Oxford Candidates

Story from Blushes 11

Sometimes they were day girls, sometimes they were boarders; last year’s Oxford candidate had been a day girl.

‘Would you like a drink, Susan? A sherry or a gin-and-tonic? Now that you’re in the Upper Sixth I think that’s permitted, don’t you?’

Susan flushing slightly said she’d like a sherry, thank you very much, sir. It was almost 6 o’clock and Susan Maidment and her headmaster were in the latter’s study in his pleasant home some two miles out in the country. Mr Fulton had picked Susan up from her own home after school on this Friday afternoon at the beginning of term, to stay the weekend with him and Mrs Fulton. That lady was at present in the kitchen preparing the evening meal. The purpose of Susan’s visit was to discuss her future — her coming last year at school and her prospects thereafter.

Susan’s mother was very keen for her to get into Oxford and it was well known that Mr Fulton had very good connections with St Edwards College in particular and had got several girls in there in the past. Those girls had incidentally all been very attractive young ladies, but why not? Like most of us Mr Fulton had an eye for a pretty girl and if he was going to exert himself he naturally wanted some pleasure out of it. He had had his eye on this one, Susan Maidment, for some time. Indeed if the truth were known it was the headmaster who had first sown the idea of Oxford in her mother’s eager mind.

‘Oxford will be a lot of hard work, you know, Susan. For you and I daresay for me as well.’

Susan made a slight wriggling motion of her delightful bottom as she sat across from Mr Fulton. She was probably prettier than any of the others, a honey blonde with big long-lashed violet-blue eyes and a soft full-lipped mouth at this moment emphasised with a touch of pale pink lipstick. Make-up was not permitted in school and this adornment had been applied during those hurried preparations at home at the instigation of her mother. ‘It makes you look more grown-up, dear.’

Last year she had been called Diana, and as with all day girls there had been no question of putting a cane across her pretty bum in case the marks should come to light and necessitate difficult explanations.

Most observers, though, would have said that Susan Maidment, at 17½, looked quite grown-up already because in addition to being a very pretty girl she was a very shapely one as well, with long slim legs, full firm breasts and, not least, what she was sitting on at the moment, a pair of splendid buttocks flaring out from a slim waist. The attributes were at present displayed in a lightweight summer dress of pink spots on a white background, set off with dark nylons and white high-heeled court shoes. This outfit had Mrs Maidment’s approval also as looking ‘grown-up’ and no one could disagree with that.

‘Can you do all the hard work, Susan?’ asked her host as he took a sip of his gin-and-tonic. Opposite him one long nylon-clad leg was crossed nervously over its companion. The long lashes fluttered. James Fulton was 51, not old for a headmaster, and a lot of girls thought he was very dishy. ‘I think so, sir.’

For an instant Mr Fulton had had a glimpse below the knee-length skirt of the darker welt of a stocking top and pale soft flesh above. He felt a tremor of excitement. There was no doubt that this one was better than all the others. And there was no point in beating about the bush. He got up and moved across to sit with Susan on the sofa. He moved quickly, not wishing to draw attention to the fact that a rather stiff erection was now distending the front of his trousers. Sitting down he felt the warmth of the girl’s soft flank. His voice assumed a slightly harder edge.

‘Getting a girl a place at Oxford will mean a lot of effort on my part, Susan, and I should want to be assured that she was fully committed. I am talking about very strict discipline which is the only way to achieve results. Other girls I have worked with were successful because they showed that commitment.’

Spankings though, if thorough and applied with a little imagination could be just as satisfying.

Mr Fulton’s hand had slid across to rest on one silky knee. Susan’s cheeks bore a slight flush. ‘I can, sir. It’s what I want and I can do the work.’

The hand squeezed. Time to hit the hammer squarely on the head. ‘The cane, Susan.’

‘Wha… what, sir?’

It was always delightful to see the response when it was first mentioned. Because it did always come right out of the blue.

‘As a token of the commitment that I insist on when I am coaching a girl for an Oxbridge place  it is my practice to require her to submit to the cane. A short, sharp shock whenever I think her effort could be better. It is of course a time-honoured disciplinary measure.’

Susan was bright red in the face now as her mind took in this almost unbelievable information. They were always bright red in the face at this point.

‘Of course it is entirely up to you, my dear. But other girls have accepted it.’

At last the words came out. Getting a place at Oxford was a glittering prize which outweighed anything else, especially when your mother had been drumming into you that you had to get Mr Fulton’s help. ‘Y…yes sir. All right, sir.’

The hand slid up under the hem of the pink-and-white skirt and at the same time sideways to go in between Susan’s knees. But she wasn’t really noticing the hand as there was what Mr Fulton was saying to be grappled with.

‘It will be on the bare bottom, Susan. The cane on your bare bottom. It makes the punishment that little bit sharper and more effective. Because as we all know a girl doesn’t like being caned on her bare bottom.’

Mr Fulton had lots of imagination. With a sensitive-natured girl like Diana, for instance, the merest hint of a fingertip — just brushing soft pubic hair whenever the girl edged her bottom away from the spanks was enough to have her pulling back nervously and pushing her bum backwards at once for more of the spanking she was trying to avoid —

As the words swirled and danced in Susan’s mind there was a cautious knock at the study door. Followed by Mrs Fulton’s voice announcing that dinner would be ready in five minutes. And then all of a sudden Susan had to take note of the hand — for it had slid smoothly up to suddenly be stroking one soft inner thigh above the nylon top. She gave a shocked yelp.

Mr Fulton pulled his guest to her feet. The hand had been removed as it had made its swift advance. He drew her close, two hands now at Susan’s waist and the swell of his erect penis in firm contact with her rounded abdomen.

‘It will be a marvellous year for both of us, my dear. Together working towards our academic goal which I have no doubt we will achieve.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Susan feeling somewhat overcome both by what had been said and by now being in his embrace. The thought of having her bare bottom caned made her feel quite sick. But if those other girls…

She became conscious that one hand had slid round behind her and was now on her bottom. As Mr Fulton spoke, of the work ahead, fingers slipped into the cleft of her bottom… and then strayed down… and underneath. The fingers pushed in between her thighs… Mercifully at that point there was another discreet knock and Mrs Fulton’s cheery voice.

‘Dinner’s ready.’

----//----

Making the girl watch her own tearful reactions in a mirror was another nice touch.

Dinner was certainly a very very welcome breathing space. Susan had never had a lot to do with Mr Fulton before, because you didn’t below the Upper Sixth, but now what had happened meant she could hardly think straight. His hands for one thing but perhaps even more that business about being caned. That really made her sweat, but if she needed Mr Fulton’s help what else could she do except agree? At least, though, for the moment there was the reassuring presence of Mrs Fulton.

She was a pleasant-looking lady, bright and cheerful but also deferring to her husband on whatever topic came up. Mr Fulton was obviously the boss. Mr Fulton who under the table very soon had a friendly hand on Susan’s thigh. He didn’t do anything awful though, just kept his hand there, squeezing from time to time.

Mrs Fulton said, ‘I hear you’re an Oxford candidate this year, Susan, I’m sure you’ll be successful if you work hard. James says you’re an excellent prospect and he’s always a very reliable judge. Aren’t you, dear?’ Under the table the hand, which presumably Mrs Fulton didn’t know about, gave Susan’s leg an extra squeeze.

She had hoped that after dinner they would all be together — safety in numbers — but that hope was dashed when, at the end of the meal, Mrs Fulton smiled across at her thigh-squeezing husband. ‘I expect you’ll want another chat with Susan now, James. Shall I bring some coffee in to you later?’

‘In an hour perhaps, Sylvia,’ Mr Fulton said.

And there Susan and Mr Fulton were, back in the study again. Again just the two of them.  The headmaster carefully closed the door. ‘Have you ever been caned, Susan?’

Straightaway he had returned to that same subject. Susan shook her head. ‘Well, we’ll want to make a start then, won’t we? So you have an idea what you’re in for. Could you take off your knickers therefore, please.’

Stunned, Susan gave him a blank look. Could he possibly have said that? ‘Your knickers, Susan, please.’ Mr Fulton’s voice was sharp. ‘Take them off. Don’t worry, though. I’m not going to cane you right away. I’ll start you off with a spanking first of all. That’s what I normally do.’

Susan just stood there.

There were ways, too, of making a girl keep her hands out of the way  and at the same time keep her bottom properly elevated for punishment when she was beginning to over-react to the smart in her bum.

‘Susan Maidment! I presume you are serious about wanting my help. If so kindly do as I say and do it right away! Remember what I said about discipline.’

Susan couldn’t really believe this was happening but her hands nonetheless went up under the skirt. A pair of brief pink nylon knickers appeared below the hem. ‘Right off please!’

With her mind still not properly operating Susan slipped the knickers off over her high heels. At a word from the Head she placed the scrap of pink nylon on his desk. He took her arm and stepped over to the sofa. Mr Fulton sat down — and simply pulled Susan down across his lap.

Her skirt was unceremoniously grabbed up, to her waist. There was no slip underneath, just the broad straps  of a pink satin suspender belt holding Susan’s nylons. That was all, except of course for Susan herself. Her full split-mooned bottom. A large bottom some might say, and Susan herself thought at times too large, but her mother with a knowing look would tell her not to worry. ‘I think you’ll find, dear, that most men at least like big bottoms.’ Certainly it was a mouth-watering bottom. A bottom to do things with; to sink your teeth in perhaps if you were feeling that way inclined? And the full creamy thighs, equally bare, above the taut nylons, they undoubtedly came in the same premier category. Mr Fulton had some experience of bared bottoms and thighs, most particularly in this very study, but surely there had never previously been rear-quarters quite as splendid as these.

With one arm round her waist, he smacked the near-side cheek, a firm but experimental splat. The bottom juddered fleshily. The girl, her head somewhere down near the floor, made a wailing sound. Mr Fulton smacked again, another testing splat. And then, keeping a good grip on her, he began in earnest. Susan didn’t struggle, unless you counted the feeble jerking of her lissom legs. It was simply too awful to consider struggling. Too devastatingly unbelievably awful. Too awful even to think about. Sometime later Mr Fulton was hauling her to her feet.

‘You took that very well, Susan.’

Susan shook her head uncomprehendingly. She found she couldn’t stand up and clutched at Mr Fulton’s desk. Her bottom felt red hot. Vaguely she realised that Mr Fulton’s hand was still on it.

‘Yes, very well indeed.’ The hand on Susan’s bottom had slid down. All at once its presence was no longer only vaguely perceived but in the forefront of her consciousness, for the head’s fingers had slid intimately into the deep dividing fissure between the glowing globes. It was where he had briefly had his hand before dinner but then Susan had had knickers on and also there had been Mrs Fulton’s cheerful voice to providentially interrupt further progress. Now there were no knickers and there was also no cheery voice from outside the door. Susan squealed. The hand, those fingers, had slid in. In between her legs.

‘Pl… please…’ she whimpered, grabbing desperately at the desk’s edge.

‘Just relax,’ Mr Fulton advised, his voice soft and soothing. ‘No need to be nervous.’ This advice was quite useless when he now had his fingers actually… shuddering Susan felt herself completely open… defenceless… and stickily wet. She also realised that her hips, with a will of their own, were arching firmly back and down, onto those devilishly intrusive fingers.

‘That’s it,’ Mr Fulton gently counselled. ‘Don’t fight it… Let it come…’

----//----

And then there were ways to add fresh ingredients to private punishment. Pinning up blouse as well as skirt, for instance —

Light flickered in wavy patterns. Susan blinked and focussed her eyes. She was looking up at the ceiling and it was morning. It all came flooding back. Her visit to the Head to discuss her Oxford entrance. That mind-boggling spanking of her bare bottom and then what happened afterwards. And after that, after Mrs Fulton brought in the coffee, getting undressed for bed and putting on her pyjamas — but doing it in Mr Fulton’s study, in front of him. ‘Nice and cosy down here,’ he had said.

Susan stared up at the pattern the curtain-filtered light was making on the ceiling. Then the thought suddenly came. She had gone to Mr Fulton’s for the weekend. So she was still at Mr Fulton’s. It was his ceiling, not the ceiling of her own room at home. She pushed herself up, on her elbow — and there was Mr Fulton. Sitting on the foot of her bed. He had a cane in his hands.

He smiled at her. ‘Good morning, Susan. You’ve just woken up. Perhaps I woke you though I came in very quietly.’ He swished the cane through the air. ‘I thought we might have our first session. With the cane. A nice little early morning exercise.’

Mr Fulton stood up. He was in his dressing gown, with pyjama trousers showing beneath it. ‘Do you want to go and brush your teeth, dear? And perhaps use the loo. If a girl’s never had the cane before it can have an unfortunate effect. With a full bladder it can sometimes just come spurting out. It’s the shock to the system of course but naturally it’s very embarrassing for a girl.’

Susan shook her head. Was she awake and hearing such horrible things? In the bathroom splashing water on her face she reluctantly decided she was. She brushed her teeth, then dropped her pyjamas and sat on the loo. Mr Fulton’s words ‘it can just come spurting out’ made her sweat…

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now let’s have the pyjama bottoms off, shall we. Right off.’ Susan was back in the little bedroom, the curtains still closed but filtering in golden sunlight. The headmaster was waving his cane through the air. Had her mother any idea about all this? What if she told her? But Susan had the feeling her mother would brush it aside. ‘Don’t fuss about little details, Susan. If he’s getting you into St Edwards then that’s all that matters.’ Something like that.

Somehow she was taking off the bottoms of the pale blue pyjamas. She stood in just the top, a splendid sight: full womanly flanks pale in the golden light, one hand self-consciously over her blonde bush. Jutting nipples stretched firm peaks in the cotton top which was rather tight. Susan had had the blue pyjamas for over a year and repeated washings had caused some shrinkage.

‘Let’s have you over the bed.’ He took her arm, guiding her, then pushing her down. Face-down in the bed cover and kneeling at the side. Susan pushed her face in. Hide your face and perhaps all this way-out scene would go away. Because she still couldn’t believe…

THWACK!…

Oh sweet Jesus Christ. Susan let out a shriek, her face at the same time jerking away from the bed cover so that it came out full blast. Mrs Fulton, downstairs, must surely have heard but Mrs Fulton had heard it all before. Other Oxford candidates. Susan’s bottom felt like it had been cut in two.

‘Good girl!’ breathed bright-eyed Mr Fulton. And sliced the cane in again. THWACK!… Another howl but this one partly stifled. The bottom repeated its dance, pale full flesh shaking heavily with Susan’s desperate movements.

CRACK!…

After the sixth stroke Mr Fulton said he would call a halt, that would be sufficient for a start. Susan, though, didn’t hear, she was in a world of her own. A world of tear-wet bed cover and almost unbearable bottom. She felt herself being pulled to her feet.

Mr Fulton’s arms were round her. He softly kissed her wet face, then her mouth. The latter would have been a shock except that Susan was in too much of a state of shock already. ‘That was a good girl,’ he murmured. ‘A very good girl.’ Somehow Mr Fulton’s dressing gown had come undone and it was just the headmaster in his pyjamas hard against her. Hard was the right word for there was a stiff bulge against Susan’s abdomen. Her bottom still hurt like hell and her whole body was tingling. Aroused. Through the shock of it all her thoughts slid back to the last time. The spanking. Would he do that again? Bring her off?

Perhaps, because she was now being pushed back down on the bed. Gently but firmly. On her back. Once more looking up at those sun patterns on the ceiling.. Mr Fulton was on the bed too, lying on his side next to her. For the moment his hand ignored the obvious target of that downy blonde bush, perhaps not wishing to get Susan too excited. Instead he lightly toyed with the breasts, the nipples, which were putting such a delicious strain on the thin pyjama top. Mr Fulton didn’t want Susan to get too excited because first he wanted some information. His voice soft in Susan’s ear explained that her mother had told him she had a boyfriend, but Mrs Maidment wasn’t sure if… That was what Mr Fulton wanted to know. Did Susan…?  Had she…?

With the slow realisation that she was being asked if she was a virgin was the other little shock. The fact that her mother had discussed such matters with the headmaster. But perhaps it shouldn’t be so startling? Those sun patterns were quite hypnotic. Mr Fulton repeated his query. Had she? This time the word popped out of Susan’s full-lipped mouth like a little bubble. ‘Yes.’

‘I don’t think that’s at all a good thing.’ His voice sounded concern, or it could be annoyance. ‘A serious distraction in the face of all the work ahead. Having a serious sexual relationship is not at all a good thing.’

Haltingly Susan explained. She wasn’t doing it with her boyfriend Roger. She had never done it with him. But… she had done it just once. With someone else!

Mr Fulton seemed a lot happier with this. His hand left Susan’s now turgid nipples and headed down for those even more sensitive pastures. Susan’s bottom was still telling her it had been severely caned but the intense pain had left. It was now more like glowing than anything else. In fact she was glowing all over. She was glowing especially where Mr Fulton now had his hand. It seemed likely that he was going to bring her off and, well, if he insisted Susan’s whole body was certainly ready for it.

But Mr Fulton was talking again. Saying that with all the work a girl could get very tense, nervous. Having a sexual relationship with a boyfriend was not a good idea but on the other hand a mature girl did need some release from the tension.

At first Susan thought he was referring to what he had done before. His knowing fingers, which were certainly doing their knowing thing again. But then when the fingers stopped and he did something else Susan realised that he hadn’t meant that but the other. It was obviously why he had asked about her boyfriend and whether she had… Because it seemed that although it was not at all advisable to do it with your boyfriend that same situation did not apply when it was an older man who could get you into Oxford.

Strangely Susan’s mind seemed to be working in quite a lucid manner. In a way divorced from what was happening. Divorced even from her body which was all aroused and eager for action. Perhaps, she thought, this was what her mother had meant when she had told Susan to do whatever Mr Fulton wanted.

‘That way I’m quite sure he’ll get you through, dear. So I shouldn’t feel any, you know, inhibitions. You’re a big girl now; a young woman in fact.’

Presumably this was how all those other girls had made it to Oxford. The caning and then this: the tension reliever. Susan couldn’t see those fascinating patterns on the ceiling anymore because she wasn’t now on her back. She was kneeling on the bed, her weight supported on her hands and knees. Mr Fulton was behind her. Susan thought at first it seemed a funny position but then there were supposed to be a lot, weren’t there? A hundred or something. And looked at dispassionately, if you could do that, it certainly was a position which seemed to work.

Yes, indeed — even with day girls there were ways to make educating them a considerable pleasure —

See Oxford Examination for Susan Maidment’s further academic progress.