Hard Lines

Second part of a three-parter from Whispers 4

‘Not good. Susan. Not very good at all.’

Mr Wilmot, standing behind Susan, was shaking his head sadly. He had his two hands on her shoulders, squeezing gently as she sat at the piano. She was making mistakes, she knew she was, more than usual but she couldn’t help it. She was very nervous, scared even you could say. Those hands on her shoulders had viciously spanked her bare bottom and Susan knew he was quite capable of doing it again. Or even… the cane.

On top of all that, or rather underneath it you could say, was that dreadful cellar. Underneath her at this very moment. Extensive, Mr Wilmot had said. Stretching for miles probably. Black tunnels and rooms full of rats and other nameless things. She shouldn’t think about the cellar, she knew, but Susan couldn’t help it and that was probably why she was hitting all the wrong notes.

It was late afternoon of Susan’s first day still. She had slept after Mr Wilmot had left her and after having that good sobbing cry just like a big baby. Mr Wilmot had come in sometime later and told her it was time to get up, she couldn’t sleep all day.

‘Get up please,’ he had repeated, which meant she had to get out of bed with Mr Wilmot standing there in spite of the fact that she had no clothes on. ‘Let’s have a look at it,’ he said when she was out, meaning her bum where he had spanked her. He held her arm and his other hand slid over the bed-warm cheeks which still felt a bit sore though of course nothing like what it had been. He gave her bum a slap, then slid his hand over both bare boobs which having just come out of the warm bed had their nipples quite hard.

‘What’s this?’ he asked, fingers investigating the hardened nipples. ‘Not been lying in bed thinking about boys, have we?’

Then Susan had to dress — while Mr Wilmot watched. At least her knickers were there, he hadn’t confiscated them or something, like Susan’s bra. He made her put her uniform back on, though she had other clothes with her. Even her school tie. Smartness was part of discipline, Mr Wilmot said.

‘No, not good at all,’ repeated that gentlemen now. His hands squeezed her slim shoulders and then did what they had done in the cellar. Slid down onto Susan’s boobs.

‘I suppose the trouble is you’re thinking about that boyfriend and therefore not concentrating. Is that it?’

Susan said ‘no’ in a squeaky voice and then ‘Please…’ He was pinching again; pinching her nipples.

‘I can’t believe you, Susan. But anyway I do have something that will take girls’ minds off of boys. Come with me please.’

He gave both boobs a final squeeze and then let go. Susan got up, hot-faced because she wasn’t used to having her tits squeezed by men. Her boyfriend Robert did a bit of that but not pinching and also only sometimes when Susan felt like letting him. Whereas Mr Wilmot just grabbed you and you couldn’t do anything because of … what was down below…

She followed him as he led the way into his study. Mr Wilmot sat down at his desk, turning his chair sideways. He reached under the desk… and brought out a cane.

‘No,’ Susan whispered but it was really just an automatic response. If Mr Wilmot wanted to do it and he said either that or…

‘Take your skirt off.’ His voice was quite quiet and controlled. Because Mr Wilmot knew she had no choice. Susan looked at him and at the cane. Mr Wilmot’s eyes opened a little wider… and Susan’s hands went to the fastener of her skirt. She undid it and opened the wrap-around skirt. His eyes were fixed on her navy blue school knickers.

‘Now the knickers, Susan. Lower them halfway down to your knees.’

It was the same thing — no choice. Susan pulled them down. She felt a bit icky. Mr Wilmot of course had his eyes fixed on her down there. Her pussy. All that black hair. She had as much as her mother now. The school doctor last term had said, ‘My, quite grown up, Susan,’ and put his hand down there as she stood at his desk in just her vest. He had made her stand with her legs apart and fiddled about. That had been pretty sick-making — but not as bad as being in Mr Wilmot’s cellar.

‘Stand by the typewriter,’ he said after having a good long look. ‘Put a piece of paper in and type: I must concentrate on what I am doing and not think about boys.

The typewriter was right next to Mr Wilmot’s desk. Susan stood in front of it, ultra-conscious of the fact that her bared bottom was right in the range of Mr Wilmot’s cane. She took a piece of paper and stuck it in. In her nervousness she couldn’t remember exactly what he had said.

‘What was…’

CRACKK!…

Susan’s query became a scream. The cane had snaked in, right across the meat of her bum. It was quite a different pain from being spanked. The worst pain you could imagine. Her hands shot back to clasp her burning rear.

‘Don’t rub it, Susan. If you do you’ll get twice as many. What I said was…’

Whimpering, she began typing with jerky stabs. Susan wasn’t much good at typing anyway but like this, standing with your bottom bare and burning.

‘Aaooowww!’

She had got to ‘concentrate’ and the cane had simply sliced in again, like a red-hot poker. She gripped the typewriter, forcing her hands not to go behind her to her poor bottom. It wriggled and clenched and Susan could feel the tears coming again. From the dreadful pain and also — well, injustice. She hadn’t done anything to get this.

‘Keep typing,’ Mr Wilmot barked.

Susan resumed, pecking at the keys while every moment afraid that the cane was going to come sizzling in on her naked rear. Somehow she got through without it happening. She darted a look at Mr Wilmot.

‘Show me,’ he said and swung the cane. Susan yelped but this time it was only a pat. Her fingers scrabbled the paper from the typewriter. Mr Wilmot perused it as she held it out. She hadn’t made any mistakes — or she thought she hadn’t. He grunted.

‘Right. Put it down. Now you get your caning.’

Susan looked at him, mouth working, trying to keep control but she couldn’t. Tears slid down her face. She had thought that was it, it was over. She didn’t speak. For one thing it would be no use and for another — she knew if she opened her mouth she would only make babyish crying sounds.

Mr Wilmot told her to stand straight and fold her arms behind her back. And to stay like that, otherwise he would have to double the dose. She was being disciplined and she had to show discipline. ‘You should have had this long ago, my girl.’

He gave her four dreadful whacks. Long before the end the tears were a real flood, from the awful pain as much as anything else. But Susan stood there more or less still and so she didn’t have to have extra ones.

Mr Wilmot got to his feet and told her she could unfold her arms. He put his arms round her. Susan sobbed into his shirt front — while Mr Wilmot’s hand began jiggling her red hot bum. While he did this Mr Wilmot’s voice in her ear was saying things in soothing tones: that girls had to learn discipline and concentration and until they had learnt that they would have to be caned and they might also have to be sent down to the cellar. Did Susan understand that?