School Days
A St Angela’s story from Roué 6
It was afternoon, sunlight shone through the lofty windows
of the classroom, dust particles floated as if weightless in the slanting
streams of light, and a girl stood stumbling over her words at her desk as she
groped hopelessly for an excuse to offer which would explain the completely
blank page in her exercise book which should have contained yesterday’s prep.
She subsided into silence, eyes frightened, knuckles white as she wrung her hands
behind her back. The teacher raised an ironic eyebrow.
‘So in other words miss, you haven’t done your prep
because you couldn’t be bothered. Is that right?’
‘N-no sir. It’s just that — that — I couldn’t make time
sir, I mean, my other prep, had to be d-done sir, an — and —’
‘And you felt that the work I had set you could wait — is
that it?’
‘No sir — only I ran out of time sir — and my other prep
was for Mr Soames sir, an — and if you don’t do Mr Soames’s prep, sir — y-you
get whacked sir — ‘
The smile on the teacher’s face was almost angelic.
‘And what d’you suppose I will do, since you chose not to
do the work I set — eh?’
‘Um — mm —’ The wretched girl knew very well what would
happen. What prompted her to mention getting whacked by Mr Soames she couldn’t
imagine, unless it was the conscious expression of her worst fears which had
made her bring the subject up.
The one other factor which might have had some bearing on
it was the line of navy-knickered bottoms which was staring her in the face
from the front row of desks, four pairs of buttocks with school knickers
stretched tight across their girlish plumpness, four pairs of knees kneeling
uncomfortably on chairs, and four classmates bent forward across the desks,
heads down and soon-to-be-punished bottoms sitting defencelessly up in the air.
She knew perfectly well that she was going to get ‘whacked’ anyway, just as she
and everyone of her form-mates had been whacked in the past, and she’d get it
every bit as hard as she would have from Mr Soames.
Hands behind her back, she flattened out her palms around
her pertly rounded bottom in an unconscious movement, the thought of what was
coming to her sometime during the lesson making her want to pee. She pressed
her thighs together and the feeling went away — unlike Mr Evans, who remained
solidly at his desk and who raised the other eyebrow so that he looked like a
fat and inquisitive cat with his bristling side whiskers.
‘Well my girl — since you are apparently quite content to
let me waste my time teaching you, you will not object if I waste some of your
time after this lesson — am I right Sally?’
‘Y-yes sir’ Her voice was a whisper.
‘Fine,’ Mr Evans slid open the drawer of his desk and
produced a short, sturdy cane rather less than two feet long which rattled
against the desk as he stood up, the sound, and by implication the imminence of
that same cane’s arrival across their impudently presented bottoms, causing
consternation amongst the four unfortunates whose prep, though completed, had
failed to satisfy the exacting Mr Evans. Nervous bum-cheeks huddled inside the
flimsy protection of worn and faded navy knickers, and bare thighs squeezed
anxiously together while heads bobbed and followed the progress of the cane
which was flourished quite deliberately in front of the bending girls’ noses as
Mr Evans paced with measured tread along the line of the front row of desks.
Mr Evans was something of a humourist, and the
by-no-means-unfamiliar sight of teenage bottoms stretching the seams of snug
school knickers prompted him to produce one of his witticisms, which was
directed at the upturned bottom of one of the girls waiting unhappily for her
third dose of the cane’s medicine that week.
‘D’you know girls — when I was asked by someone the other
day to describe Lucy, the only thing I could remember was that she had large,
pink cheeks. At the time I thought it odd — but now I see where I got that
mental image from.’ Mr Evans beamed cheerfully at the rest of the class, who
tittered obediently while Lucy’s bottom nipped its plump buttocks together in
embarrassment. The cane tapped these round, feminine cheeks by way of emphasis
and poor Lucy gasped. The tension too much for her.
Mr Evans chuckled, and enquired, ‘What’s the matter Lucy —
getting cold feet, eh?’
Lucy’s nervously squeaky voice complained ruefully, ‘It’s
not my feet I’m worried about sir,’ and this readily understandable comment,
brought a shrill squeal of semi-suppressed laughter from the back of the
classroom. Mr Evan’s eyes sought round for this unwise individual and found her
hiding her mirth behind her hands.
‘Come here child!’
The girl’s amusement died at once. Suddenly pale-faced she
got uncertainly to her feet and came down the aisle between the desks.
‘If you think it’s funny getting your backside tanned,
then perhaps you’d like to join these four over a desk, eh?’
The girl stuttered ‘s-s-sorry sir,’ but she knew it was
pointless. A gesture from Mr Evans sent a girl scurrying from the last desk in
the front row, and no more than an eloquent wave of the cane was needed to
persuade the giggler up on to the chair and across the desk, her navy blue
pants appearing without another word from Mr Evans. Silence fell on the class,
and the irritable swish of the cane through the dusty air set the bottoms
twitching in anticipation again, though now there were five. No one was meant
to laugh at anyone’s jokes, unless they were Mr Evans’.
The teacher paced along the row again, and then back, and
the realisation that there was now another bottom for his cane seemed to
dissipate his irritability. He smacked the short, thick implement playfully
across Lucy’s upthrust bottom and the smile returned to his face as Lucy
squirmed her round young bum and bleated miserably.
‘Right — now then, what d’you think these wretches
deserve, eh? Half a dozen each — what about that?’
Several girls mumbled agreement while the rest nodded with
varying degrees of enthusiasm. It was all play-acting of course, intended to
amuse Mr Evans and humiliate the girls bent over the desks.
‘Right — six each!’
One of the girls whose tight-stretched pants were about to
become the target for this generally agreed half dozen stingers moaned in
protest. Her defenceless bum being within range of the cane, this was rashness
indeed. A swish, a thwack!, and suddenly her knickers
were wriggling agitatedly and her pained gasps sounded loudly in the quiet.
‘Silence in the ranks’ boomed the ebullient Mr Evans. ‘I
want to hear nothing but ‘Ouch’ and ‘Ow’ and the odd ‘Sorry Sir’ now and then!’
and with an extravagant flourish of his arm he brought the cane swooshing down
across Lucy’s drum-taut knickers.
Lucy squealed and wriggled her bottom, and the cane landed
squarely across both cheeks again before the first wriggle had entirely
subsided.
Smack!
Whack!
Thwack!!
Shwitt!
Sobs gurgling from between her hands, which she had
clutched to her mouth, Lucy was left to squirm in her undignified bottom-up
posture while the cane visited the next navy blue seat with similar results.
The second girl left crying helplessly, bottom number three began its frantic
dance while the two girls yet to feel the cane’s hot finger caressing their own
young bottoms stole anguished glances at the plight of their punished and
blubbering friends.
Leaving the third girl collapsed in an untidy heap over
her desk, her bottom trembling as she wept, the fourth pair of pants were
whacked solidly while the whole class watched this all-too-familiar spectacle
with a mixture of dread, thankfulness and the odd twinge of excitement as
several of the girls gloated secretly at the pained wrigglings of their
class-mates.
In the most unenviable position of all, being the only one
still with her caning to come, Sally stood and watched abstractedly as the
streams of sunlight crossing the classroom became filled with dancing, swirling
specks of dust which the cane had whacked from the tight knickers of the girls
arranged along the front row. As the fifth girl jerked tearfully across her
desk, Sally’s eyes brimmed suddenly and she covered her face with her hands and
wept miserably, the scalding tears pattering onto the desk in front of her.
With the five girls well caned, and with Sally’s
punishment to look forward to, Evans left the weeping sixth-formers to
rearrange themselves and their clothing while he tossed the rest of the girls
their prep books and smiled cheerfully at Sally’s childish crying. A glance at
the clock told him it was time for the end of afternoon school. A few minutes
early, he dismissed the class, who scrambled for the door and disappeared down
the corridor with a clatter of hurrying feet. Left standing alone at her desk
Sally struggled to stop her crying while Mr Evans pretended to ignore her for
several minutes. To Sally the waiting seemed unbearable. She sniffed dismally
and squeezed her hands together behind her back. Mr Evans’ voice, so quiet and
yet so sudden, made her jump visibly.
‘Come here child.’ said the teacher, not bothering
to look up at the girl.
‘M-me sir?’ said Sally foolishly.
‘Well who else is there, idiot?’ said Mr Evans testily.
‘Oh —’ Sally walked down the aisle, her shoes sounding
very loud on the varnished boards.
She reached the teacher’s desk, upon which the cane still
lay threateningly.
Mr Evans looked up, peering out from below his eyebrows.
‘Want the cane Sally?’ he half-whispered.
Sally had a job making the words come out of her throat ‘N-no
sir — not really sir — ‘
‘No, of course you don’t. Tell you what — you and I will
work through your prep — that you didn’t do — on the blackboard. Now then, if
you make a good job of it, and if you’re a very good little girl — I’ll let you
off the cane. Alright?’
Sally grabbed at the chance. If there was one thing she
loathed it was getting the cane. Mr Evans’ hand wandered rather unexpectedly up
the back of her leg. She pulled away, not at all sure what was happening, but
Mr Evans whispered again, ‘You don’t want the cane — do you Sally?’ Sally didn’t,
not the least bit.
Mr Evan’s hand slid higher, stroking across the seat of
her pants, dallying in the crease between her cheeks, tickling gently at the
insides of her thighs. Little by little the elastic of Sally’s school knickers
dragged heavily down around her waist, then the slither of her pants as they
slid slowly down off her hips made funny little feelings float around inside
her. Her knickers descended to her knees, then they were allowed to fall to her
ankles.
‘You don’t need them,’ said Mr Evans. He smacked her bare
bottom lightly up under her skirt, then he produced two sprung paper clips and
tucked up the back of her school skirt so that her firm and cheeky young bottom
felt suddenly cool as the air struck it. With stingy little smacks Sally was
shepherded over to the blackboard. With a piece of chalk in her hand she was
taken step by step through the work which she had left undone, her bare bum
coming in for smarting smacks whenever she did something wrong. These
sharper spanks had her hopping up onto her toes every few moments, and
then, between spanks, the warm, insinuating touch began to risk little
expeditions between the soft secrecy of her thighs, touching a smoothness of
sensitive skin here, a damp, tremulous bud there, so that in a while the chalk
marks on the blackboard were made less and less frequently, and Sally’s quiet
little gasps as the smacks tormented her young bum-cheeks changed subtly to
quiet little moans. Her spanked bottom burning hotly now, nevertheless the
feeling seemed somehow less painful than pleasurable, so that she almost
regretted it when the spanking ceased altogether.
Mr Evan’s warm breath breezed against her ear and her own
breathing became laboured and erratic. Slowly, almost without confessing her
overwhelming excitement, Sally shivered for a few moments on the very brink of
embarrassing herself utterly with a squeal of sheer delight and then found
herself weak-kneed and leaning heavily on Mr Evans’ arm as the relief of her
coming left her stranded on a peak of ecstasy.
Comments
Post a Comment