Visitor

It was late on Friday afternoon, and Theresa Rhys dozed as she travelled on the train. It had been a fairly long journey, but she knew that at last she was now on the final straight. That, she thought sourly, being the operative word, since there didn’t seem to have been any curves on the railway for many a mile. Hills, as well, appeared to be completely out of fashion in this seemingly empty area of England. It must, she thought, be the English equivalent of prairie country. Be sure to travel only in the rear coaches, she suddenly recalled Shagger telling her, since the platform at Stricktlands Halt is too short for the whole train. The way that he’d said it too seemed to indicate that he’d had some previous personal experience of the problem. He’d also warned her that she’d arrive at school after The Canteen had closed, and so she should ensure that she’d had enough food to last her until breakfast the following morning. She’d been able to purchase a plentiful supply of sandwiches at the intermediate main line station where she’d needed to change trains. Now, as the train began to slow for what was presumably her destination, she tidied up the trash, stood up, and made her way towards the end carriage exit doors together with her overnight bag. Finally, the train stopped and she was able to step out onto the unlit station platform in the gathering gloom. She was, it seemed, the only passenger to alight. The train disappeared noisily into the middle distance and suddenly she was standing alone.

“Greetings, Theresa,” said Shagger, as he appeared at the end of the platform, “and welcome to Stricktlands Halt. It’s not exactly London Waterloo Station, I agree.” No, she agreed, noting that it was one windswept platform totally devoid of any facilities, it most certainly was not. At least she wasn’t alone here after all, she thought with a measure of slight relief. She was a city….well, a town girl, and all this expanse of emptiness was slightly unnerving to the uninitiated. He stepped straight up to her, put his arms around her, and kissed her fully on the lips. “Oh,” she said, faintly, not having quite expected him to be as forward as that. However, her mind reminded her, she was here for the specific purpose of enjoying a dirty weekend with him, and what better way to start that with a proper mouth to mouth statement of intent? “Hello, Shagger,” she replied, slightly breathlessly, and attempting to recover her poise. “May I carry your overnight bag for you, Ma’am?” he enquired, politely. These St Stricktlands boys, they were so polite to young Ladies. This was, at least according to her best friends who now attended the school, because they’d been conditioned by Knackerpants. They’d told her that at St Sticks, if a bad boy ever got out of line, the swift remedy was at his front. A quick grab, squeeze and pull for a token three seconds was all that it took. Should the action have been observed by any teacher or prefect, then the knackering would be followed by the cane on the bare bottom for him as well.

She looked him up and down, since Shagger was now a prefect. He did, she had to agree, look extremely smart wearing what she knew to be his basic black prefect’s uniform. It was black jacket, black tie, long black trousers, black shoes….but white shirt. “Ma’am?” he prompted, and she shook her head slightly to clear it from her mental meanderings. “Sorry, Shagger,” she said, “I was miles away. Yes, please do take my bag for me.” He smiled as he accepted it from her. “You have, I hope, brought some schoolwork with you, as I suggested?” he asked, “since one of the selection of goodies that I’ve arranged for you will be Prep this evening.” Prep, she thought, blankly? Then the translation filtered through her brain. Prep was Preparation, and therefore homework. It was, she had to agree a reasonable enough word, since at a boarding school one could hardly have homework, after all. “Yes,” she replied, “I’ve brought my weekend maths with me.” It wasn’t her strong suit, and she doubted that she’d be able to do very much of it. “If you’d care to accompany me, Ma’am,” he said, “we have a fair walk.” Yes, apparently we have, she agreed. Both Mitches And Ritches The Bitches had moaned incessantly about that, and she believed every word of it. It would, she suspected, be quite an effort were she having to lug heavy suitcases to school, a necessary chore at least twice a term for some pupils.

A desolate hole, really it was she thought, as she made her way off the platform with Shagger holding her hand. They both walked across the deserted station yard towards the public highway. Then she stopped, suddenly, and peered across at a faded notice half-hidden in the trees.

To Stern Hall
Trespassers will be thrashed

Oh, she thought, her heart suddenly thumping. Well, whoever lived there probably wasn’t much worried about the prospect of burglars, anyway. “That’s where The Professor lives, Theresa,” he said, following her line of vision. Which professor, she wondered? “Professor Wodin Thring,” he replied, apparently anticipating her question, “the former headmaster here.” He sniggered, slightly. “He was, among other things, known as Thrasher Thring, for fairly obvious reasons,” Shagger added. She shivered slightly, but said nothing.

A police car appeared from down the road with its headlights full on, and was suddenly heading towards them at fairly high speed. Since this country road boasted no sidewalk of any description, she was minded to move right out of the way. Shagger, however, made no effort to shift himself to safety. The police car unexpectedly veered, slowed, and stopped opposite him. The front window was wound down. “Greetings, Shagger,” said the policeman inside, “who’s your little friend?” Shagger smiled. “Greetings to you as well, Thor,” he replied. Thor, she wondered? Who the fuck was ever called Thor in this day and age? “Thor,” he went on, “this here is Theresa Rhys, from my home town of Letchhampton. She’s here for the Open Day tomorrow.” Thor looked at her speculatively. “Shagger,” he said, patiently, “I suspect that you’re up to no good. Whatever else she is, this charming young Lady can’t possibly be a prospective parent.” You keep making clever deductions like that, she thought, and you’ll be head of detectives in no time. Now Shagger smiled again. “That’s quite correct, Thor,” he replied, “although she really is here for the Open Day, nonetheless. It’s simply that she’s going to sample a weekend at St Sticks, since she’s never going to be….well, lucky enough to sample the real thing on a permanent basis.” The policeman stared at her again. “Oh, I see, Shagger,” he replied, “a dirty weekend then it is for you both. Really though, haven’t you got enough home-grown talent at St Sticks to keep you amply occupied without the tiresome necessity of importing more lovely young Ladies from outside?” Shagger winked at him. “Indeed so, Thor,” he replied, obviously unoffended, “but Theresa here fancied sampling some of the excellent discipline that St Sticks offers you see, as well as….well, the other.” The policeman put his hand out of the car window. “Good to meet you, Theresa,” he confirmed, “you’re in safe hands with Shagger….” he coughed, slightly, “….up to a point, anyway….oh, and my name is Thor Thring, since Shagger appears to have omitted to introduce me.” Thor Thring, she thought, the son of Wodin Thring, perhaps? Now that did seem to have a certain symmetry about it. “Are you attending the Open Day tomorrow with Hilda, Thor?” Shagger asked. “Yes we are,” Thor Thring replied to Shagger, but looking at her, “that’s me and my fiancée, Theresa. She’s staying at Stern Hall as we speak. We’ll both be along tomorrow, since St Sticks may well be an eye-opener for her as well. See you round, both of you,” he concluded. “See you then, Thor,” said Shagger. Thor Thring wound up his window, and the police car accelerated away. It turned sharply into the designated driveway, and was lost from sight in a matter of a few seconds.

Oops, she thought, as the wind picked up her skirt without warning, and she suddenly suffered a Marylyn Monroe moment with her knickers on public display to….well, fortunately nobody except Shagger. She smoothed her skirt back down again, and self-consciously straightened her St Judes school tie. Now, holding her skirt with one hand and Shagger in the other, they made their way along the empty road. “That,” said Shagger, “was The Professor’s son, as you may have gathered. He never attended St Sticks himself, though. Father Wodin, as he was affectionately known, felt that he would be too much of a target if he attended the school as the headmaster’s son.” That, she thought, was probably a fair point. “Thor’s fiancée is a rather lovely Lady called Hilda Brand, who hails from the United States, and she’s an….err….artist. I’ll tell you the story of how they met another time.” She swallowed, and stared ahead at the empty road which seemingly stretched into the infinite, and perhaps some way beyond. “Why not tell me now, Shagger?” she suggested. “Oh, all right, then,” he said, with a slight shrug, “my former dorm captain Richard Sharp and I were visiting some friends of mine only a few weeks ago, and I was….well, playing In The Pink, a thing which I still do on occasion when I’m feeling submissive. I’d just been a bad boy, you see, and he was caning me in a roadside lay-by, actually not that far from here….” She stared at him. “Caning you in a roadside lay-by?” she queried, “surely you jest?” He shook his head. “No, Theresa,” he replied, “that’s exactly what happened. We were with the two Harry’s, except that there was one other car parked pretty closely, and I could just see someone stepping out of it….”

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“Yeoowwww…..” FLASHH “….oh, SIR,” David gasped, “it stings, Sir….thank you for caning me….I’m such a bad boy and I deserved to be thrashed like this.” Now the mystery car occupant was clearly in his field of vision, standing next to Harriet Palmer. A vision of loveliness, it was. He’d seen the Lady somewhere before, though. No, he corrected himself, he couldn’t have done. But he’d definitely seen someone who looked just like that. An old time actress from a very old, American comedy show. The Beverley Hillbillies, it was, and the young Lady was the very image of Elly May Clampett. A tall, country and western girl, who obviously didn’t believe in paying brassiere manufacturers any money, and complete with cowboy hat, and camera. “Parrdon my ayasking, My’am,” she said, in a soft, Southern, drawl, “but would it be ollright forr me to tyake a picture orr two arv this byad boy’s punishment, forr my collection?” If Harriet Palmer was at all perturbed at this unusual request, she didn’t show it. “Be my guest,” she replied, tersely, “Richard, cane Shagger again for the Lady, if you please.” Richard Sharp sniggered. “Oh, this is my lucky day,” he murmured.

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“Yaroooooooo,” said David, now really playing to the camera. FLASHH. He looked into the lens as he gasped. “Ayand agyin,” she called, moving to another angle, this time behind his behind.

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“Oweeeeeeeeee,” gasped David. “Excellent,” she said, “one morre, perlease, with the both arv you looking into the lens.”

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“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh…..ohhhhhh,” he gasped, his teeth and his eyes clenched, in perfectly real, as well as posed, pain.

She reached over and patted his bottom. Then she petted his bottom. FLASHH FLASHH. “Such a neat little arrse,” she said, “simply AYASKING forr the cane.” Saucy Harry giggled. “That’s what people are always telling him,” commented Richard Sharp, sourly. Now the young Lady handed all three of them a business card. David read it, still bending over. Nobody had told him that it was in order to rise, and he wasn’t going to take any chances of getting more whacks. He’d somehow had nine….well, maybe the second three were his own stupid fault, but he hadn’t expected to get awarded a further three just to satisfy a stranger. Then he blinked as he read the card again.

Hilda Brand
Punishment Portraits
Correction on Canvas
Box 696969
Los Angeles, CA
Tel: 1-800-PAINTARSES

It wasn’t possible, he thought, really it wasn’t. It simply had to be a pseudonym, though. Hildebrandt was, he knew, a very excellent, if slightly suspect artist who drew highly suspect drawings of very naughty Ladies, and hers didn’t sound like that kind of artwork. A similar genre, possibly, but Hildebrandt didn’t do personal portraits, at least as far as David was aware. No, Hildebrandt drew fictional Ladies, the very naughty ones who were happy to help needy men in red light districts of seedy cities. Brenda Smith had shown him some of them. ‘Aren’t you grateful, Davy,’ he recalled her saying, with a giggle, ‘that you only have to pay for your pleasure in punishment.’ Hard caning, rather than hard cash. “Ayany time you guys want to visit me, stateside,” said Hilda Brand, “you just give me a call firrst.” Then, just to make the point, “I do get kinda lonely of an evening, sometimes,” she added, with a broad wink, “and I’d surre love to entertain some real kinky young Brits who enjoy a bit of public punishment.” Harriet Palmer looked at her, as if to say, ‘and what about me?’ Hilda Brand giggled. “Ayand you ayas well, May’am,” she replied, in her slow drawl, “I kin always find some byad boys forr you to play around with, if you want?” Saucy Harry grinned. “Sounds good to me,” she said. Then, “did you have any free time this afternoon, Hilda?” she asked. Hilda Brand shook her head. “Ayalas no,” she replied, “I hyave to fly, literrally, and this ayafterrnoon.” Richard Sharp looked at her, with adoration in his eyes. “Such a shame, Ma’am,” he replied, “but I’ll certainly be wanting to put Los Angeles on my itinerary, I promise you.” David could well understand his feelings. It was, perhaps, California here I cum? “But what about the car, Ma’am,” David asked, “does that go with you?” Hilda Brand looked down at him. “Oh, so there is a brain down there, ayas well ayas a cute little arrse.” She shook her head. “Nope, the carr stays herre, forr next time. It’s bayad enough driving on the wrarng side of the road, but hayaving to do it in a carr with everrything the wrarng way around as well is just too much. See you, handsome.” She gave his bottom a final rub, then turned to walk back to her car. Both he and Richard Sharp devoured her retreating bottom with their eyes.

“All right, Shagger,” she said, “so she’s a real Southern Belle. But where does Thor Thring fit in all this?” He squeezed her hand. “Patience, child,” he replied, in a thoroughly condescending fashion, “and all will become clear, presently. It was only a few days later that I was once again travelling in a car, this time on my way back to St Sticks, and this time with my former driving instructor.”

“I thought, Shagger,” said Paula Nixhof, “that it was high time we dealt with the matter of your outstanding BCNU beating, the one which I promised you on the day of your driving test.” He swallowed. “Yes, Ma’am,” he replied. A bare caning, no uniform. Well, he was certainly undressed for the occasion, as decorum demanded. They pulled into a lay-by, the same one at which Saucy Harry had previously stopped when Richard Sharp had accompanied him to her house. He had a sudden feeling of déjà vu as he saw another car in the lay-by with USA plates. “Out, Shagger,” she said, “you may as well have as much humiliation as possible for your money. Or embarrassment for your bucks, he thought, as he wondered how long it would be before the American Lady Hilda Brand appeared from her car, as she had done the last time he was here? He stepped out of the car, and bent down across the hood. Pull Her Knicks Off picked up the cane from the windshield, and stepped out herself. Now she walked across to him in the wind, and stroked his bare bottom with the cane. FLASHH. He looked up. A smiling Hilda Brand was standing a few feet away, having just availed herself of the image. “Good ayafternoon, once agayin, Shaggerr,” she said, “do you make a hayabit of being cayaned herre with a differrent Lady each time?” He grinned up at her. “Who’s your friend, Shagger?” asked Paula Nixhof. “Please, Ma’am,” he replied, “this is Hilda Brand, artist, from the United States….and this,” he nodded towards Pull Her Knicks Off, “is Paula Nixhof, my former driving instructor.” Hilda Brand giggled. “But why is she punishing you, Shagger?” she asked

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“One, thank you, Ma’am,” he replied, “because it’s what’s known as a BCNU beating.” Hilda Brand appeared puzzled. “Which is, Shagger?” she asked.

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“Ow….two, thank you, Ma’am,” he replied, “a Be Seeing You, beating….also standing for Bare Caning, No Uniform, hence my….err….present predicament.”

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“Owwee….three, thank you, Ma’am,” he gasped, “at St Stricktlands School, it’s traditional for all classes to end this way in the lower 6th form, you see, and Paula here is an alumna or previous pupil of the school herself, and so she sees fit to incorporate the tradition too in to her lessons.” FLASHHHH

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“Ouch….ouch….four, thank you, Ma'am,” he gasped, looking with sudden concern as a police car sped past. He was suddenly much more concerned as he noted its brake lights go on.

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“Yeoowwww….me bum, Ma’am,” he gasped, looking up into the camera lens for best effect. FLASHH “five, thank you, Ma’am.” Now he looked with sick fascination as the police car reversed into the lay-by. The door opened. A policeman emerged.

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“Yarooooooo….oooooo,” he gasped, “six, six of the best, thank you, Ma’am,” he gasped. FLASHH….FLASHH. Hilda Brand turned around, sharply. He smiled in sheer relief as he saw that the policeman was Thor Thring. “Good afternoon to you all,” he said, pleasantly, “you weren’t planning on giving Shagger too many more here, in this rather public place, were you, Ms Nixhof?” She smiled. “No, Thor,” she replied, “we’re just about done, here. All we need is for Shagger to say thank you for his BCNU beating. “Please, Ma’am,” said David, “thank you most kindly for my well-deserved beating. Bad boys like me need this kind of discipline all the time, as you know.” Both Ladies giggled. “If you’re ever at a loose end, Hilda,” he said, “and you want to see what Thor’s father can offer in the way of….err….entertainment for the Ladies with a difference, then I’m sure Thor here will be pleased to tell you all about it.” Hilda Brand giggled, girlishly. “I liyak men in uniform,” she said, “would you like to tayell me morre of yourr quaint English customs overr carfee?” Paula Nixhof glanced at her car clock. “Shagger,” she said, “you’ve done your good deeds for today. Now we really do have to be getting along if you’re going to be back at school for four o’clock. Get inside the car, bad boy.”

David stood up. Hilda Brand was, he noted, standing very closely to Thor Thring, and seemed to be stroking his face. Any second now, he thought sourly, and she’d be stroking his bottom. David stepped slowly back into the car. “Ahhhh,” he gasped, as his bottom contacted the car seat. Paula Nixhof replaced the cane on the windshield and started the engine. Then they were away once more. “Rather lucky that was only Thor,” she said. Yes, indeed, he confirmed in his mind, since if it had been any other policeman, they might all now be spending a happy time together in the local police station answering a number of unanswerable questions.

“And the next occasion that I met them,” said Shagger, “it was all over bar the shouting.” She sniggered, slightly. “You weren’t being caned in a lay-by then that time, I take it?” she asked, sourly. He smiled and shook his head. “No,” he confirmed, “I wasn’t. I was naked, and pulling Cooler Carla in a buggy, if you really must know. This is how it went,”

It became apparent that they had company. He could clearly see a man and a Lady watching them from the river bank just where he was going to reach dry land and regain the path. Hell, he thought, since they’d already have seen….well, everything. His public humiliation, his nakedness, and, of course, his penis. Not that it was currently erected in any way, since the ice-cold river water had seen to that. Gasping, he waded closer to them, and their faces swung into focus. It was Thor Thring, together with the American artist Lady. He’d last seen them together in a roadside lay-by on his return from a very nice weekend luncheon with Harriet Palmer and Harry Buchanan. Interesting, he thought, since Hilda Brand had accepted an invitation to visit Thor Thring at Stern Hall. It would appear, though that matters between Thor Thring and Hilda Brand had moved on since that initial meeting in the lay-by, especially since the two of them were currently holding hands. “Hello, Thor,” called out Captain Carla Icewater, “who’s your little friend?” Thor Thring remained silent until, with considerable difficulty, David was finally able to pull the buggy out of the river, since the bank was fairly steep at that point. Neither of them offered any assistance, of course. “Greetings, Carla,” he replied, “it’s good to see you again so soon. I do hope that your new purchase from The Professor last week is working well?” David turned, slightly, so that he could see Cooler Carla’s response to this query. Predictably, there was none. There was often a certain embarrassment with Ladies when Professor Wodin Thring’s name was mentioned. He was known for his manufacture of a type of female fucking machine which specialized in a wide range of patent penetrators known as Thrings Things. “Well, moving on, then,” Thor Thring continued, wryly, “this lovely Lady is Hilda Brand, who hails from California.” He turned to her. “Hilda, my dear,” he continued, “this is Captain Carla Icewater, who teaches at St Sticks, and whose husband Clarence runs The Home Farm. And Shagger, of course, you’ve already met.” Hilda Brand giggled. “Mayet, yes,” she said, in her soft southern drawl, “arn two previous occasions. Ayand on each time, he’s been getting the cayane in public. So Ayam nart arltogetherr sharked to see him heerr….err….pretending to be a horrse. You really do hayve such quaint customs in England, Thorr.” She giggled again. “It does surely seem such fun….well, forr the Cayaptain, of courrse.” Captain Carla Icewater smiled. “You can have a ride, if you wish, my dear,” she said, “I’ll walk along the river bank with Thor, and you can meet us by the bridge. Private Shagton will have to take the long way round, of course, because this path doesn’t join up with the main bridleway to the bridge for another quarter of a mile.” Shit, David thought.

Cooler Carla obligingly dismounted the buggy, and handed over all the reins to Hilda Brand. “If you haven’t done anything like this before,” she said, “it’s quite easy. The two main reins are to guide Shagger left or right. To get him to stop, you simply pull on the….err….male anchors.” Hilda Brand giggled. “You mean like this?” she said, innocently, and tugged leash attached to his balls. “Uhhhhh,” he gasped, as his balls were effectively knackered. “Such fun,” she said, again, “I cayan see why you enjoy this so much, Cayaptain,” she said, “ayand how do you gayet him to move forward?” Captain Carla Icewater gestured towards the whip. “Oh,” she breathed. Experimentally, she took it into her right hand, and flicked it. It was, fortunately, a short whip, and therefore quite simple and straightforward to use. A longer bullwhip, he thought….well, that would have been entirely a different matter in the hands of a novice. He turned forward, and braced himself for the command to move. THWACKK THWACKK “….ahhh….ahhh,” he gasped, and set off at once. “I’ll see you shortly, Shagger,” said Cooler Carla, “enjoy.” Ha bloody ha, David thought to himself. The buggy wasn’t exactly heavy, but it wasn’t exactly light, either, and Hilda Brand was an adult American Lady of, he estimated, at least 140lb. Ten imperial stones, that was, for anyone not born in the good old USA.

He huffed and he puffed, ably assisted by copious quantities of the stinging whip. It was all uphill, alas, and progress was slow. Finally, though, after a full fifteen minutes of hard labour, he was able to regain the bridleway. She pulled his left rein, and then, after he’d turned, his balls, hard. “Ahhhh,” he moaned. “Just a short breather, Shagger,” she said, “and just to say thank you.” He turned to look at her. Thank you for what, he wondered? He couldn’t ask, since his mouth was held open by the black rubber bit which rendered any form of intelligent conversation effectively impossible. She giggled again. “Thank you for my beloved Thor,” she said, “since it was essentially down to you that I met him.” He smiled. “Aye, ’esher, ’am,” he replied, politely, being the closest he could get to, ‘My pleasure, Ma’am,” he replied, wondering if he’d get an invite to the wedding or not? “I’ll invite you to the wedding,” she said, neatly answering his unasked question. THWACKK “….ahhhh,” he gasped, and with that, he was away again.

It was easier, now, on the level, and on the semi-paved bridleway rather than the rough rocky path. “Farsterr, Shayagger,” she shouted, THWACKK THWACKK “….ahhhh….ahhhh,” he gasped, and redoubled his efforts. It was tough going. He was tiring, rapidly, but Hilda Brand wasn’t about to let him off lightly, it appeared. Finally, he could see the river bridge in sight. Puff pant, puff pant. He dared not slow down, for fear of her stinging whip. Now he could see Thor Thring and Cooler Carla sitting together on the bridge abutments. He smiled, suddenly, since they now, too, appeared to be holding hands. They made no move to let each other go, and David wondered about the nature of the new relationship? Perhaps they, too, were destined to be in an open-marriage? A conventional closed one would surely have the Lady incandescent at the sight of her fiancé holding hands with another Lady? A sudden tug on his balls indicated that they’d reached their destination, at least for the time being. “Uhhhh,” he moaned. Hilda Brand stood up in the buggy, shimmied to one side, and stepped out. “Thayank you, Shayagerr,” she said, “I enjoyed thayat.” He smiled, sweetly, and said nothing, simply grateful that his pumping heart was being allowed to recover slightly from its exertions before his journey continued. Captain Carla Icewater arose. “Thor tells me that you were inadvertently responsible for finding him a fiancée, Shagger,” she said, “for which you deserve credit.” A long spell in the cooler, he expected that might be. She stared at him. “I’ll be happy to sentence you to a long spell in the cooler, if that’s what you want, Shagger,” she said, with a slight snigger. What was it with these damned Dommes, he thought, that they could sense every thought that went through his head. “Damned Dommes, was it, Shagger?” she asked, mildly. Quod Erat Demonstrandum, he thought to himself. QED, or thus it has been so proven. She gave Thor Thring’s hand a final squeeze. “I’ll see you at the forthcoming Open Day,” she said. Oh, yes, David thought to himself, it was coming around to Open Day once again. That terrible time when St Stricktlands School, like all schools, opened its doors to all manner of prospective parents. It was surely a bit early for Thor Thring and Hilda Brand, though? Well, perhaps not, he reasoned again, since the only way of being able to guarantee a place for one’s offspring at St Sticks was to put their name down at birth. That was, after all the reason why he’d not had a full term of tutelage there. His own schooling had been limited to the 6th form, courtesy of his father’s failure to register either him or his sister when he should have done. Whether that failure was a blessing or a curse rather depended upon one’s views of life at the school, of course. “I’ll be seeing you both, then,” said Cooler Carla. “Likewise, I’m sure,” replied Thor Thring. “Aynd me ayas well, Mayam,” added Hilda Brand. Thor Thring patted David’s head. Hilda Brand pointedly patted his penis. THWACKK, “….ahhhh,” gasped David, and once again he was on his weary way.

Was he making all this stuff up, she wondered? It seemed simply….well, simply unbelievable. “Captain Carla Icewater would be happy to confirm every word of it, Theresa,” he said, “however, I shouldn’t suggest that you try that trick, even if you do meet her over the course of the weekend.” Oh, and why was that, she thought? “Asking questions of teachers and prefects is discouraged at St Stricktlands School, as Mitchell Mary Murphy and Richella Ruth Rhodes may have mentioned. It’s considered to be either ignorance, impudence or cheek you see, and the perpetrator is punished accordingly.” She shivered, slightly, since he really didn’t need to spell out exactly how the perpetrators of questions might be, ‘punished accordingly.’ She could well imagine what it was, and how much it would hurt.

Now they reached the imposing ironworks of the main entrance gates. “Welcome to St Stricktlands School,” he confirmed. Ahead of her was the main carriage drive that led up to the school buildings. She knew, because Mitchell Mary Murphy and Richella Ruth Rhodes had told her, that this was completely straight, and half a mile long. Well, they’d know, of course. She walked with him through the gates, and saw a small car parked at the turning circle just inside. “I thought that you’d like a lift, Theresa,” he said, “rather than having to walk.” She exhaled. “Please, Shagger, it’s Tracy, everyone calls me that.” He nodded. “Very well, then,” he replied, “Tracy it is.” Then she frowned. “I didn’t know that you had a car, Shagger?” she asked, as he took her bag, and opened the passenger door for her. She stepped inside and he closed it behind her. Then he opened the rear door and put her overnight bag onto the rear seat before walking around to the driver’s side of the car. “I don’t, Tracy,” he replied, stepping inside and sitting down as he spoke, “it isn’t mine, you see.” She gaped at him. Surely it wasn’t stolen? “Relax, Tracy,” he went on, as he started the engine, “it’s merely borrowed, and with the owner’s permission. This is the School Secretary’s car, and since we’re on school property I don’t need to worry about insurance. “That’s why I didn’t meet you at the railway station, you see,” he added. Well, she thought, that did explain things. Then she suddenly saw a punishment cane lying along the length of the dashboard. Was that his, she wondered, or did it belong to the School Secretary? “The cane is mine, Tracy,” he explained, “although Sue certainly does possess a very wide selection of similar ones, they all live in her flat. I’ve certainly experienced most of them the hard way….usually when she’s playing Gestapo Girl, prison camp Komandantin, or something similar.” She recalled that he’d said when she’d first phoned him during the summer holidays, and she hadn’t believed him then. Surely it couldn’t be true?

A sudden thought struck her. “Who was Saucy Harry, Shagger?” she asked. “Harriet Palmer was my driving examiner, Tracy,” he replied, “she….well, she rather took a shine to me, you see. I visit her on the occasional weekend….her and her cuckold husband, Harry Callaghan.” Dirty Harry, she thought, tentatively? Shagger turned to look at her, and nodded. Oh, so Dirty Harry it was, then. “You’d best call me Sir, at least in public, Tracy,” he said, “and try to remember to curtsey to all Lady teachers and most especially girl prefects….unless you don’t mind getting caned each time you forget. Oh, and should you ever need to refer to me in public, then the correct method of address is David Shagton, prefect, Sir….or Ma’am.” She shivered, again. “Yes….err….Sir,” she replied, softly. Now she could see the outline of the school buildings coming into view. A distant clock tower dominated the skyline, and the whole thing seemed to be seriously gothic. “From here, you can Big Ben….that’s the main school clock tower, the Queen Anne Stricktlands Hall period piece, plus the portions of the original Abbey that are still standing,” he said, “the newer additions of all the teaching wings, the two dormitory wings and all the rest are all tucked out of sight.” A real hotchpotch of history, indeed, she thought.

They reached what was evidently the main entrance hall, however Shagger didn’t stop the car there. Instead, they continued around the buildings, and finally stopped in what was obviously some form of staff car parking area. Fair enough, she thought, since the School Secretary would obviously qualify for a space there. “Well,” said Shagger, “here we are. I’ll just take you along to see Susie, and we’ll set you up with your uniform.” He stepped out of the car as he spoke, taking his cane off the dashboard first, walked around, and opened her car door for her. She stepped out in her turn, and he extracted her overnight bag from the rear seats. Then, still holding her hand in his, they both walked across the car park, and into the school buildings. Inside it was a slight shock. The corridors were all amazingly long, dark and cold, and seemed to continue forever. She was completely lost in a matter of seconds, since there were no direction signs of any description, and the corridors all looked the same. “I know, Tracy,” he said, reading her thoughts yet again, “it’s just the same on everyone’s arrival day as well. The first month is the worst in that respect. But at least you’ll have either 3M or 3Arse to help you for the weekend….plus any other playmates that we may find for you.” Now they ascended a set of empty echoing stone steps. “This is the way to Terrence’s office,” he said, “as all pupils know when they have to explain themselves to The Interrogator as soon as they’ve accumulated three Detentions in one term.” He sighed, slightly. “That’s a thing which is terribly easy to do,” he confirmed, “as I know very well, of course.” Now they both reached what was evidently their immediate destination,

Headmaster
Iain Terrence Hayter, M.A. (Oxon)

School Secretary
Susan Sweet

He opened the door, and stood to one side to allow her to enter first. She could see a Lady of younger years sitting typing at a desk, wearing a pair of heavy glasses. An attractive Lady she certainly was, too, she thought. This must obviously be the School Secretary, and she was evidently working late. Could she really dress up as a Gestapo Girl, or play prison camp Kommandantin, she wondered, as Shagger had claimed? Susan Sweet smiled as she saw Shagger enter. “Greetings, Shagger,” she said, “and to you….Theresa, isn’t it?” she asked. Racy Tracy nodded. “Tracy, if you please, Ma’am,” she replied, curtseying politely. “I see Shagger’s told you all about customary greetings at least, Tracy,” said Sue Sweet. “Your car keys, Susie,” he said, handing them over to her, “with my many thanks for the facility. It’s certainly saved Tracy a long walk.” Sue Sweet eyed her up and down. “So that’s the St Judes school uniform then, Shagger,” she said, “well, I’ve issued a suitably sized lower 6th form girl’s set of clothes for Tracy, one which should fit her just fine.” She shrugged, slightly. “It’s complete with StricktKnicks, which one hopes for her sake, that she won’t need to wear during her short stay here.” Whatever were StricktKnicks, she wondered? They sounded nasty by the way that Susan Sweet had spoken. Shagger sat down on the corner of Susan Sweet’s desk, leaned forward and kissed her. Racy Tracy blinked slightly. Shagger certainly hadn’t been exaggerating about him being, ‘in,’ with the School Secretary, it seemed, since the only reaction from Susan Sweet was to squeeze his left knee in a gesture of obvious affection. “I can always make the squeeze a bit higher up, if you want, Shagger,” she suggested. “Promises, promises, Sue,” he replied, and kissed her again.

Susan Sweet looked up at her again. “Well, Tracy,” she said, brightly, “it’s time for you to change. Off with the old, and on with the new.” Theresa Rhys blinked. Right here and now, she wondered, with them both watching? “Certainly with us both watching, Tracy,” Shagger confirmed, “having to take your clothes off in public is one thing that you have to get used to at St Sticks.” Sue Sweet nodded. “And being caned in public, too, often with younger pupils watching,” she added, “at the very least on your bare bottom, with your skirt up across your back and your knickers down.” Oh, well, thought Racy Tracy, off we go. She started to strip off, dropping her clothes carelessly onto the floor. Shagger and Sue Sweet exchanged what were obviously amused glances, for reasons she couldn’t begin to imagine. Now she stood nude in front of them. “Hands behind your back, naughty girl,” said Sue Sweet, sternly, “and turn all the way around.” Theresa Rhys shivered slightly, and not simply with the cold, since there’d been a touch of iron in the voice that had been impossible to ignore. Maybe there was a hidden Gestapo Girl in there, after all? She did as bid, and slowly rotated one full turn to face them both again. “Nice arse,” commented Sue Sweet. “A neat little bottom indeed,” Shagger suggested, “and one simply Asking for the cane, I rather feel.” Sue Sweet sniggered. “It’s certainly going to get that over the course of the weekend, Shagger,” she confirmed, darkly, “by the way, do you want me to put her down for a Detention tomorrow evening. Just so that she can experience….well, one of the more memorable activities of St Stricktlands School?” He shook his head. “That’s not necessary, Sue,” he replied, looking at the wall clock which read 6.56pm, “since she’ll be more than six minutes late by the time she gets down to the Prep rooms.” What was all that about, she wondered, as he stared at her speculatively? “By the way, your wrist watch, if you please, Tracy,” he asked, “since nobody wears watches here. You rely on the wall clocks for the correct time, or Big Ben which strikes every quarter hour.” There probably was a good reason why nobody wore watches at St Stricktlands School, she thought sourly to herself, but evidently neither Shagger nor Sue Sweet were bothered about telling her what it was. Well, maybe she might ask around of her peers? She undid her watch strap and handed it over to Sue Sweet, who accepted it and promptly put it away into one of her desk drawers. Well, that was that, then, she thought. Now she was thoroughly nude and defenceless. Better to get dressed, and then she’d only be In The Pink, rather than in the pink, so to speak. She picked up the top item of the pile of pink clothes, and put it on. It was her pink bra first, then pink blouse, pink tie, and finally pink jacket. Then pink socks, followed by pink knickers, her pleasingly pleated pink skirt, and last of all, pink shoes. “Very smart….” said Sue Sweet, “….and very trim, too,” he added, in a thoroughly lecherous tone of voice. Susan Sweet nodded. “Very beddable indeed,” she confirmed, “I assume that you’ve written her in your Cunt Calendar for tonight, Shagger?” He shook his head. “No, tomorrow night, Sue,” he corrected, “I’ve….err….made arrangements for her to stop over in dorm 6K this evening, rather than spending the night on her own in dorm Q.” Sue Sweet nodded. “Good thinking, Shagger,” she replied, “I agree that spending a night in a lower 6th form girls’ dorm will give her a far better experience of school life than going into the official visitors’ dorm.”

Now Shagger stood up again. “Right, Tracy,” he said, “say goodnight to Sue. She’ll see you again on Sunday morning when you leave. That’ll be to return your St Judes School uniform to you, and your wristwatch, of course….by which time you’ll be considerably older and wiser….” Susan Sweet sniggered, “….and with a bottom that’s considerably sorer, as well, I suspect.” She leaned forward and kissed him again. “I’ve a spare slot at eight o’clock this evening, Shagger,” she said, “if you fancy a little frustration first before your evening adventures?” He pursed his lips. “I’m booked, of course, for the evening, but some frustration first is always welcome. And I’ll be more than happy to please your pussy orally for you, as always.” She sniggered, and stroked his cheek. “It’s a date then, bad boy,” she said, “perhaps some tie and tease to get you into the right mood?” Well, thought Racy Tracy to herself, maybe he hadn’t been exaggerating about his hectic social whirl after all? “Err….goodnight, Ma’am,” she said, and curtseyed again. The pink uniform felt slightly strange, but doubtless she’d get used to it quickly. Susan Sweet suddenly pursed her lips, stood up, and walked across to some shelves. “You did ask me for these, Shagger,” she said, “and I agree that Tracy should have them for her classes tomorrow, in order to maintain the illusion as far as possible.” She handed six brand-new exercise books across to Shagger, who picked up her overnight bag, opened it without asking permission, and stuffed them inside. “The text books she can borrow from Harry,” he said, mysteriously, and Susan Sweet nodded in obvious confirmation. Who the hell was Harry, she wondered? Presumably he’d deign to tell her eventually? He took several steps to the door, and stood aside once again to let her out of the School Secretary’s outer office. Then he followed her outside after she’d walked through.

Now they were walking once again down the long, dark cold corridors. “What was all that about six minutes late….err….please Sir?” she asked. He shook his head. “Bend over for the cane at once, naughty girl,” he replied sternly, “since I did warn you about asking questions. It’s nothing unusual….and we all have to learn the hard way. I rather recall that I myself was caned by a prefect within the first five minutes of my arrival day for this particular felony.” OMG, she thought wildly, he really was going to cane her. She sighed, and bent down. It felt at once so strange, but somehow so seemingly appropriate to receive the punishment cane in a place like this. He reached forward and flipped her pink pleated skirt across her back. Now he gently pulled her pink knickers down so that her bottom was just bared. “My model caning rules live on my study wall,” he said, “and at some point you’d best learn them. However, for now, be warned of some of the most common caning errors by rookie canees. I am, you see, doing this all for your own good.” For your own good, she thought, she could almost hear the stern and stentorian voices of past prefects all echoing those wonderful words of wisdom around her. “No rubbing your bottom,” he went on, “either during or after the punishment, since rubbing is in itself a further caneable offence. No jumping up, either during or afterwards, since, ‘rising without permission,’ as it’s called will get you more whacks. And apart from counting each whack out loud, you must remember to thank your caner for your punishment afterwards. If you don’t do that, you’re liable to get it all over again.” She shivered, slightly, wondering what it would feel like to forget after having just had six of the best? To be told to bend over again for a further six? Ouch, ouch, ouch. Unaccountably, her heart began to beat faster. She felt him stroke the cane across her bare bottom, and suddenly her legs started to go to jelly. Desperately she attempted to keep them straight.

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“Oww,” she gasped, as the sounds of the stroke echoed all the way along the corridor and beyond, “err….one, Sir.” He tapped her bottom with the cane. “It’s called canee’s privilege, Tracy,” he said, “to remain silent after stroke one, apart from the obligatory cane count and affirmation of gratitude, of course. Other pupils would think it very strange to hear you gasp out like on whack one, you see.” He paused, and waited, patiently. “However, since no expression of thanks has been forthcoming, Tracy, then I’ll repeat the punishment. It’s just as well that it was only one whack, I rather think.” Damnnation, she thought, it was so easy to fall foul of all these myriad rules and regulations. “Yes, Sir,” she replied, “sorry Sir….and thank you, Sir.”

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“Oww,” she gasped, “two, thank you, Sir,” She swallowed, and took a deep breath. “Thank you for caning me Sir,” she said, “I know I deserved it.” He stroked the cane across her bare bottom, and she squirmed as it traced over the two marks which she knew would already be present. “Wiggling your bottom also counts as an infraction, Tracy,” he said, “so that makes it one more whack for incitement.”

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“Yeoww….three, thank you, Sir,” she gasped, “thank you for caning me, Sir. I’ll….err….know not to wiggle my bum again, Sir.” He tapped her bottom again. “Most pupils tend to say Yeeee after stroke three, Tracy,” he said, “just another fine point of principle. I have no idea why, really, except that it rhymes. You may rise now, naughty girl, and sort yourself out.” Slowly, she stood up, somehow resisting the terrible temptation to rub her stinging bottom. He took a piece of paper out of his black jacket pocket, and showed it to her. “This is called a beat sheet, Tracy,” he said, “and all prefects and teachers carry them. Taken altogether they record each and every cane stroke that’s applied at the school….and that’s a LOT. Just listen,” he added. He stopped speaking and she listened. Although it was quiet, she could hear the unmistakable sounds of a punishment cane being applied in the distance. Then, even as that one finished, another one started, and then there were suddenly two together, seemingly without end. Does it ever end, she wondered? She was about to ask, and then decided that it wasn’t worth another whack to find out. Now she could begin to understand Mitches And Ritches The Bitches contention that St Stricktlands School was the caning centre of the known universe. She watched, fascinated, as Shagger wrote down her offences. She was shocked to see how many entries that he’d already made today. Heavens, it was almost a full page. “Actually, Tracy,” he said, with a slight smile, “this is my second sheet today.” She watched with fascination as her punishment was duly recorded for all time.

Rhys, Theresa, dorm 6K, one whack asking questions, one whack failing to say thank you following punishment, one whack for wiggling bottom. Total three whacks.

“And that, by the way, Tracy,” he continued, “is how you should announce yourself to anyone caning you. It should be Rhys, Theresa, of dorm 6K, exactly like that.” He paused for a moment, and looked hard at her. “This is always assuming,” he continued quietly, “that you still wish to play the part of a St Stricktlands School girl In The Pink, of course. I’m just giving the final chance to back out. We can always go straight back to Sue’s office, I’ll give you your St Judes’ uniform back, and you can spend the night in dorm Q as an official visitor. So, what’s it to be?” She shivered again. Yes, she could always chicken out, she thought. But then she’d been offered the chance of a lifetime to sample St Stricktlands School through a pupil In The Pink’s eyes, albeit only for a day. Surely she wouldn’t want to pass that up? “Yes, Sir,” she replied, “my name is Rhys, Theresa, of dorm 6K.” He leaned forward and kissed her mouth gently. “That’s something else which I would normally only ever do in the sanctity of my study, and outside school hours,” he assured her, “but now, having established that you really want to go through with this, I’ll tell you what’s going to happen next. I’ll escort you down to the teaching wings, since it’s Preparation Hour for all pupils except the prefects. However, as I just said in Sue’s office, since that started at seven o’clock, you’ll be arriving in excess of six minutes late. There are standard punishments applied for arriving late in lessons you see, and that includes Prep. It’s one whack for each minute late, with a maximum penalty of six of the best….after which time a Detention is applied as well. Detentions are always done the day following the award, unless otherwise specified. So you see that you’re already doomed to do a Detention here. You’ll discover tomorrow evening the hard way that Detentions at St Sticks are far worse than at most other schools.” Her mind reeled slightly at the details of all these rules and punishments. Desperately she attempted to commit all the information to memory. He picked up her overnight bag and started again, and now they both walked down the empty echoing stone steps. “I strongly suspect that it will be a real evening of initiation for you, Tracy,” he said, “I don’t know exactly how it will go for you, but I’m sure that you’ll find it interesting. I’ll see you….well, on and off tomorrow, but certainly tomorrow evening you should report to my study at eight o’clock, if you please.”

It was four identically anonymous long dark cold corridors later that they reached what were obviously classrooms. “Not these, Tracy,” he said, “since they are for the junior school. It’s quite a way further on yet.” It was another two levels and another two corridors later that he finally nodded. They’d passed four classrooms with pupils In The Pink before he finally found the one which he’d evidently been searching for. “This is the right room,” he said, finally, “and I can see several spare spaces at the back. You should make your apologies for lateness to my good friend Maxwell Heddon,” he continued, “who I can see is Preparation monitor here this evening. Hopefully though, he’ll tell you to sit next to H20….” she had no idea what he was talking about, “….after he’s inspected and then caned your bare bottom. If he asks you about your previous punishment, you should say that it was by me for running in corridors. That offence normally carries a penalty of three whacks, and the evidence on your bare bottom will back it up. Not that anything you say will make the slightest difference, of course, because he’s still going to give you six of the best, and with the class all watching.” Her heart thumped, as she tried to take all this in. It was all so….well, the anticipation of it all was really getting to her. A caning in front of the whole class, with six of the best on the bare, after all. It was something which she’d so far only seen in her dreams. “But surely I can explain to him that I was….well, seeing the School Secretary, Sir,” she said, being very careful this time not to phrase the statement as a question. He nodded. “Certainly you can, and certainly you should, Tracy,” he confirmed, “although that will make no difference at all to the outcome. Impossible itineraries and completely conflicting confluences are not regarded as in any way acceptable excuses for lateness in lessons, you see.” She stared at him. “But that’s not fair, Sir,” she suggested. He patted her hand, and then passed her overnight bag to her. “That’s one of the famous unwritten rules of St Stricktlands School, Tracy,” he said, “and it runs like this, ‘Don’t expect fairness, because there isn’t any.’ You get the idea, I think?” She shivered. “Yes, Sir,” she replied, taking a deep breath. “Here goes, then.” She held the classroom door handle. Shagger patted her bottom, “Enjoy, and pleasant dreams this evening, Tracy,” he whispered, and then he was away, walking swiftly away down the corridor. She bristled, slightly, as she recalled that he was shortly going to enjoy all manner of sexual successes, starting with Sue Sweet. She, on the other hand, was simply going to be beaten for a crime that she couldn’t possibly have avoided committing, since she’d been set up for it. Well, it was what she’d wanted, and so she could hardly object. She opened the classroom door, and walked inside.

Slowly, she walked down past the rows of desks. A number of pupils In The Pink looked up at her, however quite a number more didn’t. Would she pass muster, she wondered? Certainly she was dressed up for the part, however whether she got away with the deception would become apparent very shortly. Desperately, she attempted to try and remember all the caning rules which Shagger had just attempted to teach her. She walked up to the front of the class, and stopped at the teacher’s desk. Hopefully, Maxwell Heddon wouldn’t realize that she was actually an interloper at the school, and had no right even to be here, let alone attend a class. “Please Sir,” she said, “I’m so sorry that I’m late for Prep, Sir, but I had to….err….see the School Secretary, you see.” He stood up, and picked up his punishment cane from the teacher’s desk. There certainly didn’t seem to be much doubt about the outcome of this altercation, she thought, just as Shagger had predicted. “And so you think that seeing the School Secretary should in some weird way let you off your due punishment, naughty girl?” asked the prefect, now flexing the cane as he spoke. “No, Sir,” she replied, knowledgably, “I know that it’s six of the best for me now, Sir, plus a Detention for tomorrow evening.” The prefect nodded. Well, that all seemed to be right, at least.

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The cane flashed through the empty air, and she jumped slightly. OMG, she thought, six of the best like that, now she really was going to find out how public punishment felt at St Stricktlands School. “Face the class and bend over,” the prefect commanded, “and prepare yourself for punishment.” She turned to face the class, and now saw that a majority of pupils had stopped work, staring up at her speculatively. She bent down, only grateful for Shagger’s dummy run only a few minutes previously. Without it, she’d have no idea what was wanted of her. She flipped up her pleated pink skirt, and then shimmied her pink knickers down. “Legs straight, and head right UP, naughty girl,” said the prefect, tapping his cane smartly across her bottom. She endeavoured to oblige, although it was certainly a strain. “I can see that you’ve only just been caned, naughty girl,” he said, “who was this by, and why?” Now she was grateful for Shagger’s foresight. “Please, Sir,” she replied, “I was caned for running in corridors, and it was by David Shagton, prefect, Sir.” Maxwell Heddon exhaled. “Well, naughty girl,” he said, “that all certainly seems to square up. Somehow though, there’s something slightly odd about you that I can’t quite place. What’s your name and dorm anyway, for my beat sheet?” She swallowed. “Please Sir,” she replied, “it’s Rhys, Theresa, of dorm 6K, Sir.” Max Headroom considered that. “I don’t recall seeing you around the school before,” he said, “are you new?” She nodded. “Yes, Sir,” she replied, “this is my first term here.” Actually, she thought, it was also her first hour here, but he needn’t know that for now. “Very well, then, naughty girl,” he said, “and how do you spell that? Is it R E E C E, or what?” She smiled, slightly, since people always had problems with her surname. “Please Sir,” she replied, “it’s spelled the Welsh way, that’s R H Y S.” She looked around, and could see him writing the details down onto his beat sheet. “What do they call you, Rhys?” he asked, sourly. That, at least, was an easy question. “Please Sir,” she replied, “they call me Racy Tracy, Sir.” Now there were several sniggers from the male members of the class. With a little luck, she thought, that at least would now put all the bad boys off the scent. Well, she corrected herself, more likely onto the scent. She knew that her cunt scent was highly prized among the more randy male members of St Judes School. “It’s six of the best for you then, Racy Tracy,” confirmed Max Headroom, “for your shockingly late arrival in Preparation class….considerably in excess of six minutes.”

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“One, thank you, Sir,” she said, remembering canee’s prerogative, or whatever it was called. It still stung so much, though.

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“Ow….two, thank you, Sir,” she gasped.

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“Yeee….three, thank you, Sir,” she gasped. Yes, Shagger was quite correct there, saying Yeee after stroke three really did sound right for some strange reason. “Turn around, naughty girl,” said Max Headroom, “we may as well give the class their money’s worth.” Hell, she thought, now everyone would see her caned bottom. Strangely enough, though, the prospect of this very public punishment seemed to excite her even more. She turned around, and somehow succeeded in leaving her legs open in the process. “Ohhh,” she was pleased to hear several low moans as various male members of the class contemplated her cunt with obvious enthusiasm

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“Yaroooo….four, thank you, Sir,” she gasped. “As you can all see how she’s spread her legs, boys and girls,” said Maxwell Heddon, “Racy Tracy certainly doesn’t mind delivering the goods in the eye-candy department….” now there were several snorts of raucous laughter, “….for those, unlike me, that enjoy the pleasure of pussy, of course.” Oh, so perhaps Maxwell Heddon was gay then, and didn’t appreciate her best bits? Well, there’d be probably be plenty of other prefects who liked the look of it, starting with Shagger, of course.

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“Yeowweeee….eeee,” she gasped, as that whack had landed on top of one of Shagger’s. Desperately she attempted not to wiggle, nor to rise. It was such a struggle, too. “Five, thank you, Sir,” she said, as her nerves steadied down a little. Where the fuck was her final whack, she wondered? “Were you wanting your final whack, naughty girl?” asked Maxwell Heddon, sourly. Damn him, she thought, he was playing with her. “Yes, Sir,” she replied, “I have all my maths homework to do, and I’m late already.” He stroked her bare bottom with the cane, the same gesture that Shagger had just done. “Ahhh,” she gasped, as it ran over what felt to be various ridges, and which must now be cane marks. “You have only yourself to blame, naughty girl,” he said, didactically, “however, I will put you out of your misery,”

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“Owwwwwwww….owww, six thank you Sir,” she gasped, “thank you for my caning, Sir, I know that I did deserve every whack of it for being late for homework….err….Preparation, I mean.” Damn it, she’d nearly blown it after all that. Hopefully, though, he wouldn’t notice. She held her breath. “Very well, Racy Tracy,” he said, “you may rise and sort yourself out. You can go and sit with H20 at the back.” Always assuming that she knew who H20 was, of course, which she didn’t. Slowly, she stood up. With the class still watching her curiously, she lifted her pink knickers. “Ahhhh,” she gasped, as they scraped across her caned bottom. Now she smoothed down her pink pleated skirt again, and then picked up her overnight bag. She walked stiffly towards the back of the class. Who the hell was H20, she wondered? Shagger hadn’t made that one clear. Was that a bad boy or a naughty girl? Her problem was solved when a bad boy, sitting on his own at a bench built for three, and seemingly strikingly similar to Shagger in both looks and stature, smiled benignly and waved a hand up at her. She sat down on the empty area of bench next to him, “Ahhhh,” she gasped, as the results of her two recent canings suddenly made themselves felt all over again. She lifted her bottom up sharply, and then lowered it more gently this time. Caning, she reflected, was indeed an excellent method of punishment. It wasn’t merely the immediate agony, or the horrendous humiliation for that matter. It was the fact that it lingered on and on….and returned to bite you all over again when you didn’t expect it. She squinted suddenly as H20 quietly slid a sheet of paper across to her portion of the desk without turning his head. He said nothing, but continued with his work. Her eyes focussed on the handwriting,

Welcome to St Sticks, Tracy

Oh, so H20 was evidently in on the plot, it seemed. Thank you Shagger, she thought, for continuing to supply her with a minder. She stared again at the sheet. Heavens, the two bad boys really were so similar, even down to their handwriting.

My name is Harry Herbert Orwell, that’s H20 as you may have heard. Shagger has asked me to show you around this evening. Unless you want more caning, DON’T talk until the end of Prep. DON’T write back to me because all prefects are good at spotting pupils passing notes to each other. I’ll speak to you at 8pm, or when Prep finishes. You’ll hear Big Ben striking, but wait for Max to dismiss us before moving a muscle….if you value your hide.
Love Harry, xxx

Fair enough, she thought, and opened up her overnight bag. Now she took out her St Judes School maths homework, and began working on it. Calculus, she thought, how could anyone be expected to make much sense of it? Still, she’d do her best, even though she was much more used to doing homework of an evening sitting in her bedroom with her favourite music playing very loudly.

It was, she could see from the wall clock, somehow almost 8pm, and she was simply amazed at the amount of work which she’d got done. Maybe there was something to this almost Dickensian ritual of formal Preparation after all? She had to agree that compulsory homework, backed up by a cane carrying prefect, certainly concentrated the mind. The bench upon which she was sitting though, OMG it was so uncomfortable. It was almost as if it had been specially designed to be as uncomfortable as possible to a caned bottom. Maybe, she thought sourly, that it had been? At Stricktlands School, she was now well inclined to believe that such things were not only perfectly possible but, moreover, highly probable. Now she could hear Big Ben striking. Eight chimes came and went, but Maxwell Heddon made no move, despite increasing sounds from outside in the corridor as other classes finished. She continued to write diligently in her maths exercise book. Finally, he stood up. “That concludes Preparation class for this evening,” he said, “all rise.” The whole class stood up at once, and she followed the action automatically. That was another thing which didn’t happen at St Judes either, she thought to herself. Now she could start to see how it was that St Stricktlands School pupils were all so impeccably polite. She watched as Maxwell Heddon walked down the aisle, his cane tucked neatly inside his belt, and carrying a small pile of books, presumably his own Preparation?

As soon as the prefect had disappeared through the doorway, the pupils began to move and to speak to each other. Slowly, she sat down again. “Ahhhh,” she gasped. “Ahhhh,” he gasped, likewise. Oh, so H20 had obviously also been a bad boy quite recently, it appeared? “Thanks for the note, Harry,” she said, “it was really helpful.” She squeezed his hand, and he smiled at her. “You look so similar to Shagger, though,” she suggested, “you’re not related in any way, are you?” He shook his head. “Not at all, Tracy,” he confirmed, “although as you say I do look far too much like Shagger for my own good. My fagmaster hates him, you see, and I remind him of that fact twice a day.” He peered at her. “Shagger has told you about fagging, I take it?” he asked. She shook her head. “Well,” he replied, doubtfully, “I daresay that dorm 6K will have that in hand.” She swallowed. “Does dorm 6K know who I am?” she asked. He nodded. “Oh, yes,” he replied, “since The Six Knackerers contains Mitches And Ritches The Bitches who are, I believe, best friends of yours and therefore know exactly who you are.” She nodded again. “Yes, Harry,” she said, “that’s quite right. It’ll be really good to see them again as well. I was so sorry when they both left St Judes School at the end of last term. I’m truly grateful to Shagger for setting all this up for me. It’s something which….well, I never really expected to experience. You know, to savour St Stricktlands School in the raw, so to speak.” He grimaced. “In the raw is probably about right,” he confirmed, wryly, “since you’ve already had nine whacks so far, and the night is still young.” She stared at him. “Are you telling me that I’m going to get caned again this evening?” she asked, her eyes wide. Surely not, she wondered, since she’d no intention of being naughty? He exhaled, slowly. “You’re definitely down for another standard six of the best before bedtime,” he confirmed, “although it won’t happen as you might expect it. Still, the scenario is quite common for all of us here. I won’t spoil the surprise, though.” Thanks a lot, she thought. “I noticed that you’d….err….been caned fairly recently too,” she said, “what was that for?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve had a fairly bad hair day,” he confirmed, “or, at least, a fairly average afternoon. It was three whacks for me in lesson five, six of the best in lesson six which included three for becoming erected during a beating, a further three in lesson seven….and another six of the best from Rick The Prick during my afternoon fagging duties.” She shivered. “That’s eighteen whacks in all?” she whispered. “Yes, Tracy,” he confirmed, “that’s quite correct. I won’t bore you what I got this morning, of course.” Now she really did shiver. She simply hadn’t believed it when Mitches And Ritches The Bitches had told her how severe was the punishment regime at St Stricktlands School. Here and now, though, she could believe every word of it.

Most of the other pupils had now left the classroom, some offering slightly curious glances in her direction. However the fact that she was apparently chatting happily to Harry Herbert Orwell seemed to satisfy them. “Is Maxwell Heddon gay, by any chance?” she asked. He nodded. “Most certainly he is, Tracy,” he replied, “he was in dorm 6G last year, that being The Six Gays. He’s a good friend of Shagger, I understand.” Slowly, as she packed away her homework, she had another sudden thought. “Are the benches by any chance designed to be especially uncomfortable to a caned bottom, Harry?” she asked. He simply stared at her. “I suppose that was a bit of a stupid question, really,” she said in answer to her own question. H20 finally stood up. “Oh, that’s better,” he said, “now, Tracy, I’ve been instructed to give you a guided tour of the school in advance of the Open Day tomorrow. That should mean that you’re not totally lost all the time when you’re on your own.” He bowed, slightly. “May I carry your bag for you, Ma’am?” he asked. Now she stood up as well. “Ohhh,” she replied, handing it over, “thank you so much.”

They walked hand in hand out of the classroom, and down the long dark cold corridor. Finally, they reached a large locker area, where H20 deposited his own school books. “Did The SS sort you out some exercise books?” he asked. The SS, she wondered? “The School Secretary, Tracy,” he explained, patiently, “did she give you any writing books for tomorrow? Shagger was going to ask her, I do know that.” She nodded. “Yes, Harry,” she replied, “she did. It was just that I hadn’t heard the name….well, nickname, I mean. Does it stand for School Secretary?” He ginned. “It stands for Susan Sweet,Tracy,” he replied, “with a modest tilt towards its original meaning of Schutzstaffel, or protection patrol. Sue’s always one for role-playing Gestapo Girl and prison camp Kommandantin, you see, and it does nicely match her initials, of course.” She shivered slightly. “I’d rather thought that Shagger was winding me up when he said that,” she said in strangled tones. “No, he wasn’t, I assure you,” said H20, evenly, “every word is true. Shagger started off with a monthly sex and interrogation session with her in the spring term last year. By the end of the summer term, it was up to once a week.” He coughed, slightly. “Shagger assures me that my luck may be in with Susie as well, in due course,” he added, half-hopefully, it appeared. “I’ll share my own text books with you tomorrow for your classes,” he continued, “and they’ll be a really interesting inside experience, as well.” She stared at him. “Are they going to be real classes, Harry?” she whispered. “Yes, he replied, with another nod, “that’s how it’s done at St Sticks. The classes themselves are really real, and prospective parents are all allowed to sit at the back of them and watch proceedings. Of course, it’ll be slightly different for you, since you’ll be a pupil….and hence you’ll also be getting caned on occasion, along with the rest of us.” She shivered slightly at the thought of it all. “And the prospective parents still sign for their present or future children to be sent here, then?” she asked. “Most certainly they do, Tracy,” he replied, “and in ever-increasing numbers too. Sue Sweet’s shown me some of the letters of application.” There was no answer to that.

Now they were walking up to what was obviously a refectory. “This is what we call The Canteen, Tracy,” he said, as they stared inside the otherwise empty cavernous area, “meal times are posted up there on the wall. Always be careful to check who’s Canteen Supervisor, because if it’s Reggie or Silage, then it’s a quiet time, and you speak any word whatsoever at your extreme peril. Even Ow, if they’re caning you.” She stared at the wall, and tried to mentally memorize them all. “And….err….Reggie or Silage means what, Harry?” she asked. “Sorry, Tracy,” he replied, “that’s Reginald Beesting, otherwise known as Regular Beating, and Sileas Crabbe, who Shagger always used to call BSc….standing for Bloody Sileas Crabbe. The other important thing that you need to know about The Canteen is that the last pupil out after any mealtime is always awarded three whacks, so be warned.” She swallowed. “Have you ever been….err….Last Out, Harry?” she asked. He grinned, suddenly. “More times than I care to remember, Tracy,” he replied, “it’s a surprisingly easy thing to do when you’re either deep in thought, or chatting to other pupils.” Or chatting up other pupils, she thought, darkly to herself. She really was beginning to take to Harry Herbert Orwell.

He showed her the gymnasium, followed by the main assembly hall, and finally the library. He did, she had to agree, make a good tour guide. “I’ll take you across to the dorm wings now,” he said, as they both left the library and he switched off the lights, “where you’ll be spending tonight. There are two dorm wings, one each for the lower school and upper school. Both are accessed via the main dorm entrance hall, and each have a set of….well, empty echoing stone steps. Each dorm is built around a quadrangle, so you can reach any given dorm by walking either way around.” He paused, for a moment, and she could hear the sounds of a distant caning wafting its way softly through the fabric of the buildings. Shagger hadn’t been exaggerating on the extent of canings at St Stricktlands School either, she thought. “To save you some time in trying to figure it all out, the dorms are all lettered and numbered, the latter being the year, naturally enough. Each year has twenty four dorms, a dozen each for bad boys and naughty girls. The letters don’t run consecutively, so the missing ones can be found in the second sequence of dorms, if that makes sense.” She thought about it. “You mean if a letter isn’t a male dorm then it’ll be a female one on another floor?” she asked. He nodded. “Quite right, Tracy,” he confirmed, “and now, we get to the nastier bits of the regime. There’s a permanent curfew in force between half past nine in the evening and half past six in the morning. Any pupil caught out of dorm during that time is caned, either by the curfew monitor who’s a prefect, or the curfew supervisor who’s a teacher. Lights out for us In The Pink is ten o’clock.” He coughed, slightly. “Did Shagger mention anything about Victim nights to you?” She stared at him, wide-eyes, and shook her head. “Ah well,” he said, “the most popular form of evening activity after Prep is either arranging, or suffering, a Victim night. Or, by prior arrangement with the dorm concerned, you can always offer yourself as a Voluntary Victim. What you get depends on what the dorm kidnapping you wants….or what you want if you’re volunteering yourself for it. My own dorm is 6W, officially The Six Wankers, but with the introduction last year of the Wankometers, we can’t do that any longer. However, we are rather good at….err….oral, and so if that might meet with your approval….?” SLAPP “….ahhh,” he gasped, slightly as she slapped his face. “What do you think I am, Harry?” she asked, hoping that she sounded indignant. “I think that you’re a sex slut, Racy Tracy,” he replied, evenly, “and one who’d enjoy some good old-fashioned oral service, instead of simply being screwed by wham-bam thank you Ma’am men….or so Shagger says, at least.” He stared at her squarely, inviting her to slap him again if she wished. Fuck, she thought, since that was exactly the way of it. She raised her hand, and then lowered it again. “Oh, all right, Harry,” she said, with a slight snigger, “oral it is, if you please….and lots of it.”

Now they reached what was obviously the main dorm entrance hall. “That’s the curfew monitor’s desk,” said H20, “and now we ascend to the top level of the senior school dorm wing.” She could see a number of TV monitors and other assorted electrical equipment. She attempted to look at her watch, and remembered that it wasn’t there. A large wall clock told her that it was 9.17pm. The two of them ascended the empty echoing stone steps. She was puffing slightly by the time that they reached the top. “These are called the quadrangle corridors, Tracy,” he said, “and we walk anticlockwise as being the quickest way to reach W.” Very soon they reached,

Dorm 6W
The Six Wankers

Harry Herbert Orwell, opened the door, and stood aside to let her pass. The first thing that she saw when she walked inside was a large imposing object in the very centre of the dorm. That must be, she thought, the Wankometer. “And very sensitive it is too,” confirmed H20, following her gaze, “since it can detect a male wanking at fifty feet.” Then she gasped slightly, since she could now see three bad boys in the dorm, together with an extremely nude girl. The latter was handcuffed up to a bed head by her wrists and her ankles. Her legs were spread wide, and so her best asset was evidently available for all manner of attention. It appeared that this was for both punishment and pleasure, since she could see a Horrid Hairbrush and a ruler both lying on the bed. All three bad boys turned from the original object of their attentions towards the new arrivals. “Good evening, Orwell,” said a bad boy, coldly, “who’s your little friend?” H20 smiled, slightly. “Please, Sir,” he replied, “I’ve brought the dorm a Voluntary Victim….and one who’d be very happy to have some of the very best oral service that dorm 6W can provide.” Harry Herbert Orwell turned to her. “Tracy,” he said, “this is my dorm captain, John Newcombe.” The latter smiled, gallantly, and then frowned. “I don’t think I know you, Tracy,” he said, “and I’m sure I should. Be a good fellow and introduce us, Orwell.” H20 smiled. “Certainly, Sir,” he said, “this is Theresa Rhys, known as Racy Tracy, of The Six Knackerers.” There were three puzzled faces. “That can’t be right, Orwell,” said another bad boy, “since we know all the naughty girls of dorm 6K, and she’s not one of them….no disrespect, Ma’am.” She wondered whether she ought to confess, but Harry Herbert Orwell fielded the ball for her. “Actually, she is, Lionel,” he said, “but only for this evening. She’s a former school friend of Mitches And Ritches The Bitches. She’s actually attending the Open Day tomorrow you see, but it’s to be a visit with….well, active participation, and with everything that entails, too.” John Newcombe looked slightly shocked, and then stern. “I smell skulduggery, Orwell….and where exactly have you both been for the past two hours, anyway?” he asked. It occurred to her that H20 wasn’t exactly a firm favourite of his dorm captain. “Please, Sir,” replied H20, “I’ve been showing this lovely Lady around the school….on Shagger’s instructions.” There was a sharp outtake of breath. “I might have known that Shagger would feature somewhere in this,” he muttered. “I can always find another dorm to visit if you don’t fancy me,” she suggested, hoping to sound both put-out and petulant at the same time. John Newcombe’s manner changed at once. “Oh, no….Ma’am,” he replied, immediately, “perish the thought. We’ll all be delighted and honoured to….err….deal with you, won’t we?” he asked, looking at the remaining two bad boys. “Yes, Ma’am….” said Lionel, “….immediately, Ma’am,” said the second bad boy. Or even sooner, she thought….and hoped.

“Bastards,” said a female voice from the bed. “Are you going to stop doing me now,” she asked, “just as it was getting interesting? What’s she got that I haven’t got, anyway?” John Newcombe turned, smiled, and stroked her upturned cunt. “Uhhhh,” she moaned. “Patience, Patience,” he replied, “we’ve plenty of tongue for the two of you. Anyway, abstinence always makes the tart grow fonder.” There was a sharp outtake of breath from the bed. “I’m going to get you for that, John Newcombe,” said Patience, “just wait till dorm 6J gets hold of your balls. I promise you that I for one am going to Nuke’em.” All the male members of the dorm sniggered at this, and Theresa Rhys suspected that this was a witty wordplay on his name. Possibly even, it was his nickname? “Please Tracy, Ma’am,” said John Newcombe, with a slight bow, “perhaps I might invite you to remove all of your clothes, and we’ll be happy to address your….err….needs.” So he’d prefer her in the pink, rather than In The Pink. Slowly, teasingly, she stripped off her clothes, dropping them onto the floor. “That’s a bit of a giveaway, now that you mention it,” said Lionel to the dorm at large. H20 nodded. “I’ll explain it to her later,” he confirmed. What was it, she wondered? That was the second time that evening that someone had made a mysterious point about how she undressed. “You can do the defenestration, Orwell,” said John Newcombe, “whilst Lionel and I make a start on Tracy.” Defenestration, she wondered, what the fuck was that? “Orwell,” he said, “perhaps you and Phillip can continue with Postscript for the moment.” That, she thought, was obviously Patience’s nickname, though she’d have to ask H20 for its derivation, since it wasn’t at all obvious. “I’m so sorry, Ma’am,” he said, turning to her, “but we’ve no more handcuffs.” She smiled, and lay down on an otherwise empty bed. “It’s no problem, John,” she replied, “I’ll be happy to hold my ankles apart for you, if Lionel could help as well.”

Somehow it was all so erotic. The idea that she wasn’t going to get fucked, but merely to have her pussy pleased was so intoxicatingly exciting that her heart was thumping hard. Now she held up her legs, and spread them wide, just like the sex slut she knew she was, “Who’s first?” she asked, as Lionel also took hold of her legs. John Newcombe sat down, and stroked her cunt, reflectively. “Uhhh,” she moaned at his touch. “Wet, I see already,” he confirmed, “my, you certainly are Racy, Tracy.” Ha bloody ha, of course. Now he leaned forward, and gave her several really long licks. “Uhh….uhhh….uhhhh,” she moaned. Oh, this was so good. John Newcombe nuzzled her cunt with his nose, and then delved deeper inside. Obviously, she thought, he knew exactly what he was doing. She’d never known such skills in bad boys of her own age. Her male peers at St Judes didn’t seem to have a clue in this important area. “Ahh,” she gasped, as she felt him take her clit right into his mouth, something which nobody had ever done to her before. “Ah…ahh….ahhh….ahhhh,” she gasped in increasing urgency. He took her clit between his teeth, stretched it, and nuzzled it with his tongue. “Ahhhh….more,” she moaned. “AYEEE,” she shouted, as he bit it. OMG, she was going to cum. “AYEEEE,” she shouted again, “I’m cumming, I’m cumming….YESS.” John Newcombe released her clit, and slowly stood up. Lionel released her legs, and slowly her breathing settled. She opened her eyes to find John Newcombe wiping his face. “I’m so sorry, John,” she said, “did I do that?” He nodded, gravely, “It’s my pleasure, Ma’am,” he replied, “and now it’s the turn of The Lion King.” Another nickname that she’d have to discover its derivation, she thought, even as John Newcombe took hold of her legs and lifted them up again. “Uhhh….uhhhh….uhhhhh….YESS,” she moaned in sheer ecstasy, cumming again almost at once. “We’ll say our au revoirs, Ma’am,” and John Newcombe, releasing her legs, “and swap with Phillip and Orwell.” She offered him a hand, and he shook it, gravely. “Thank you both,” she said, with complete sincerity.

She was left on her own for several seconds, and then H20 and Phillip appeared by her bed. “This is Phillip Zimmermann, Tracy,” he said. “Pleased to meet you, Phillip,” she said, shaking his hand. She lifted her legs again, and Harry Herbert Orwell took hold of them. “Off you go, Fizz,” he said, as Phillip Zimmermann moved into position. She was on such a sexual high that this really wasn’t going to take very long. She’d never been gang-banged like this before, but having now got the taste for it, she certainly hoped that she’d now be able to manage threesomes at the very least. “Uhhh….uhhhh….uhhhhh….uhhhhhh,” she moaned, as her cunt was teased and pleased. Her legs started to shake again slightly, “Uhhhhh….yes…..OMG yes….YESS.” She could feel herself spurting more cunt cream again. Fizz stood up, and wiped his left eye with a smile. “A good one, Ma’am?” he asked, politely. She exhaled and opened her eyes. “Uhhhh….uhhhh…..uhhhh,” she heard from the next bed, “Oh yes….again….harder….YES….YESS.” So, Patience had obviously been rewarded, she thought, in more ways than one. Now Harry Herbert Orwell lowered her legs. “My turn, Ma’am?” he asked, politely. She nodded. “Yes please, Harry,” she replied, “last but not least, of course.” He moved into position as Fizz lifted her legs for her. It was just as well now, since her strength had gone. “UHH….UHHH….UHHHH,” she gasped. Gracious, he was GOOD, she thought, as his busy tongue licked her into shape. Desperately she tried to stop herself from cumming too quickly, so that she could prolong the pleasure. “UHHH….UHHHH,” she shouted, “Oh, Harry….HARRY….UHHHH….YES….YESS.” She felt herself falling over the edge again. “AYEEE,” she shrieked as he bit her clit really hard. Simple sex would never be the same again, she thought, as she came and came, shaking all over. Fizz lowered her legs. She lay gasping on the bed for what seemed to be several minutes. “If I could have my clothes back now, Harry,” she asked, looking around for them expectantly. He seemed slightly embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, Tracy,” he said, “but I’ve already defenestrated them, as instructed.” She stared at him. “Which means?” she asked. “It means that they’re outside in the quadrangle courtyard, Tracy,” said Phillip Zimmermann. “Which means, I fear,” said H20, “that you’ll have to go downstairs to get them.” She looked at them both, suddenly fearing the worst. “But it’s after curfew time,” she said wildly, looking up at the dorm wall clock which read 9.42pm. H20 nodded. “Exactly, Tracy,” he confirmed, “which means that you’ll get three whacks for being undressed, and three whacks for being out of dorm. It’s the final indignity for any Victim night you see, Voluntary or otherwise.” Well, he’d warned her that she’d get another six of the best before bedtime, and here it was. “I’ll escort you downstairs, Tracy,” he said, picking up her overnight bag as he spoke, “since you’ll still need to find dorm 6K afterwards.”

Slowly, she stood up, and rubbed her cunt. It felt good….so good. She glanced at the second bed, and saw that John Newcombe and Lionel were still engaged in pleasing Patience. “Thank you so much, Phillip,” she said, kissing his mouth. “Any time, Tracy,” he replied. She offered H20 her hand. “Once more into the breach, Harry,” she said, as he took it. Together they walked out of the dorm. “That was so good, thank you, Harry,” she said, as they walked down the quadrangle corridor, “you must have been taught by an expert.” He nodded. “I was indeed,” he confirmed, “by my former class teacher from my old school, soon to be head of 5th form here, Beatrice Dolores Simone Milker.” She sniggered. “So that’s BDSM, then?” she asked, sourly. He nodded. “Exactly so,” he replied, “and whilst I remember, it was Patience Smith on the second bed. That’s PS, you see?” Oh, she thought, hence Postscript. “Fizz, I explained to you. There was also Lionel Kingdom, hence The Lion King, and John Newcombe is indeed known as Nuke’em. The other two members of my dorm are presently missing, but probably tied up somewhere, and being dealt with by some seriously naughty girls.”

Slowly, they walked down the echoing stone steps. “What does dorm 6J stand for, Harry?” she asked, “assuming that it stands for something?” He nodded, “All dorms stand for something, Tracy,” he confirmed, “and indeed that one is next door to yours. It’s The Six Jeune Filles, that one.” Now she could sense that the stone steps weren’t completely empty either, since she could see the shadows of a number of figures further downstairs, presumably other Victims. An entirely naked boy suddenly appeared in front of them, carrying a pile of bright blue clothes. He smiled, slightly at them both, and walked past without a word. “That’s a 5th former, what we call one of The Boys In Blue,” said H20. “By the way, I tidied your clothes and dropped them in a single pile for you, Tracy,” he went on, “so when you step outside of the main entrance door, turn right. Then look for the fourth drainpipe along and you should find them fairly easily. I’ll wait for you on the first level landing if you don’t mind, otherwise I’ll get caned myself.” He squeezed her hand. “One other thing, Harry?” she asked, “what is it with everyone when I take my clothes off? Lionel said it was a giveaway, and I saw Shagger and The SS giving each other funny looks, too.” He shook his head. “Tidiness evidently hasn’t been caned into you, Tracy,” he explained, “as it has all of us inmates, you see. We always leave our clothes lying folded neatly and impeccably tidy. It’s something which you should bear in mind….unless you don’t mind having to bare it.” Oh, very clever, she thought, but it was good to know. She’d never had to care about clothes, since her mother had always folded and tidied them up after her. What, she wondered, if she were to be given the cane every time she failed to sort out her clothes properly? Certainly that might put the matter into a different perspective. Suddenly, she could see that the strict disciplinary regime at the school might produce all manner of acceptable social skills. She reached forward, held his neck, and kissed him, hard. “I’ll see you soon then, bad boy,” she whispered, as they approached the final set of stone steps leading down to the curfew monitor’s desk. He waved to her, and retreated into the gloom.

Very quietly, she walked down the final steps, and stood next to the curfew monitor’s desk. The girl prefect glanced up only briefly from her book “Go and find your stuff,” she ordered, without obvious enthusiasm, “there’s several more pupils outside as we speak. I’ll deal with you on your return.” She returned to her book. Racy Tracy curtseyed politely. “Yes, Ma’am,” she replied, wondering what it would feel like to be caned by a girl prefect? Much the same as a male, her mind replied. She was still on a sexual high having endured, or rather enjoyed, multiple orgasms only moments before, and the prospect of a good hard punishment caning wasn’t something that she was terribly worried about right now. She walked outside through the open door, and surveyed the scene. In the semi-darkness she could indeed spot several pink figures walking around. A younger boy passed her at that moment, carrying what appeared to be another pile of bright blue clothes. He must, she thought, be another….what were they called? Yes, one of The Boys In Blue. Now she turned right, and walked along the outside wall, trying to find the drainpipes to count. One….two….three….and, yes, finally, number four. She looked around, trying to attune her eyes to the lack of light. Finally, she found where her clothes had fallen. At least, she hoped that they were hers. A horrible thought occurred to her that they might belong to Patience Smith, whose clothes were presumably due for similar defenestration in due course? Without warning, another pile of presumably pink clothes landed on the ground just yards away from her. She took three steps towards it, and picked up a shoe. Patience Smith, it read inside. Excellent, she thought, so the original set were definitely hers. Now she scurried around and picked up her second shoe that had bounced badly off the original pile. She checked, carefully, to see that it wasn’t otherwise identified. Should she get dressed, she wondered? No, she thought, since neither of The Boys in Blue had bothered to do so, and presumably it was therefore customary to be caned without clothes upon one’s return inside the building.

She walked briskly back towards the dorm wing entrance doors, noting the number of dark shadows along the way still diligently searching for various recalcitrant items of apparel. She stepped inside, and the curfew monitor looked up at her again, this time with a slight surprise. “That was quick work,” she said, “you’ve only been gone a couple of minutes.” She curtseyed politely. “Please, Ma’am,” she replied, “I was lucky that the clothes had all fallen in a neat pile.” The Prefect nodded. “That was nice of someone, then,” she said sourly, standing up as she spoke, and picking up her cane from the desk. She walked around the desk, and now Theresa Rhys could see her clearly for the first time. It was the first female prefect that she’d seen, and she could well understand their fascination by the bad boys. A basic black uniform except for the obligatory white blouse. However what especially stood out was the black boots which came complete with four inch high stiletto heels. “Put the clothes down on the desk and bend over, naughty girl,” she said sternly, “and be quick about it too, since I expect that there’ll be quite a lot more customers back inside very shortly.” She complied at once.

Swishhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkk….Swishhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkk
“Oww,” she gasped, at the sudden sting of two whacks staccato style. OMG, she’d almost jumped up as well, and that would never do. She forced herself to stay still. “Two, thank you Ma’am,” she belatedly remembered to add. Now she could see that another two and younger naughty girls had now entered back inside, one with a brown pile of clothes and one blue.

Swishhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkk….Swishhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkk
“Ouch….ouch,” she gasped, “four, thank you Ma’am. A further three bad boys had now arrived.

Swishhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkk….Swishhhhhthwackkkkkkkkkk
“Yeoweeee….six, thank you Ma’am,” she gasped, “thank you for my punishment, Ma’am. I know I needed to be caned for being undressed and….err….out of dorm.” She hoped that she’d got the caning mantra all correct. She looked into the sudden sea of faces, and saw a certain sympathy. Well, of course, they were all due for exactly the same in a few minutes’ time. “Your name and dorm for my beat sheet, naughty girl,” ordered the prefect sternly. She stood up, slowly, fervently wishing that she might be allowed to rub her caned bottom, and knowing that she couldn’t. “Please, Ma’am,” she replied, “it’s Rhys….spelled R H Y S, Theresa, of dorm 6K.” She watched as the prefect wrote down her details without adverse comment. Thank you Shagger, she thought, for the crash course in caning etiquette. She’d certainly never have managed without it. “Off you go, naughty girl,” said the prefect, “and the next customer, right this way, please.” She flexed her cane meaningfully as she spoke. Racy Tracy felt that she rather deserved to at least see someone else get caned for once, however a dismissal it definitely was. She picked up her pile of pink clothes, and headed off up the empty stone steps.

Harry Herbert Orwell was waiting for her on the first landing level. “Ouch,” she said, ruefully, “it’s such a shame that I can’t rub right now.” He smiled, slyly. “I can do that small chore for you, if you’d like me to, Tracy,” he replied, with an obviously avuncular eye, “it’s a slight defect in the school rules, you see. Rubbing a caned bottom is strictly prohibited, but only by its owner. You can always ask anyone else to do it for you without any fear of reprisal.” She took a deep breath. “Rub it for me then, you arrogant bastard,” she said, “and be quick about it.” She turned away from him to allow him to do the deed, and bent forward slightly. He knelt down on his knees behind her and gently rubbed both bare buttocks, one with each hand. “Ohh….ohh,” she moaned, gently, “oh, that’s so nice.” He continued to rub for what seemed forever, and she could feel herself drifting away on a sea of sensual pleasure. She forced herself back to reality. “Thank you, Harry,” she said, “I so appreciated that.” He stood up again and picked up her overnight bag. “Now, Tracy,” he said, “we’d best get you to dorm 6K. It’s almost all the way upstairs again, I’m afraid.”

They continued to walk up the stone steps, now hand in hand. A great pity, she thought, that she wasn’t going to be able to….well, show her appreciation to him for all that he’d done for her. In the usual way, of course, hell, she could see that he fancied her something rotten. Now a number of other naked and nude figures passed them along their weary way. Evidently, Friday night was a popular night with Victims….or, more accurately she thought, their kidnappers at least. She started towards another flight of steps, but Harry Herbert Orwell held her back. “We’re here, Tracy,” he said, “this is the lower 6th form girls’ level.” She’d never have known, since all the floors seemed the same. Now they turned to walk along the quadrangle corridor. “Dorm 6K is almost as far away as one can get,” he said, “so it doesn’t make much difference which way round you walk. It’s actually six of one….but seven of the other. She walked wonderingly past Dorm 6A, which proudly proclaimed itself to be The Six Arses Licked. “And very nice arses they are, too, Tracy,” he confirmed, following her eyes. A number of male moans from inside at that moment seemed to confirm the theory. Dorm 6B proclaimed itself to be The Six Bi’s, and it also had a sort of red symbol on it. “It’s the old British Rail symbol,” he explained, “and it means, basically, that the dorm goes both ways, so to speak.” She nodded, noting that the next dorm in line was 6F. “The Six Canees, The Six Demeaners and The Six Each Ways are all bad boys’ dorms,” he explained, “and so they’re all upstairs. “Are The Six Frustrators good at their job. Harry?” she asked, sourly. “They certainly are, Tracy,” he replied, if you care to listen for a second?” They stopped, and now she could hear much more male moaning from inside. “Ahhhh….mercy, Ma’am,” said a faint male voice, “I can’t take any more frustration, really I can’t….” SLAPP “…..ahhh,” and a sudden silence. “Of course you can, bad boy,” came a soft female reply, “we’ve still almost another half hour yet….” She shivered slightly, and he pulled her hand. She walked on, reluctantly, and then stopping to stare at the next dorm door, “The Six Sets Of High Heels are good at all manner of frustrations in their own way too,” he said, “of which you so recently saw a specimen.” She had, she wondered? “Jane Calamine, prefect, who just caned you….well, she was in dorm 6H last year, you see. Calamity Jane always did like her high-heeled boots, and now that she’s a prefect, she wears them all the time.” Somehow, it was all terribly appropriate, Racy Tracy thought to herself. “The Six Inches are downstairs, and as I said earlier, dorm 6J is Postscript’s….when she finally makes it back. And so here we are,”

Dorm 6K
The Six Knackerers
The Shagger Society

The secondary logo appeared to be a temporary addition by the present incumbents. “This year’s dorm 6K is also known somewhat sourly as his cunt club,” he said, “but as such, it’s working well for you right now. One of his little cuties is spending the night with him in his study, which releases a bed in here, you see. Hence you’re able to be an honorary member of dorm 6K without any upset….” he coughed, slightly, “….it’s a real honour Tracy, really it is. There’s many a naughty girl who’d give their eye-teeth to have a bed in The Six Knackerers.” He opened the door as he spoke, and held it for her to enter. She walked inside, and saw at once that the layout was identical to the bad boys’ dorms upstairs, except that there was no Wankometer. Surely naughty girls wanked, she wondered? “The Ladies are deemed not to do that sort of thing, Tracy,” he murmured acerbically, apparently following her thought processes without effort. “Oh, my,” she said, since she could see two bad boys, both naked, and both strung up by their balls in the centre of the dorm. They were both bending forward and held not only by their balls, but also by their wrists as well. Both were also pleasing pussies….and she knew both of their owners well. Mitches And Ritches The Bitches both waved at her, and pulled back, leaving two red male faces, “Allow me to also introduce you to my two missing members of dorm 6W, Tracy,” said H20, “this is Matthew Moss….” she saw Mitchell Mary Murphy slap the red face. SLAPP “…..ahhhh,” he gasped, “….also The Matmos, and Gordon Florist….” SLAPP “….ahhhh,” gasped the other bad boy, “….known as Floored Gord. Guys, this here is Theresa Rhys, or Racy Tracy.” Both bad boys looked up at them in obvious discomfort. “I’m honoured to meet you, Ma’am,” said The Matmos. “I’m so sorry that I can’t shake hands right now, Ma’am,” added Floored Gord, “but I’m a little tied up….AYEEE,” he shouted, as a riding crop flashed upwards and bit his balls. “Where have you both been?” asked the perpetrator, slightly petulantly, “we’ve had these two hanging around here for hours waiting for you. They’re all yours Tracy, for knackering, cropping or whatever turns you on.” Such fun, she thought. “Sorry, Sharon,” said Harry Herbert Orwell, not sounding sorry at all, “but the grand tour took time, you know, and then there was her Voluntary Victim night upstairs in 6W….” his voice trailed off as he saw the expressions on his dorm mates faces. “Have we missed out on Racy Tracy?” asked The Matmos, plaintively. Theresa Rhys smiled slightly. “It was only me getting oral, bad boys,” she said, “and you can both give it to me now, if you want?” The expressions on both bad boys’ faces indicated quite clearly that they did indeed both, ‘want.’ H20 dropped her overnight bag onto an otherwise empty bed, and was accosted by the girl named Sharon who was at once whispering something into his ear. Racy Tracy removed her pink pleated skirt, and shimmied down her knickers. Then she moved forward into position, with Matthew Moss’s head hard up against her cunt. “All the rest of dorm 6W have already done me,” she said encouragingly, “and I’m still extremely randy, so this won’t take very long….uhhhh,” she moaned, as his busy tongue started its work. “Oh, FUCK, Harry,” she said, arching her head back, “dorm 6W certainly does know how to please pussy.” She looked around for H20, and discovered that he was now kneeling down naked in front of Sharon, and servicing her similarly. “Uhhhh….uhhhhh….YES….YESS,” she shouted, even as Sharon was shouting the same thing. Her world wavering, she moved around The Matmos to Floored Gord. Now it was his turn, “Uhhhh….uhhhh….uhhhh,” she moaned, “yes….YESS.” She watched, fascinated, as she saw Harry Herbert Orwell now contemplating another cunt, that of her friend 3M.

“Allow me to introduce myself, Tracy,” said Sharon, slightly breathlessly, “my name is Sharon Schweppes, and I am your dorm captain for tonight.” Theresa Rhys watched as H20 completed his work, to much moaning from Mitches, and moved to start on Ritches. “You won’t get to meet Foul Mouth tonight,” she went on, “since she’s currently being Shaggered, as I expect Harry has told you. However, that does mean that you can have her bed.” She pointed across the dorm, and it seemed that H20 must have known whose bed she was going to get, since it was the one with her overnight bag on it. “Let me just cut these two loose, whilst Harry has his Hotty Totty.” Where had Harry’s clothes gone, she wondered? Uh huh, she thought, since an otherwise open dorm window provided the obvious answer. His clothes had presumably been….what was it? Yes, defenestrated, that was it, and now the poor sod would have to accept six of the best from Calamity Jane downstairs for all his best efforts. It wasn’t fair….but then, nothing at St Stricktlands School was, she remembered. She watched as Sharon Schweppes released the shackles which bound both bad boys. “Ohhh, Ma’am,” they both moaned in obvious relief. “Thank you, bad boys, you’ve all pleased us well this evening,” said Sharon Schweppes. “Who’s on evening curfew, by the way Harry?” asked the very pretty girl who Sharon Schweppes had called his Hotty Totty. H20 smiled. “It’s Calamity Jane, Holly,” he replied. “Well,” she replied, giving him a quick kiss, “at least all three of you will enjoy her kinky boots, I’m sure.” Now all three bad boys started to walk towards the dorm door. “I’ll see you at breakfast, if that’s all right, Harry?” she called out towards him. He turned. “Yes, Ma’am,” he replied, gallantly, “see you then.” Suddenly, the dorm was quiet. Mitches And Ritches The Bitches walked up to her. “It’s so good to see you again, Tracy,” said Mitchell Mary Murphy, giving her a hug. “Indeed it is,” said Richella Ruth Rhodes, following her friend’s lead. “A very warm welcome to St Stricktlands School, Tracy,” said Shhh, “it’s almost lights out time now, and so it’s bedtime for babies. I’ll make the other introductions tomorrow, and we can follow the formalities then. We’ve plenty of time tomorrow morning, since it’s a Saturday.” What difference did that make, she wondered? Well, presumably Sharon would explain it all then. “As our illustrious dorm captain has just said….” said 3M, “….welcome to St Sticks,” added 3Arse.

To be continued……