The Bookstore

Albert gets confused. Illustrated story from Blushes 1

Mr Howell’s History bookstore was a long ‘L’ shaped closet of a room, tucked away at the end of a corridor on the top floor of the main school building. It had originally housed books of all kinds, from geometry to handicrafts, but in the course of time Mr Howell’s absent-minded habit of double and even triple-ordering new books, coupled with his obsessive refusal to discard even the most dilapidated copy of those which were no longer used, had driven other members of staff to find new accommodation for their own stocks and the little upstairs room had become a repository only for books dealing with Mr Howell’s passion, history.

Next to the bookstore, there was a small cubby-hole of a room which had accumulated a clutter of disused and worn-out games equipment. So filled with junk was this room that simply opening the door required a hefty and determined shove. The games mistress had long since been denying any responsibility for its contents, claiming that what was in there could no longer be described properly as sports equipment, while the caretaker refused to call it rubbish and dispose of it until it had been itemised, checked and officially stricken off charge. Neither of these two protagonists having the least intention of backing down, the room and its unwanted hoard were at first ignored and eventually forgotten.

Next to the junk room was a narrow stairway with stone steps which led down to a door on the ground floor. The stairway was an exit used only when there was one of the periodic fire drills; at all other times, in defiance of regulations, the door at the bottom was kept locked to prevent girls from sneaking into the building and hiding on the stairs when they should have been on health-promoting cross-country runs or picking up litter on the sports field as a punishment. Since the gym mistress, the one female member of staff, was the only teacher unimaginative enough to regard litter collecting as a suitable punishment for growing, spankable girls, rather than sending them for more tangible lessons of good behaviour, and since she was the organiser of cross-country runs, she was the person responsible for the locking of the door, although if ever an occasion arose for the apportioning of blame in respect of disregarded fire regulations, she would no doubt have denied everything and let the caretaker carry the can.

Access to the end of the upper corridor, and to the fire exit, was through a pair of half-glazed swing doors, which divided the cul-de-sac at the end of the building from the classrooms and the main thoroughfares. The only member of staff who would normally have reason to pass through these doors was the doddering Mr Howell on his way to his bookstore, and such was the reputation of that little room that none of the girls would have dreamt of venturing anywhere near that end of the corridor of her own free will.

Early that afternoon, with the clock at the top of the main staircase standing at half-past one, Mr Howell’s sparsely covered pate appeared by stages from the stairwell as he ascended haltingly to the level of the upper corridor. He ambled past several classrooms and pushed open one of those doors which sealed off his private cul-de-sac.

His face betrayed a hint of disappointment as he saw that the little enclave was unoccupied. He had expected to find the girl with fair hair waiting outside the storeroom, but no, apparently not. Perhaps she was in the storeroom. He turned the handle and went in, to find it as empty as the corridor outside. He fished a pocket watch from his jacket and peered at it through his bifocals. One thirty two — if she was coming she’d surely be here by now. He looked around the room as if for evidence that the girl had already turned up and perhaps gone again, though of course he expected to find none. Pulling a chair towards a large cast-iron radiator — the room was stiflingly warm — he sat down and lit a cigarette. By sliding a dusty pile of books along a red-tiled window sill he could look out over the sports field and watch the gym mistress chivvying her lunch-time volunteers up and down the hockey pitch — no doubt the school team doing extra practice. Waving a wisp of smoke away from his eyes he reflected that that was the thing about getting on in years; one’s life tended to be made up alternately of disappointments and disconcerting surprises. He remembered clearly telling the girl to report to this room — the trouble was that he had, as always, immediately forgotten quite when he’d told her to come. Since she wasn’t here now, he supposed he must have told her to come after school. Oh well, after school it would have to be.

Cigarette ash dropped unnoticed onto Mr Howell’s trousers as he pondered the situation. Of late — well, perhaps it had been eighteen months or so — he had taken to climbing those stairs every lunchtime and at the end of lessons each day just to be sure he didn’t miss anyone he might have told to report to the bookstore. As often as not the effort was wasted — on the other hand, he would frequently come upon some pale-faced girl waiting on tenterhooks for whatever she was in for once the door of the bookstore was closed behind her and the key had been turned in the lock as a precaution against interruption.

Sitting looking out of the window at the figures running around on the grass, the Headmaster’s deputy went gently off to sleep. His cigarette, thankfully, simply went out and he dozed in the warm room.

Sometime later he was startled into wakefulness by the sound of the door opening, and he looked sideways to see a pair of shoes and two white socks.

‘Eh? What is it?’ He woke up enough to straighten up in his chair and gaze uncomprehendingly at his visitor.

‘Um — sir — Mr Flood sent me, sir.’

‘Sent you? What for?’

‘He gave me a note sir.’

Mr Howell reached out for the slip of paper. A punishment note, if he wasn’t mistaken. He felt in his pocket for his spectacles, forgetting that he had them on. Naturally, he didn’t find them in the pocket. Oh well, it didn’t much matter.

‘Well, better come over here. Come on now — next to me.’

The girl came forward reluctantly, short skirt swinging halfway up her thighs, hips rounded out and waist pulled in by the skirt’s snug waistband.

‘Now then —’

He peered at the note through his glasses. In truth he could hardly make out the writing, but across the top of the paper he recognised the printed words; ‘Request for Punishment’.

‘Ah yes — well now —’ His hand slipped up under the girl’s skirt, brushing against her thighs up to her knickers. Her bottom swerved away and she spluttered some kind of protest.

‘Now, now —’ He slapped her hard across one leg. ‘Come along — across my knee, Miss, and none of your antics!’

‘But sir — please sir —’

He slipped his fingers inside the top of her pants and with a tug had them halfway down. With a practised nudge, he caused her to lose her balance and topple across his knees, feet bobbing up from the floor and hands reaching out to save her from falling right over the other side of his lap.

‘Sir — please sir…’

‘Silence! Want the stick, do you? Eh? Want the stick across your bottom?’

‘No sir — no, please —’

He spanked her half-bared bum solidly, the slap making both chubby cheeks tremble under his hand. The girl yelled noisily.

‘Not another word, do you hear?’

‘Ooh — but — but —’

He had her knickers down in a moment, though she struggled as she felt them whisper to her knees. Another spank, with a final warning that there was to be no more of her wittering or she’d really be in trouble, and Mr Howell turned her skirt up across her back and smoothed his palm across the pert pushiness of her bottom. The girl lay nervously across his lap and twisted her head back to look up at him. She tried one last time.

‘Sir — please — Mr Flood sent me —’

A solid, expert spank cracked down on the crown of one buttock and a second slap stung the other cheek. Gasping with the smart in her bum, the girl’s protests finally subsided and she lay, tense and jittery, while the impudent upthrust of her bottom-cheeks was cupped, moulded, and stroked appreciatively by Mr Howell.

From the doddering teacher’s point of view, it mattered not at all that he had been unable to read the note the girl had brought, and that he therefore had not the faintest notion what degree of punishment would be appropriate. Over the years he had developed a simple philosophy with regard to the chastisement of erring schoolgirls; the really naughty ones tended to be no less disruptive whether they were punished severely or not — you could always expect to see them back again for a repeat dose in the course of time. The less naughty ones — that is, less-often-naughty ones — who would benefit from a punishment of whatever severity, would presumably be deterred the more effectively the more severely they were punished, while the ones who never got into trouble were never punished anyway, so they didn’t count. Stated simply, then, Mr Howell’s punishments took no account of the crime the girl had perpetrated — a damned good hiding suited all cases.

This point established, therefore, it stood to reason that the only decision to be made was the method of punishment, and if appropriateness was not a factor to be considered, then the only thing left was the rendering unto the punisher of the maximum satisfaction from the opportunity provided.

With the foregoing principles in mind, Mr Howell spanked the girl across his lap — the decision to spank her rather than employ another method had to do with the fact that he couldn’t rouse himself sufficiently on the spur of the moment to get to his feet until her wretched, helpless bottom was an undulating wobble of frantic squirmings and involuntary jerks, and the sobs wrenching from her lips told him that her earlier bravado had now quite evaporated. Having achieved this minor objective, Mr Howell continued to spank her anyway for the therapeutic value it afforded him, until he could contain her struggles no longer and she slid to the floor a blubbering wreck.

Too breathless by then to speak, Mr Howell simply waved her to her feet and out of the door, through which she exited backwards, her face a grimace of fearfulness.

Mr Howell took a pill and remained in his chair until the trembling had subsided, then he heaved himself to his feet and walked slowly to the door. He quite forgot to lock it or even to close it as he left, and he went haltingly down the corridor as the bell rang for the end of the lunch break, wondering idly, whether it was going to be the exertion of spanking young, healthy girls or those damned stairs which would kill him.

Back in the bookstore, Mr Flood’s note lay unread on the floor ‘Dear Albert, knowing your knack for forgetting to remember, may I remind you of the detention duty you said you’d do for me this evening? Thanks, in anticipation.’

The story continues in Detention Room