Chapman’s Caning
Reggie takes certain steps. Story from Blushes 1 featuring the words and art of the master Alan Bell.
Sprawled across the desk in the Headmaster’s Study,
Pauline’s direct view of the proceedings in which she and her bottom are
playing the central role is somewhat limited. The red leather seat of the chair
behind the desk occupies much of the foreground - the imprint of the Headmaster’s
backside is visible in the slack seat covering - and beyond the chair there is
the edge of a carpet of complicated weave, where it stops short of the skirting
board to leave a strip of polished planking some two feet wide. Rising up
through the floorboard a little to the right of the chair and close to the wall
there is a gas-pipe with a brass elbow leading the narrow tube away to an old-fashioned
fire, set in the wall. To the left there is a tall bookcase with glass-panelled
doors, with one door left half open. If Pauline turns her head to the left and
lifts herself up a little she can catch an occasional glimpse of the Headmaster’s
silhouetted shape in the glass, and she hopes that if she’s lucky she might be
able to see the cane as he draws it back to give her another stroke. Thus far,
Pauline has managed to anticipate none of the nine strokes her upturned bottom
has been given, and her nerve is beginning to go. The suspense of waiting for
that cane to swish across her bum is making her legs tremble, and her buttocks
tweak and twitch at the slightest hint that it’s on its way again.
Though she still holds herself a little away from the desk
and tries to see what’s about to happen to her unfortunate bottom, her eyes are
filled with tears and all she can see is a blurred movement in the glass. She
squeezes her cheeks together and gasps a breath, but the cane doesn’t descend.
Her tensed body quivers as she waits for it - two, three, four seconds drag
past - she subsides across the desk-top, her crimson-wealed bum-cheeks soften
and round out as her knees bend and her legs relax, her pent-up breath escapes
her lips as a plaintive sigh, and the cane whips wickedly across the crown of
both unsuspecting buttocks.
Pauline’s anguished squeal is heard by a gaggle of girls
outside in the corridor as they pass by on their way to the refectory for
lunch; half a dozen nervous bottoms twitch in sympathy with Pauline’s squirming
bum and across the quadrangle the caretaker looks up from one of his man-holes
towards the study’s partly-open window and smiles an appreciative smile. The
wretched Pauline reaches behind her and squeezes at her bottom with both hands
and gets a rap across her knuckles for her cheek. The Headmaster
surreptitiously eases the rigidity in his trousers to a more comfortable
position and flicks the tip of his cane across the backs of the girl’s thighs.
Pauline’s knickers slither an inch nearer to her knees as
she snaps her legs straight, and she lies across the desk trembling and gasping
and blowing ruefully on the backs of her hands when there is a puff of breath
to spare. The cane tap-taps along the chubby under-curve of her buttocks and
she stiffens instantly. Her toes dig into the carpet and her bum begins its
twitching again. Her back hollows and she clings on to her self-control by
telling herself there are only two more to come - only two more strokes - only
two.
The sudden jangling of the telephone, a few inches from
her right ear, shocks her almost as much as the arrival of the cane across her
bottom would have done. She bursts into a fit of sobbing that becomes a series
of strangled whines as the backs of her legs get several hard slaps and she is
told to keep quiet while the Headmaster answers the phone.
Pauline is too preoccupied with the sting in her bottom
and the smart across her thighs to take notice of what is being said, except
that it’s someone called Basil. Pauline bites her lip to stop her frightened
sobs sneaking out, and presses her thighs together and rubs her knees against
each other in a little circular motion to distract her attention from the heat
in her bottom. Through her confused brain runs the thought that she could have
avoided all this; next time her guardian sends her to the potting shed and
wants to take her knickers down, she won’t be silly enough to threaten to tell ‘auntie’;
she’ll just do as she’s told. She’ll be a ‘good little girl’, just so long as he
promises not to send her back to this awful place anymore. She hears the
receiver being replaced on the telephone and her bum shivers in anticipation of
the two more strokes to come.
The last couple of cane-strokes are administered with as
much vigour as the others all were, leaving Pauline slumped over the desk awash
with tears and gasping for breath between her sobs. Her legs sag from under her
and she slides slowly to the floor, hands clutching at her crimson bottom. The
Headmaster puts the cane back in the cupboard and assumes his seat behind the
desk.
Pauline, who has done all this before, gets to her feet
and stumbles over to the corner of the room nearest the window. Her knickers
slip down to her ankles on the way but she knows better than to attempt to
retrieve them. She hides her face behind her hands and cries as quietly as she
can, gulping deep breaths in an effort to regain her composure.
The Headmaster leans back in his chair and contemplates
the entirely satisfactory state – from his point of view, of course – of the
girl’s bottom; cane weals curve round the lower parts of each chubby bum-cheek,
none of them having gone much astray despite the wriggly-ness of those young
buttocks at various stages of the caning he has just given them. A rather
attractive pink flush extends down the backs of her thighs where he slapped
them when the phone rang; gratuitous exploitation of the girl, of course, but
isn’t that partly what girls like Chapman are for, he muses.
While the Headmaster slips into a chauvinistic reverie
whilst contemplating the girl’s punished bum, Pauline stops crying and, greatly
daring, risks a peep over her shoulder in mute supplication. She’d like to be
told to pull her knickers up and get back to her class; standing around half-naked
in the Head’s study is asking for trouble. The Headmaster raises an eyebrow at
her forwardness but lets the slip pass uncommented. He tells her to tidy
herself up and run along. Pauline retrieves her pants from her ankles and finds
her skirt, then comes to stand in front of the desk.
‘Feel like giggling now, Chapman?’
‘No sir.’
‘No more than you feel like sitting down, I dare say. Hmm?’
‘N-no sir.’
‘No – well buzz off then, and send in Markham.’
‘Yes sir. Th-thank you sir.’
‘My pleasure Chapman.’
Pauline makes her exit, and a space of ten seconds
intervenes before a timid tap on the door heralds the arrival of the next on
the list.
‘Excuse me sir – Amanda Markham.’
‘Come in, Markham.’
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