Short Shorts
A St Angela’s story from Roué 13
‘SIR!’ During the whole of my years at St Angela’s I never
managed to hear the way Mr Archer said ‘SIR’ without jumping an inch or two. It
sounded like a cross between a grunting cough, and a bark, and no doubt stemmed
from the days when he was in the Army… a crack Guards Regiment, as a colour
sergeant so rumour had it.
After an early retirement he had joined St Angela’s as a
caretaker some ten years ago, and as far as anyone could tell was apparently
one of the fixtures. Frankly he scared the living daylights out of the girls,
or most of them, and I was no exception.
And… wait for it!… his steely gaze was concentrated at
this moment on me! Those half-shut eyes under the beetling bushy eyebrows were
flicking up and down the slightly trembling figure of a lissom young schoolgirl
in full St Angela’s uniform.
White blouse… slightly-displaced school tie… pleated skirt…
long black nylons with seams a bit skew-whiff… not-too-flat strapped black
shoes… all set off to perfection, if that’s what takes your fancy, by the
school blazer.
None of this was new to Mr Archer despite the assiduous
way he was looking at me, for in truth it wasn’t the clothes I was wearing that
he was concentrating his eyes on.
Even though he’d seen me before, in the sense I’m thinking
of, about two years ago, you could see his limited I.Q. trying hard to remember
what was under the uniform… particularly under that pleated skirt.
In any other situation, and with someone else, I would
certainly have revelled in such male interest, after all male company wasn’t
that frequent around St A’s. But this was different, oh yes very different, our
ex N.C.O caretaker was working out exactly what sort of maiden’s hips his
slipper would be applied to in the gym.
Mr Payne hardly bothered to look up from the punishment
book as he wrote my name and what he had in store for me later. He snapped it
shut and said quietly.
‘Archer, take this young lady down to the gymnasium and
deal with her.’
‘SIR!’ replied Mr Archer, he might just have been an
automaton for all the response Mr Payne’s request had upon his face.
He turned on his heels and almost gave a click as he strode
past me towards the study door.
‘Follow me Miss… if you please…’
The end of the sentence was a bit of window dressing…
Archer used to call it ‘bull’… I followed Mr Archer.
As we reached the door Mr Payne’s voice came over almost
as an afterthought.
‘Mmm… MMM… mmm… one moment Archer… shorts and slipper… eh…
eh?’
‘SIR!’ Mr Archer hesitated… ‘Thank you Sir… bare to finish
SIR?’
It was I presumed a purely rhetorical question, unless Mr
Payne intended to visit the gym, what Archer did was entirely his own work,
concern.
‘Your discretion Archer… just make absolutely sure it
stings man!’ Mr Payne seemed almost annoyed at the interruption to his peace.
‘You can trust me Headmaster. Come along Miss don’t dawdle…
left … right… left…’
The study door closed behind us and in a slight daze I
found myself marching briskly along the corridor towards the gym, slightly
ahead of Mr Archer, guided by his hand on my left elbow. For a few yards we
proceed in silence.
He cleared his throat of thick phlegm as he always does
before making some stupendous, potentially world-shaking pronouncement. I
decide it would be in my best long term interest to pay diligent attention to
his words.
‘In trouble again Miss?’
I nod… ’Yes Mr Archer I’m afraid I am.’
‘Scrumping apples Mr Dobbs tells me Miss.’
I nod resignedly.
‘Didn’t old Dobbin give you a chance to ‘beg off’… not
like him to report a pretty girl without giving her a chance…?’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t take up his offer Mr Archer.’ I
replied.
‘Price too high eh… so he shopped you… pity… still that’s
up to you Miss… too late now.’
I nod… perhaps ten minutes in the gardeners shed would
have been less painful, even if it had been more shaming.
We continue in dead silence into the deserted gym and Mr
Archer steers me into the usual place, his hidey-hole-cum-store-room.
A ghost of a smile creases his face for a split second and
I realise he is about to make one of his rare attempts at a joke… I’m all ears
ready to respond…
‘Hope the apples are going to be worth it Miss?’
I strain my face into a grin, and reply.
‘My name’s Eve, Mr Archer.’
He looks decidedly puzzled at my quip.
‘I thought you were Wendy Thomas, Miss.’
‘Sorry Mr Archer… I am Wendy Thomas… it was a joke…’
‘Cut along to the changing room and pick up your vest,
shorts, gym shoes, and socks, if you please Miss, and look sharp young lady I’ve
got things to do after I’ve seen to you.’
I feel like a condemned criminal, but within thirty
seconds I’m back in the store room with the required gear under his watchful
eyes. He looks at me for a full minute, and you can almost see the cogs going
round as he tries to memorise the last occasion he had me at his disposal. It
proves to be too much for him, and….
‘Strip!’ he barks… ‘ALL OFF… EVERYTHING!’
My blazer comes off first and I hang it tidily on one of
the hooks he has on one wall. I try to work out whether he’d prefer blouse or
skirt next, and settle for the school tie whilst I’m thinking. From the
approving sideways glance he gives me as I pretend to struggle with the knot in
the tie I decide to try topless.
Tentatively I undo the little buttons on the cuffs of my
blouse, and he seems to like the way I am proceeding, and as slowly as I dare I
unbutton the crisp white blouse from top to bottom pushing out what chest
development I have, no harm in trying to lighten my punishment if I can.
With both hands simultaneously, I pull the lower part of
the blouse out from the nipped in waistband of my skirt, I am rather proud of
my twenty-one inch waist! Lots of schoolgirls are rather podgy and cylindrical.
Not me! Whilst I may not be a raving beauty at least I have a nice figure,
nicely rounded, bit too sexy for my own good here at St A’s — worse luck!
Blouse off… it follows my blazer onto the next hook… now
what? Bra or skirt? I opt to go topless and as I loosen the clip on my bra and
let my pretty pink-tipped tit-bits enter his field of view I realise my choice
was the correct one.
Mr Archer cleared his throat, and pronounced judgement.
‘Growing up Miss Thomas I see… Hhhrrruuumphh!’
I hung my bra up and slid my skirt round my waist so as to
bring the little back zip round to the side. I slide it down and undo the
button at the top of the opening, my hips are just a little too full to allow
my skirt to drop to my feet and I had to wriggle it down over the full pears of
my buttocks. Mr Archer made no objections to my gyrations. At last that pool of
pleats made a circle round my ankles and I stepped out of the protection of the
material.
I had to turn round to hang the skirt up on the hook, and
I sensed Mr Archer coming up behind me.
‘Keep your arms up Miss.’ he ordered, and doing as I was
told left me fairly vulnerable to what happened next.
Two large hard rough-calloused palms slipped round my
waist to encircle it, and his hands were so big that with his fingers in front
on my soft belly and his spatulate-shaped thumbs behind my waist on my back he
could very nearly encompass my waist completely.
His hands didn’t however stay long round my waist, the
rough palms ascended up over the slight swell of my tummy above my navel and
his large palms cupped my little girl’s breasts. I had to put up with his
squeezing and fondling for quite a time, trying not to wriggle too much, but he
made me put my feet back and my legs apart about a few inches, then it
was —
‘Push your hips back Miss… right back now… try not to
wriggle Miss… keep that bottom well back now… legs a bit wider eh… yes that’s
good…’
He stood closely behind me so that I could feel the
hardness of his body against my hips, and I continued to wriggle as he took
over the job of completing my stripping. He peeled my panties down to my knees
to bare my bottom and then unclipped my suspenders. My suspender belt was
undone in its turn and hung on another hook above my head. My naked bum-cheeks
came in for a minute or two’s fondling before he stood away from me, and then I
was told to take the rest of my clothes off.
When I was completely naked Mr Archer made me stand legs
apart, hands on hips and slightly bent forwards whilst he inspected slowly and
deliberately my nubile young schoolgirl figure.
I wriggled a bit as he followed up his eyes’ exploration
with his hands again, but a sharp reminder to behave myself accompanied by a
few stinging slaps across my buttocks soon brought me to my senses, and I
co-operated fully as he assessed just how firm my bottom is for what he had in
mind.
‘Get your shorts, vest, socks and pumps on Miss.’ he
commanded.
I started to put my knickers back on, playing for time.
‘NO KNICKERS UNDER THOSE SHORTS!!’ he bellowed.
Hastily I slid my briefs off again and struggled into the
tight hip-hugging thin scanty shorts. Mr Archer enjoyed watching me encase my
plump little behind into the shorts knowing my bum-cheeks would be held all the
firmer for his slipper.
At last I was attired to his satisfaction and he led me
like a lamb to the slaughter over to the high gym-horse in the corner of the
store room.
‘Now Wendy Thomas…’
‘Yes s-si-sir.’
‘Hands up on the horse… good girl… that’s right bend well
forwards… hips all the way back now… legs apart… wider… wider… much WIDER!…
feet further back… COME ALONG GIRL!… arch your back… ARCH IT!… stick it well up…
BUM WELL UP!… ARCH!… BUM UP!… HIGHER… HIGHER!… BUM RIGHT UP!… that’s good…
now relax those cheeks… let them go really floppy… let… them… FLOP… let me
jiggle them… relax girl relax… try to make them wobble like jelly.’
At last he seemed satisfied, and for the next minute or
two the regular ‘SPLATTS’ of the smooth slipper
across the thin taut drum-like tension of my skimpy shorts interspersed with my
pitiful sobbing echoed round the caretaker’s hidey-hole.
He slippered me quite mercilessly, hard and with deadly
accuracy borne of long practice on innumerable girls’ bottoms over the years.
He timed the strokes so that each one had its individual sting added to the
overall red hot tingle in my bottom, he left no area unattended on the wiggling
barely protected pert cheeks.
At last it was over, and I was left to stay there sobbing
my heart out, not daring for one second to take my hands off the horse until he
gave me the word, too distracted by my hot tingling buttocks to care much as he
peeled my shorts down well below my hips and runs lascivious hands over the
wiggling jouncy scarlet cheeks.
He made me bring my feet together and rise as high as I
could up onto my toes, making me thrust my pink tingly bottom-cheeks back onto
his hard horny calloused palms.
As I slowly surfaced and heard Mr Archers heavy breathing
and grunting coughs from behind my still nervously twitching hips, at last what
he was saying slid into my consciousness.
Slowly I straightened up from my bent over position on the
horse and pulled up my shorts sufficiently high over my lower cheeks to hobble
after him across to the pile of horse-hair vaulting and exercise mats piled in
the far corner of the store room.
He sat himself purposefully down on a pile of mats and
beckoned me over his knees.
At his peremptory request I laid my thinly-clad semi-naked
figure across his all too solid left thigh and waited for his instructions.
Another ‘HHHRRUUUMMPHH’ from Mr Archer heralds the next
stage of my punishment.
‘Push those shorts down… further, right down, more than
that, all the way down to your knees… legs wide apart now… really wide… stretch…
wider… bend your knees up a bit… don’t let those thighs come together … come
along now… don’t lets have any fuss about your modesty… I’ve seen it all before
don’t forget… all of you girls are much the same you know…’
When I was spread-eagled across his thighs with my firm
bare white thighs in exactly the position he wanted, and my chubby little
buttocks stuck high enough up for him to smack hard, he ran his rough right
palm over the reddened tingling cheeks.
My sore bum writhed involuntarily in his hand.
‘Oooohhh… aaahhh… nnnngh… oh no… pl-please Mr Archer… oh
Mr…’ I implored him to stop. ‘Please don’t r-rub m-my b-bo-bottom… it’s
s-so-so-sore… don’t smack me Mr Archer — I’ll be ever so good, please don’t…
aaahhh… ooowww… smack my bare bottom… please not after I’ve had the slipper… it’ll
hurt — it’ll st-sting… it’ll sting horribly… I know it will Mr Archer… please
sir please let me off… OOOOOHHHHH!’
The sharp crack of his hard hand across my tender bottom
cut my pleading short and I began to squirm and cry again.
He smacked my wriggly jumping tender buttocks quite
without mercy whilst I blubbered like the young schoolgirl I was, and with
red-eyed whimpering tears running down my cheeks I was spanked into abject
submission with the utter ruthlessness he was renowned for in the school. When
at last it was all over, and I lay exhausted across his knees I could sense my
scarlet bottom-cheeks jerking and quivering with the sore anguished sting he
had inflicted on my innocently tender full pert schoolgirl’s buttocks.
Mr Archer let me lie there until my pitiful sobbing tears
had died away to some semblance of respectability and then he made me stand
half-naked in the corner of the room, shorts down round my ankles and my reddened
sore behind on full parade whilst he entered my name and punishment in the
little notebook he kept for future reference. Then a sharp slap across my still
sore bum reawakened the flowing embers as he told me to… ‘get a cold shower
Miss and then get your clothes back on…’
Mr Archer watched me showering in the alcove off the
changing room — quite openly admiring the contrast of my scarlet buttocks
against the white goose-pimples produced in the rest of my skin by the icy
shower. As I dried myself on the rough towel he handed me, he came and ‘lent me
a hand’ towelling vigorously over my breasts, buttocks and upper thighs,
feeling me squirm in his hands as the towel made my sore bottom tingle. Then he
watched me dress, confining his attentions to merely assisting me to replace my
knickers and helping me to suspender my stockings. Half-way through my
re-dressing he took a long look at me, and announced —
‘Mr Payne told me to tell you to report to 2D after prep
Miss… 8.30 sharp… don’t be late Miss if you know which side your bread’s
buttered.’
Mr Archer’s announcement of a visit to the
Headmaster in Room 2D had filled me with gloom and, with my buttocks still
smarting like fury from the double spanking I had just received, I struggled
back into the remainder of my uniform and silently returned my shorts, vest,
socks and gym shoes to the locker room.
I had to go to prep now and I certainly wasn’t looking
forward to sitting down on one of those hard old oak desk seats for the next
hour to do my prep. The wood was rough and worn and wouldn’t do a lot of good
to my sore buttocks, but prep finished at eight, and I would have half an hour
to try to repair the ravages of Mr Archer’s administrations before I went to
see our beloved Head.
Normally, of course, after prep finished there was a short
break for rather watery tepid cocoa and a hard biscuit until lights out for the
older girls at about 9.30. But this evening was going to be a little different
for me — 8.30 in Room 2D with Mr Payne meant although he would have finished
punishing me by 9pm easily, I would almost certainly spend another hour
entertaining him one way or another. I’d be back in the dormitory about 10pm,
creeping in by the faint light coming through the windows trying desperately
not to wake any of my room-mates, knowing my face would be a shamed red and
streaked with dried salty tears. Then I’d huddle under the cold sheets not
daring to sob too loudly from the memory of my experiences at the Head’s hands.
Prep was as awful as I thought it would be, wriggling
continuously trying to find one little patch of bottom unmarked by Mr Archer’s
spanking. I just couldn’t concentrate on the work I had been set to do,
thinking about 2D… in fact I earned myself a future punishment from Mr Moore
who was taking prep, and I had to tell him I wouldn’t be able to go to his
study later. However he promised to see me the next evening during prep
instead. Even this didn’t take my mind off going to see Mr Payne at half-eight.
I’d had a few sessions with him over the years, and I knew my softly developing
curves attracted him, and although he would often cane a girl for ‘naughtiness’,
an evening visit meant almost always a hard palm applied to the firm soft
curves of a teenaged bottom.
By the end of prep I could at least sit with a modicum of
comfort, and although that state wouldn’t be long-lasting I meant to make the
most of it. I tried hard to forget Mr Payne whilst I dunked the hard old
biscuit in the unsweetened cocoa but it was no use. The biscuit stuck in my dry
throat and I began to feel sick with fear. In my imagination I could already
feel the heat flooding back into my buttocks, and I started to squirm on the
bench seat in anticipation.
My friend Sally must have guessed what had happened to me,
which wasn’t so odd as, if anything, she was chastised more often than I was.
‘Have you been spa—?’ she left the words unsaid as I
nodded.
She was all sympathy… ‘Who …?’ she whispered.
‘Mr Sodding Archer.’ I replied.
‘Christ that’s bad luck Wendy.’ Sally had been smacked by
Archer only last week and knew what he was like… ‘Did he lay it on thick?’
I nodded gloomily… ‘I’ll say he did… he spanked me twice,
first with the slipper and then bare with his hand, I was allowed to keep my
shorts on for the slipper, but you know what they’re like Sal… all thin and
skimpy… and to cap it all Sal… I’ve got to see old Payne in 2D at
half-eight.’ My voice sank to a mere whisper as I thought about it.
Sally’s eyes went wide with fright and horror, and it took
her a few moments to speak.
‘You’ve got to see Mr Payne tonight after Archer has
spanked you twice already… go on Wendy you’re pulling my leg… even Mr Payne
wouldn’t… would he…?’
‘He’s got it in for me this term Sal… I know he has… he
told me at the end of last term after he’d given me six strokes of the cane
just before we broke up for Easter that I had the makings of a good prefect if
I were handled firmly, and he put all that in my report for Mummy’s benefit
amongst all that smarmy rot he writes so that your Mum and Dad won’t worry that
he keeps you here until you’re eighteen at least.
‘Anyway Mummy fell for it all hook line and sinker and he
made a point of seeing her at the Sports Day and he complimented her on that
silly flowery hat she was wearing, and she was so chuffed she persuaded Daddy I’d
be better off in ‘Mr Payne’s safe hands’. Safe hands indeed… if she only knew
Sal!’
‘Oh Wendy that’s awful…’ Sally looked suitably horrified… ‘Poor
you… come on though Wendy… it’s twenty past eight, and you haven’t changed into
your jammies yet, you haven’t forgotten have you?’
As we both hurried up to the dorm I realised I had
completely forgotten that an evening smacking by the Head was always given in a
very special pair of thin cotton pyjamas given to each girl when she joined the
school… terribly skimpy and almost as transparent as cheesecloth, purposely
issued a size too small so that when you at last managed to struggle into them,
both the top round your breasts and the bottom round your hips fitted like the
proverbial pair of chamois gloves. Miscreants who had to see Mr Payne were
expected to be in Room 2D in their jammies by the time he arrived… any lateness
was suitably rewarded as you might guess.
Sally actually took an enormous risk in coming down to 2D
to help me change into my pyjamas and take my discarded uniform back to the
dorm, and I found out later she had been caught by Mr Payne in the corridor and
was told to sleep in the special room he kept on one side for a really late
night smacking. In fact he dealt with her after he had finished with me. But
that’s a story on its own for later consumption.
Whilst Sally was on her way back to the dorm with my
uniform, I was struggling to don the special pair of extra thin cotton pyjamas
Matron issued to the girls in the Upper forms. They were always kept in one of
your locker drawers in case you were smacked by the Head or even one of the
other masters after prep. As usual I found the trousers fitted like a drum,
skin-tight over firm young maidenly buttocks, and they were held up by little
buttons at the front at the waist, five or six buttons in all going well down
into the taut crotch of the trousers and threatening to burst off if you had to
bend. Little ribbons threaded through the pyjama legs just below the knee, and
even the legs of the pyjama bottoms were pretty tight, at least round the upper
thighs where most teenagers were fairly soft and chubby. The cotton was quite
transparent, specially adapted so that Mr Payne could see the increasing
reddening of the buttocks as he spanked the wriggling sobbing teenager across
his knee. He would often slowly undo the little buttons at the front of the
trousers using the opportunity to slide his bony fingers over the wriggling
protuberant pudenda. Often the punishment would be concluded with the weeping
girl across the chest of drawers or bent forwards over the chair with Mr Payne
using a strap or even the cane.
I hadn’t been spanked after prep now for almost a year, but
the memory of one of the Head’s notorious spankings quickly flooded back into
my mind, and I could feel my buttocks tingling in anticipation. I didn’t have
long to wait for the reality!
As my ears picked up the first faint steps in the corridor
I began to tremble and hope my ears were deceiving me, but slowly the sounds
grew louder as the Head approached down the long corridor, and it was almost
with a sense of relief I heard the clip-clop, clip-clop down the four steps to
the green door of 2D.
My eyes widened with fear as I watched the door handle
turn… if only some fairy-godmother could whisk me away safe from the attentions
of Mr Payne.
As he came in and locked the door he looked, as usual,
very strict and very, very stern, his cold fishy eyes taking in every feature
of my trembling pyjama-clad figure.
When at last he seemed satisfied with what he had to
operate on, he cleared his throat noisily.
‘Hummph, Mr Archer dealt with you eh?’
I nodded.
‘Make it sting properly did he Miss?’
My throat felt dry as I managed to whisper ‘Yes sir.’
‘Made you cry eh?’
I nodded.
‘Difficult to sit down at prep eh… eh?’
I hung my head… too ashamed to even whisper.
‘Lost our voice have we?… bottom still sore I expect… come
on girl… speak up now… did he make you cry or not… hurry up or I’ll give you
something to really cry for… a strap across your bum eh?… mmm… eh?’
I had to reply and pretty quickly if I wanted to avoid
that strap.
‘Please sir… oh please sir he smacked me ever so hard sir…
I had to cry it was ever so sore and it was only just before prep sir… it’s
still sore sir… oh please no sir… please don’t rub my bottom… it’s ever so sore
sir… I’ll be a good girl… please don’t smack me sir… not over your lap sir… oh
not like that sir… I’ll tell my Daddy sir… oh no… no… NO… you mustn’t… ooohhh…
aaah… not there… please… NOT UP THERE… OOOWWHHH… AAAHHHMH!’
By now I was hard down across the Head’s lap, and his bony
fingers were fondling and kneading my tender cheeks so that I was wriggling
like an electric eel across the rough tweed of his trousers. He made me part my
thighs and straddle his raised left thigh pulling me closely against his paunch
so that immediately I could feel his ridge stiffening under my belly.
‘Now Miss… last time I saw your dear mother I promised her
that this school would turn her naughty tomboyish daughter into the semblance
of a young lady by the time she was eighteen and this evening my girl I am
going to give you a sound lesson in manners!’
With these words ringing in my ears, I felt my buttocks
rise up as he elevated his left thigh, and the taut thinly-clad cheeks came up
towards the hand of retribution.
Mr Payne didn’t spank half as hard as Mr Archer but what
he lacked in brute force he made up for in finesse, spanking with precise
attention to every detail — wristy little flicks of the stiffly held hand
landing with the sting of a hornet exactly on the spot he had chosen. He
covered every little bit of my gyrating buttocks, the crests, sides, tops, and
bottom of the tightly-held cheeks, imparting a soreness to the poorly protected
cheeks that was almost unbearable.
Then he started on the backs of my thighs from the knees
up to the soft underparts of the buttocks taking every opportunity as I kicked
to deliver a stroke now and again to the insides of the thighs.
After this general warm-up, he began to concentrate a
series of smacks on one area after another, about five or six delivered to
exactly the same spot, such as the crest of one buttock, making each slap stingier
and harder than the one before until I was begging for mercy through my pitiful
sobbing.
He paid particular attention to the soft flesh at the
bottom of my already sore bum cheeks, the soft chub of the teenager’s bottom,
bending me right forward so that my nose was almost touching the chequered
tiles, and the backs of my squirmy thighs were parallel to the top of the chest
of drawers where the canes and straps were kept. I tried not to break down
completely and blubber like a fourth or fifth former, because I knew he liked
to reduce a girl to bitter tearful sobbing so that he could smack her ‘for not
being a brave girl.’
But it was no use I just had to give in eventually, and
began to feel the wild squirming of my legs and the tingly gyrations of my buttocks
work themselves up into my set facial mask, where my teeth were gritted and my
fists clenched tight in my efforts to be brave.
When at last the breaking point came my subjection was
fast and total. Suddenly I felt my face contort and my sobs become gasps of
deep breathy intake.
‘AAAhhh OOOHHH… oh pl-please… sir… oh-OH… SIR… no… no…
nooOOO… sirrrr… oh my bum… MY BUM… Please SIR MY BUM… NO… NO… NOOOOOOOO…’
‘Be quiet at once you SILLY LITTLE STUPID GIRL… stop that
STUPID CRYING — now just stop behaving like a BABY… now I’m going to have to
smack you really HARD… REALLY VERY HARD INDEED.’
For the next five minutes at least the Head spanked my
bottom and thighs in full measure despite my weeping and crying, until my
bottom was on fire with scarlet hand marks… I hardly noticed when he stopped
and vaguely felt my jammie trousers slide right down to my knees.
Comments
Post a Comment