First Impressions

First of a Guardians’ Club three-parter from Blushes 9

Afternoon break; suddenly a whistle is blown and every girl within earshot stops in her tracks and turns toward the sound. ‘P’, shouts a tall man in an academic gown standing outside the rear entrance to the school building. Perhaps a dozen of the girls run to the man and form up in an orderly line in front of him.

‘Parkinson!’ Sarah starts, not knowing anything about anything at this disconcerting place. She takes a step or two towards the sound of her name then stops, unsure if it’s her who is wanted.

‘Run!’ says a guarded voice behind her. Run! But which way? To the man, of course. Sarah half walks and half jogs towards the little impromptu parade.

‘Come on, girl!’ Sarah runs at last. She tags on to the end of the line and feels rather sick with apprehension of she knows not what. The man turns and strides up the steps into the school and the lined-up girls follow him. In the corridor the line is told to stop and wait. Everyone turns to face across the corridor, backs to the wall. Sarah does as the others do.

They wait in near silence while the teacher goes away. The girl next to Sarah, a girl in her own form, whispers, ‘knicker inspection’. Sarah says ‘Pardon —’ timidly, thinking she misheard.

‘It’s just an excuse for them to get a peep inside your knicks,’ says the girl, but she looks straight ahead as she says it, out of the corner of her mouth. A gaggle of people appear at the end of the corridor, several men and a woman in her late thirties. The man in the gown is there too.

‘Fingernails!’ The girls thrust out their hands in front of themselves, palms down, fingers spread. Sarah copies them and glances at her nails, which look clean enough. Like the girl next to her she looks straight ahead, hearing muted voices from the far end of the line.

A sudden smacking noise rings along the corridor, and then another. Sarah doesn’t dare look. A whispery, whimpery sound drifts on the warm air, then a ‘sorry, sir — sorry’ echoes off the walls. A man’s voice, then another, the words not quite clear enough to catch properly.

‘Oh, please sir —!’ The girl’s higher-pitched voice carries plainly.

‘Four thirty’, says someone, his tone brooking no argument. The group move along. Sarah feels wobbly at the knees but risks a peep down the line. A girl is holding out one hand higher than the other.

The same crisp-flat sound; the girl bleats plaintively but Sarah sees that she is made to hold up her other hand. One of the men glances up and Sarah snaps her head to the front, pink house-ribbon bobbing on top of her head. That sharp smack-sound again, and a squeal of pain.

‘Four-thirty.’

The group moves on, nearer to Sarah’s end of the line. Something ‘tings’ on the stone floor and at the edge of her vision Sarah sees a girl stoop quickly and then straighten up. Three other girls are made to yelp or whimper as their palms are smacked vigorously with something bendy and leather-looking.

The girl next to Sarah seems a bit trembly when her turn for fingernail inspection comes. Sarah doesn’t have the nerve to look but senses that one of the men in the group has his eyes more on her than on her neighbour’s fingernails.

‘Not good enough, Payne,’ says the begowned teacher.

‘Hold them out.’ The strap whuzzes through the air and smacks hard across the girl’s palm. Sarah can’t help flinching; the girl gasps and breathes out sibilantly; she offers up her other hand and the leather sings against her pale palm.

‘Four thirty, Punishment Room,’ says the teacher and drops several small bright objects into the girls shivery hand. All attention shifts to Sarah, who feels her cheeks getting warmer.

Cool fingers take hers and lift them a little higher. ‘Ah — don’t believe I’ve — er —’ says the man who has been looking at her.

‘Parkinson, sir,’ says the teacher, taking Sarah’s other hand. Someone else speaks into the enquirer’s ear; Sarah overhears only the name ‘Philip Barclay’, her uncle’s name. She has no idea why these people should know her uncle, except of course that it is he who is paying her school fees. Fearing those words ‘Hold them out’, Sarah’s tummy lurches with relief when her hand is released and the strap stays at the teacher’s side.

He looks down the line; ‘Name tags!’ he says briskly. ‘Pin up!’ A flurry of activity, shoes scraping against the floor as girls turn towards each other then away. Four safety pins are handed to the bewildered Sarah. ‘Pin up, Parkinson.’

‘Yes, sir —’ But Sarah has no idea what he means. She looks at the other girls and sees that they are pinning the hems of their gingham dresses to their shoulders.

‘May I help you?’ says the man who wanted to know her name. He takes Sarah’s pins and plucks up the front of her dress as though it were no more than the gentlemanly thing to do.

‘Um er —’ There is an airy feeling around Sarah’s thighs; people are looking at her, up and down, though mostly down.

‘Turn round.’ His hand brushes against her breast; his voice is calm and kindly. She stumbles round, the back of her dress already up high. The pins snap shut; one, two. ‘OK.’ A patronising little pat on her knickers; Sarah’s face is a picture of embarrassment as she faces them again. Along the line the other girls finish their pinning up and face the front.

‘Name tag?’ says the teacher.

‘S-sir?’ What does he mean?

‘Show me your name tag.’

‘I — don’t understand —’

‘Take your knickers down and show me that your name tag is properly sewn in.’

‘My kn-knickers —?’

The kindly, gentleman comes gallantly to her rescue.

‘If I may be of assistance —’ he smiles at her in an understanding way then crouches down and slips her little cotton knickers down to top-of-thigh level. Sarah’s legs press together spontaneously and she gasps an incomprehensible little protest, but there are fingers between her thighs at the very, very top, knuckles brushing her soft pubic hair. The gusset of her knickers is hooked on the tip of a finger while everyone looks down.

‘No name tag,’ intones the teacher. ‘Four-thirty, Punishment —’

‘Perhaps she hasn’t been told, Mr Roberts.’ Sarah’s succouring knight asks her whether she has been told about name tags, which are to be sewn into knickers along the front seam of the gusset.

‘No-no, sir — I didn’t know —’ she shakes her head to emphasise her ignorance of the name tag regulations; her bow bobs above her honey-blonde hair.

‘It seems she didn’t know, Mr Roberts,’ the teacher nods, though his expression seems unsympathetic.

‘In the circumstances, perhaps I might suggest —’ Sarah’s new found ally speaks into Mr Robert’s ear.

‘I could probably manage it this evening.’ Mr Roberts volunteers his agreement: there are ‘ho-hum’ expressions on the faces of the others.

‘Turn round,’ says Mr Roberts to Sarah. He says to the kindly gentleman ‘I shall still have to —’

‘Of course,’ says the gentleman.

‘Hands,’ says the teacher, before Sarah has her bottom properly turned towards him. She looks over her shoulder in confusion; her rescuer is there again.

‘On your head, my dear.’ He takes one of her hands and places it on the top of her head. Sarah follows his lead with her other hand. ‘Now then —’ A warm palm presses gently against the base of her belly, while another coaxes her to hollow her back. ‘Just push your bottom out a little — that’s the way.’ His fingers loiter between the silky-soft tops of her inner thighs, the hand in her back keeps her as she is supposed to be.

The strap arrives without the slightest warning, hard and true across the crown of her left buttock. Sarah gasps with the shock of it, staggering against the wall, the loitering fingers sliding almost unnoticed between her legs. ‘Ahh! Ahh-aaah!’

‘Push it out, my sweet — that’s the way.’

‘Oooh — ooo — n-no, please —!’

She gets another firm stroke, right buttock, and she squeals at the sudden smarting pain.

‘There, there — all over,’ says the kindly man. He stands up, his eyes on Sarah’s squirming bottom; the tips of his fingers are damp with Sarah’s dew.

Her eyes bleared by tears, Sarah dares not move from her position while the group move along the line. She still has her hands on her head, facing the wall, when the instruction to ‘Unpin!’ comes, after several other young bottoms have been strapped.

‘Get along to your classes.’ Sarah rubs ruefully at her bottom, then plucks her knickers up…

Continued in Curiouser and Curiouser.