A Difference of Style

A St Angela’s story from Roué 10

It was Tuesday, the last lesson before lunch, and Mr Trulove was beginning 6A’s physics lesson with what he described as an ‘experiment to realise the latent heat embodied in kinetic energy’. 6A were taking notes, though mentally, and it was Millicent Peters who was the unwilling subject of the demonstration.

Millicent was a pupil who embodied every one of those ideal qualities which a St Angela’s schoolmaster might look for in a girl: she was passably pretty, pretty well-rounded and pretty damned stupid — attributes which made hers a potential smacked bottom in every classroom in the school. Young Millicent had this morning provided an adequate excuse for the physics master to upend her across his knee for her third spanking in consecutive physics lessons — she had forgotten to present the two hundred lines she’d been given on Monday, these lines being additional to the smacked bottom she’d been given on that day. Her snug school knickers then were in the very process of being peeled down off her frequently spanked bum when there sounded a timid ‘tap-tap’ at the classroom door. With Millicent’s thighs still pressing nervously together in a vain attempt to impede the descent of her pants, Mr Trulove was obliged to interrupt the denudation of his favourite pair of buttocks in order to invite the tap-tapper to enter.

‘C-c-c-.’ He tried again. ‘C-come in!’ His was an affliction particularly unfortunate for a schoolmaster. The tapper-of-door c-came in, her hesitancy as she saw the naked preparedness of Millicent’s plump bum an unconscious mockery of Mr Trulove’s stammer.

‘P-please sir —’ There it was again.

‘Yes — ?’

‘Sir — Mr P-Payne sends his condiments, and would you please see him in his st-study before lunch.’ A few of the girls risked a muffled giggle, though for most the sight of Millicent’s bottom twitching anxiously over the teacher’s lap was a sufficient discouragement.

‘You may t-tell Mr Payne that I shall c-c-come immediately after the c-conclusion of this lesson, thank you.’

‘Oh —’ The girl hesitated before she said, ‘D-do I have to actually g-go and tell him that sir? I think he’s in the p-punishment room.’

‘W-why shouldn’t you, pray?’

‘Well —’ She dried up, unable to voice a convincing reason, though certainly she had a good one. It was well known amongst the girls that it was the height of folly to interrupt anyone, and particularly the headmaster, who was using the little room under the main stairway for that purpose for which it had been designed and equipped.

‘Run along g-girl, and do as you’re t-told!’

‘Yes sir —’ she backed out of the door, nibbling worriedly at her lip. Millicent’s bared bottom now reassumed its role of experimental apparatus, was patted fondly by its intending chastiser, and squirmed in panicky anticipation of imminent calamity. This squirminess was nonchalantly slapped into a state of precarious self-control by Mr Trulove with a stammering enjoinder to ‘K-k-keep your unruly b-backside still, M-Miss Peters!’

‘Ooh, s-sir — p-please — !’ Everyone was at it this morning.

‘Now then — with the application of a little k-kinetic energy —.’

The energy in Mr Trulove’s palm, applied briskly to the girl’s bottom, produced, besides a certain amount of the intended heat, a series of plaintive squeals which Millicent uttered in between gasps of distress. The animated swivelling of her hips could have been regarded as a by-product. Thirty or more carefully placed spanks settled the unfortunate girl’s bottom into a kind of metronomic oscillation, a swerving from side to side combined with a bouncing up and down which Mr Trulove cleverly contrived to meet with a resounding spank at the apogee of each frantic gyration. Millicent began to blubber tearfully, while the schoolmaster established himself in a regular application of palm to heated bottom which promised the now silently watching girls a particularly emphatic demonstration of the translation of disciplinary enthusiasm into schoolgirlish desperation.

Downstairs, meanwhile, the bearer-of-messages approached the punishment room with some trepidation, to find that there was a three-girl queue waiting miserably outside. She joined this queue, and at once she wished she hadn’t when the door opened and a weeping, bare-bottomed, knicker-shuffling girl stumbled through the doorway and crouched down to retrieve her pants, skirt still tucked up at her waist to display her cane-wealed bum to the open-mouthed gaggle of fellow pupils.

‘Next!’ boomed a headmasterly voice from within the little room.

‘Ooh — oooo — oohoo —’ whimpered the girl next in line.

Mr Payne, florid-cheeked from having caned seven disobedient bottoms already, appeared irritably in the doorway, a cane quivering in his hand. ‘Who’s next!’ he demanded. The girl who should have been next apparently had been struck dumb by the appearance of this cane-bearing apparition, and neither of the other girls was at all anxious to usurp her priority.

‘Right — you! Get in here!’

‘Oh, b-but sir —’

‘This instant!’

‘Ooooh —’ A beautifully aimed flick of the cane smacked wickedly up under the message-bearer’s short skirt as she found herself unable to resist the headmaster’s command and wandered hesitantly through the door.

‘Ooow! Ooooh — no — p-please sir — !’ The door slammed with the echo of finality.

‘Name?’

‘Vir-Virginia Craythorpe, sir — but —’

‘Form?’

‘Eight B, sir — but —’

‘Who sent you?’

‘M-Mr Trulove sir — but —’

‘Knickers down.’

‘But sir — please sir — !’

‘Get ‘em down girl!’

‘Y-yes sir — but p-please sir —’ The cane swished wickedly, swooshing as it sliced the air. Virginia’s knickers descended her long thighs in fits and starts, the starts more the result of repeated cane-swishings than any willingness on her part. They turned inside-out as they were edged down to half-mast. Virginia stuttered out several more ‘buts’ and half-a-dozen ‘please sir’s’, and the message-bringer shortly found herself bottom-uppermost over the back of the room’s single chair, absence of guilt notwithstanding.

‘Please, oh please sir — !’

Thwack, thwack, thwack!

Rosy fingers sprang up across the innocent’s jerking buttocks, and — Thwack, whack, thwack! — three more weals joined the first flushing cane marks.

‘Ooow — ooooh — oooooo — !’ Poor, misjudged Virginia wriggled the punishment room dance and wailed several verses of the school song, while Mr Payne beat time with his baton and gave the wretch three over the dozen for being so slow in getting her pants down.

Meanwhile, as Virginia’s bum was being decorated with the headmaster’s personal monogram, upstairs in Mr Trulove’s class Millicent’s fat young bottom lay tremblingly under the physics master’s hand, glowing with an inner heat which had fully vindicated the theory propounded.

‘Now get yourself up on your feet, my girl —’ a crisp spank urged instant compliance ‘ —and leave your knickers just where they are.’

Millicent, lower lip pouting quiveringly, scrambled off Mr Trulove’s lap and brushed at the tears streaming down her cheeks. She whined dismally, ‘— oh sir, my bum sir — ooh, it stings sir —’ and she was still whining when she had been ordered face down over the front of her desk and her classmates had formed a queue to examine the results of Mr Trulove’s experiment. One by one they filed past the girl’s crimsoned buttocks and placed a tentative hand on the toasted rotundity of Millicent’s bottom. Mr Trulove balanced his chair on two legs and found that the line of solemn-faced girls shuffling past Millicent’s bum reminded him irresistibly of a queue of mourners at the lying-in-state of some East European dictator. He laughed silently, rocking gently on his chair, and wondering what it was the headmaster might want.