Next Please!

Reggie conducts an encore. Story from Blushes 1.

The window in the Headmaster’s study is open about six inches or so, and a cool draught is wafting across the bareness of the girl’s legs below the hem of her short skirt. The breeze slips up under the neat pleats and floats around the snug fit of her school knickers; it finds its way between her legs and the backs of her thighs feel goose-pimply. Trying not to draw attention to herself the girl edges sideways in an attempt to get out of the draught — not because she’s cold, and goodness knows, she’s likely to be grateful enough of a cooling influence on her bottom before this interview is over — but because the airiness makes her feel as if she’s already half naked. She doesn’t need reminding about that.

Her eyes follow the movement of the Headmaster’s pen as it scratches quietly across the page of a book. Sandra’s name is appended to a lengthening list, while the girl herself rubs surreptitiously at her bottom under her skirt though quite why she does so she would be at a loss to explain. The pen is placed on the desk, the steely eyes glance up.

‘Don’t fidget, child!’

‘S-sorry sir.’

She shivers, and it has nothing to do with the breeze through the window. Her tummy feels peculiar, and she finds her mind wandering to thoughts of how her bottom is going to feel in a little while, when a crooked finger beckons her towards the desk, when her knickers have to — oooogh! — the vision is too painful to contemplate.

‘Now then —’

She jumps visibly, the sharp tang of immediacy in the Headmaster’s voice sending panicky shudders down her back. She watches with an anxious expression on her sweet young face as the bulky figure of the Headmaster heaves itself from the red leather chair, slides the armchair round so that the desk will interfere as little as possible with the arrangements about to be set in motion, then looks at her over the top of his reading spectacles. He blinks myopically, and removes his glasses to substitute another pair. He looks the girl up and down, but she doubts whether it’s his spectacles he’s trying out. It’s her own youthful shape that he’s considering, wondering how best to come at the plump promise of her bottom while keeping the robust rest of her securely under control.

‘You know why you’re here, I presume?’

‘Um — yes sir.’

‘And why is that, hmmm?’

‘Er — ‘cos I’ve done something wrong sir. I mean, I think that’s what you mean, sir.’

‘Yes, my dear. That is precisely what I mean, I mean that you, Miss have been a naughty girl. Which means what, do you suppose? Eh?’

‘Um — I d-don’t quite under—’

‘It means that you have to be punished! That’s what it means my pet.’

‘I — I see, sir. Um — I think I already knew that, sir.’ She pouts rather prettily, and manages to look so innocent in her ruefulness that the Headmaster has to smile at her. He eyes her up and down again, amused at her discomfiture.

‘Yes. It’s not the first time, of course, is it?’

She shakes her head, and a strand of hair falls across her face. She flicks it back self-consciously and catches his eye again.

‘No, not the first time Sandra. I think I can safely say that you know what bottoms are for at this school, if anyone does, hmmm?’

‘Y-yes sir.’ Sandra puts her hands together behind her back and twines her fingers nervously around each other.

And — Bailey, I’m talking to you, girl — look at me when I’m speaking.’ She looks warily up at his face, lower lip trembling, wishing that she hadn’t forgotten that little point that always seemed to be so important to him. He always liked a girl to look at him in the face when he was about to take her knickers down. ‘I was about to say — that you will know what is next on the agenda, eh?’

‘Um —.’ Sandra looks helplessly at him, her cheeks reddening even as she does so. ‘Er —.’ Her hands unclasp and wander hesitantly to the front of her skirt. Her fingers lift the hem the tiniest fraction, as if asking a question, though she knows the answer well enough.

The Headmaster plumps down in his chair, making himself comfortable. Sandra draws reluctantly nearer and pulls the front of her skirt up to her hips, then to her waist. She reaches behind and hoists the back up too, so that she is standing there with her navy-blue knickers on full view. It’s always the same — the sheer humiliation of having to do it is almost worse than the spanking itself. But at least it is going to be a spanking — she hopes. Behind the Headmaster’s chair, through the glass of the tall cupboard, she can see the slender, crooked handle of one of the canes that are kept there. If she needs any prompting to play the part that the Headmaster customarily assigns to her as one of his favourites, the sight of that stick is it.

The fat little swell in her knickers claims all of the Headmaster’s attention. The elastic nips into the softness of the tops of her thighs, accentuating her youthful girlishness and the appealing pout of the succulence inside her pants. He looks up at her, seeking the flush of embarrassment in her cheeks. She obliges him, unavoidably, by blushing cherry red.

Cool fingers slip into the elastic and draw her knickers slowly down her thighs, the swell of her belly giving way to a soft downy growth of blonde hair. Sandra trembles and looks away just as he looks up into her face again.

‘Sandra’ His voice has a warning ring to it. She makes herself look into his face, feeling the humiliation bringing tears to her eyes already. She is made to turn a little sideways, so that the chubbiness of her bottom is accessible to an eager hand. It pats paternally up under the plumpness of her cheeks, then it slips gently between her legs, coaxing her closer, and then she loses her balance and plops awkwardly across the familiar lap with its same, thrusting protuberance inside the tweed trousers. Her thighs press warmly together against the intimate wanderings of the fingers, and then he is slapping her playfully, telling her how to arrange herself; legs straight, bottom pushing up just so, head well down on the far side.

He settles her across his knees, runs his hand lightly over the smoothness of her saucy young cheeks, smacks each of them lightly and hears her gasp with the panic of anticipation as he teases her bum with several more cheerful spanks.

‘Now then, young Sandra?’

Sandra knows what comes next. She licks her lips and recites the catechism.

‘S-Sir — please sir — please p-punish me, sir —.’ She stumbles over the words, and with ritualistic pedantry he makes her say it properly warning her against further errors with a spank that is really the first of the spanking proper that this young lady is about get — and for which she is going to be grateful, since it could very easily have been the cane instead.

‘Sir — I’ve b-been a naughty girl, sir — please sir — please punish me sir —.’ More smacks; and very soon she is wriggling across her perch, her bottom tempting the spanks to fall all the faster by virtue of its quick and very feminine undulation as she automatically picks up the cadence of the spanking rhythm. Her cheeks twitch together and her pinkening bum-cheeks bounce resiliently up for more after every stinging spank. Tears start from under her eyelids. She begins to pant more rapidly, trying hard not to cry because of some streak of determination inside her, yet knowing full well that crying is what she is supposed to do; crying and wriggling — well, she can do that alright, in fact she can’t help it — and perhaps a bit of pleading too.

‘Ooo — s-sir’ Please sir — please don’t!’

‘Quiet girl!’ He spanks her harder for her cheek, making the injunction to be quiet a nonsense, because now the girl can’t help herself. She begins to sob, spluttering into a flood of tears. The reddening spank marks are flooding her bobbing bottom with a fresh crimson glow, with finger-marks highlighting the soft round cheeks here and there. Somehow she manages to retain the required position, offering her reluctant bottom up again after every smack although her thighs are beginning to scissor against each other and the hand she can spare from maintaining her balance keeps on wandering back towards her bum as if hoping to intercept some, at least, of the painful applications of the Headmaster’s palm.

Through her tears, through the smart in her bottom, through the buzz of panicky thoughts in her mind, Sandra manages to cling on to sufficient self-control to remember to let her legs drift apart now and then, to lift her bum up and to slip forward across his knees when her wriggles take her there, so that modesty is no longer maintained and the dog is allowed to catch a glimpse of the rabbit.

But the Headmaster is an experienced hand, and he knows that Sandra is hoping to distract his attention from the prime object of the exercise. He refuses to be drawn, and continues to spank her snatching, jiggling bottom until he hears her sobbing become less controlled; until he can feel the quick little jerks and squirmings of her body that betray the struggle she is having to keep a tenuous hold on her self-control. He resists the temptation to spank her beyond her limit — he spanks instead with just the right degree of flick in his wrist, the necessary measure of tension in his arm, so that she is pushed to the brink and then kept hovering there without slipping over the edge. Her wriggles are becoming wilder now, yet not quite so wild that her bum is too lively to aim at and to catch in exactly the right place every time. Her knees are beginning to bend with each spank as his palm works its way back over some particularly tender-looking areas.

And then, when he is quite ready, he adds a little more impetus to his spanking, a touch more vigour to each evenly timed smack, and she responds at once with the sudden onset of a series of squeals punctuated with heart-felt sobs as the last few spanks land squarely across the very sorest parts of her animated bum.

When he desists at last, the girl’s bum-cheeks still wriggle wretchedly across his lap until he tells her briskly to get to her feet. She stands up, knickers dangling at her knees, weeping miserably and crying all the more at the humiliation of being made to cry in the first place.

The book on the desk is written in once more — Sandra’s spanking becomes a statistic to be gloated over by whichever of the school’s governors will be called upon to initial the entry at the end of the week — and then, when he feels he can rise from behind his desk without the awkwardness in the drape of his trousers giving him away, the Headmaster gives her permission to pull her knickers up and ushers her to the door. Sandra sidles warily out of the study whilst the Headmaster glances optimistically up and down the corridor in case there should be a pale-faced girl bearing one of the tell-tale punishment notes in her hand. Alas, the cupboard is bare for the present.

Sandra hurries away, dabbing a hankie at her eyes, and feeling distinctly Micawber-ish the Headmaster decides to take a stroll along to the gym in the hope that something will turn up.