasped, her bottom wiggling in obvious pain, “four, Sir.”
He left it a full two minutes before applying the next whack
SWISHHHHTHWACKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh… Sir… five, Sir,” she said.
Another three minutes went by. Iain Terrence Hayter knew very well that a slow and leisurely caning was far worse for the recipient than a quick one, because it allowed the canee’s nervous system more time to fully savour each whack. Sue Sweet’s delectable bottom wiggled a whole lot more. She knew that she had one more whack left to come, and that it would be a goody.
SWISHHHHTHWACKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK
“Aghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” she gasped, “six, Sir,” she said.
The SS maintained her position without moving a muscle. Good girl, thought The Interrogator. He’d have made her bend down all over again if she’d got up without asking for his permission.
“Thank you for caning me so hard, Sir, I know I deserved it,” she murmured.
The Headmaster ran his hands over his secretary’s bare bottom, feeling the raised red marks.
“Ohhhhhh… Sir,” she moaned.
“Legs apart, girl,” he said. Gently he ran his hand along her cunt and ran up and down it, feeling how wet it was.
“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” she moaned.
Quite clearly, he thought, she had enjoyed her punishment.
The SS spoke, in a very sultry and dusky tone. “Would Sir like to see me again this evening, for the usual?”
The Headmaster considered. She knew perfectly well how randy it made him caning her. Well, he thought, the offer would be very much appreciated, even though he knew it would cost him. “That would be very nice, wicked girl,” he said, “and you can stand up, now, and sort yourself out.”
The SS arose, turned around to look at him, and went on, “Of course, Sir, there will be the usual formality afterwards to cover the facility.”
Terence Hayter thought, ‘fuck,’ to himself. He swallowed. “Afterwards, girl?” he queried, knowing there wasn’t much hope of her changing her mind. “Not before?”
Susan Sweet simply grinned at him and shook her head, teasingly, knowingly.
“Bitch,” said Iain Terrence Hayter, with feeling. He knew the rules as well. All males at the School, and that included him as well, all males period, in fact, suffered Sex Thrashings by the Ladies as punishment for sex. And a Sex Thrashing after sex always hurt far more than one before, as he knew very well, and especially at the hands, and, doubtless, heels of his exceptionally pert and, damn her cunt, fuckable secretary.
“That’s me,” said Susan Sweet, agreeably, before rubbing her cunt, and then mincing out of the room, whilst still holding onto her bottom.
The Headmaster was unable to prevent himself from following her every step. Just before she closed the study door, she turned around and winked at him. Well, he thought, the departmental staff meeting would just have to manage without him this time. Sighing, he returned to his papers. He would, he thought, look in again next week to see how the caning classes were going.
At 1.15pm David Shagton and Brenda Smith knocked respectfully on the door of The Headmaster’s secretary’s office. The overhead green light flickered. David opened the door and let Brenda through first. They were about to hand over their two canes to The SS when, simultaneously, they both became aware that The SS was not quite her normal self. She was obviously dressed in, well, what seemed at first sight to be a St Stricktlands School girl’s uniform. She made a poor attempt at normality.
“You can, ahhhhhhhh,” she said, “pop the canes down on the table over there if you wish,” however as she gestured after the second word, her face contorted with pain. David looked at Brenda. It was obvious to him that, right now, Susan Sweet was just a naughty little girl, and what was more, a naughty little girl who had just been caned.
He spoke into the silence which followed. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Brenda replied, “I think I’m thinking what you’re thinking.”
He smiled, “I think, Bren, that since we’re holding canes and this is patently a naughty little schoolgirl, that she should stand up and show us her bottom.”
Brenda giggled. “I think so too,” she said.
The SS said nothing to deny any of these charges, but she simply stood up, a slight guilty smile on her face, walked around to the other side of her desk, and bent down tightly across it. He lifted up her schoolgirl skirt and draped it across her back. She wasn’t wearing any knickers. Sure enough, there were six red and impressive weal marks, obviously very recently applied.
He considered. “I take it, bad girl,” he said, “that you’ve just told Terrence about Mitches’ fag placement next year?” He ran his fingers over the angry red marks.
Susan Sweet winced at the touch. “Yes, Sir,” she replied, economically.
He thought about this. “I don’t suppose you mentioned Ritches fagging placement?” he asked. Pause.
“No, Sir,” she replied.
“Bad, bad, girl,” he said, winking at Brenda Smith.
“Wicked little girl,” added Brenda, winking back.
“Perhaps you could give her another three?” suggested David, “for putting her personal preferences before her school duties?”
Susan Sweet grimaced. Clearly the caning still hurt. “Please, Sir… no Sir,” she said. This was always a bad move.
“Fair enough,” said David, having been caught out like this often enough, “four, then.” The SS said one word under her breath which he thought sounded suspiciously like, ‘Bastards,’ he thought. “Didn’t quite catch that, girl,” he said, cheerfully.
“Bar stewards, Sir,” said Susan Sweet.
He sighed. “I thought as much. Another whack for vulgarity. Best make it five, Bren.”
A voice from the other end of the room made all three of them jump. “Best make it six, I think.” None of them had noticed The Headmaster standing by his study door, having clearly been listening carefully to this somewhat irregular conversation.
“Please, Sir, what’s the other one for, Sir?” asked The SS with a touch of desperation in her voice.
“Arguing with a prefect,” said The Interrogator, soothingly. “Well, arguing with someone holding a cane, anyway. However I haven’t seen Missus apply the cane close up, and so this really is an ideal opportunity.”
Brenda Smith shrugged. “My pleasure, Sir,” she said.
David walked around to the other side of the desk and sat down comfortably in Susan Sweet’s chair. For some strange reason, there was a large fluffy cushion on it. He looked into Susan Sweet’s eyes and smiled. It was always so delicious to look deeply into a person’s eyes whilst they were being caned. He watched as Brenda Smith then applied six really stinging whacks onto Susan Sweet’s bottom. She gasped and cried out loud after each stroke. Hardly surprising, he thought, after all, she had only just received six of the best.
By stroke three, she eyes were tight shut in silent agony and her upper teeth were set hard up against her lower lips. The mouth opened slightly after each whack. David knew very well what she was doing, having done it himself on countless occasions. She was silently mouthing the word, ‘fuck.’
After stroke six had been applied, David leaned forward and kissed her lips. “Of course I will, bad girl,” he said.
The SS opened her eyes wide and said, “Of course you will, err, what, Sir?” she faltered.
“Fuck you, of course,” he replied, carelessly, “which is what you’ve been saying to me for the past three strokes.”
The SS gasped, but said nothing to deny the accusation.
Jam tomorrow, thought David.
Brenda Smith giggled. “Naughty girl,” she said, “it’s just as well I don’t mind David screwing around, isn’t it?”
The Interrogator said, “An excellent performance, Missus, I am justly proud of the expertise you are clearly going to bring to the school next year in the whole area of school discipline and punishment.”
Brenda veiled her eyes. “Thank you, Sir,” she said.
Terrence Hayter went on. “You can leave the canes here for now,” he said, “however, you may collect them again next Tuesday morning. But time is pressing, and you’d best both get away to lunch.”
David replied, “Thank you, Sir.”
He deposited the cane on the table with a pang of sadness. Missus did likewise. Then they headed towards the office door. David stole a glance backwards. He could see that The Headmaster was now running his hands up and down his nubile secretary’s bare bottom, paying more than a certain amount of attention to her cunt.
As David held the door open for his girlfriend, he heard The Interrogator say to The SS, “I’m not sure I can wait until this evening…”
Grinning, David stepped out into the corridor. The door closed behind him. “Do you think Terrence is going to fuck Sue?” he asked. Brenda Smith simply nodded in reply. “And do you think he’ll get a Sex Thrashing for it?” he asked further. Now she looked at him, shocked.
“Of course he will, honey,” she replied, “he’s a man, isn’t he? And this is St Stricktlands School. And all males here, well, all males generally if I had my way, should get pain for their pleasure.”
He replied, “Caning for cunt, you mean?”
She sighed slightly. “For that disrespectful remark,” she said, primly, “I will knacker your bare balls soundly at a more suitable time.”
He grinned at her. “Promises, promises,” he replied. He had decided that he rather enjoyed having his balls knackered by girls at the best of times, and by Brenda Smith at all times. Smiling at her, he took her hand in his as they walked along the long, dark corridor, towards The Canteen block.
The late British premier, Harold Wilson, once said that a week was a very long time in politics. At St Stricktlands School, a day could be an extremely long time. It had, he thought, really been fun being a prefect for the morning, but now it was, sadly, back to reality. David reflected that they might, with a little luck, still just about have sufficient time for a quick lunch before recommencing the daily grind of, ‘life,’ in the final term of their, ‘year of hell,’ in the lower 6th form where the cane lurked around just about every corner, and just waiting to get them.
To be continued……
¹After the well-known brand of UK sports car
© Copyright Dave 2009.
