Friday Night — Saturday Morning

Story from Blushes 4

She shivered.

Outside, through Mr Wilmot’s window, was a bleak and drizzly November afternoon already quite dark at half past four; but that wasn’t why she was shivering; it was anyway quite cosy in Mr Wilmot’s room with the gas fire glowing. No, the shiver was of apprehension, a cold fear of what was to come.

What was to come, that is, if it was true what they said, what other girls who had been up before Mr Wilmot said. What was rumoured, whispered, for no one naturally was going to say it outright. Of course if it wasn’t true the alternative, being reported to Col. Mather, Chairman of the Governors, was even worse.

She did her best to control another shiver, nervously shuffled her feet, swallowed, and looked straight ahead, avoiding the frank appraising gaze of the Headmaster as he sat in front of her, at his desk.

The voice even-toned, not scary in itself, frightening only in the context.

The context of being here in his room after school at half past four on a Friday afternoon. ‘So we’re in a spot of bother then, Susan. A matter which I am afraid the Chairman of the Governors views very seriously indeed.’

Smoking. Behind the gym at lunchtime yesterday. The really awful thing was that it was her very first cigarette. She had only tried it, reluctantly, for a dare and then suddenly Deborah, on look-out, yelled ‘Scram!’ Deborah and the two others and Susan all did a frantic bunk but Susan’s panicky run was perhaps a little too fast and she almost immediately fell on the wet grass twisting her ankle.

It really hurt but got her no sympathy from Mr Spurgin, the caretaker, when he came lumbering over to grab her arm as she hobbled about on one foot.

‘Ahh, young Miss!’ His other hand had reached behind her and calmly squeezed her behind. She’d yelled and tried to twist away but Mr Spurgin had only given that nasty laugh and held on. He would only do that sort of thing — feeling a girl’s bum or her tits — if she was in serious trouble and it was not going to be worth her while to complain. Susan was of course in serious trouble because if there was one thing Col. Mather got really excited about it was smoking.

Mr Spurgin had pushed her up against the wall behind the gym and, shaking all over from that sharp darting pain in her ankle and the truly awful possibility which lay ahead, she had numbly listened to his portentous lecture — while his two rough hands had busied themselves with various bits and pieces of her anatomy.

She had stood there letting him do it in the desperate hope that he wouldn’t report her. But he had of course.

‘Anything to say, young Susan?’ asked the Head mildly.

Bottom lip trembling she shook her head. ‘Young Susan.’ She was 17 and had hoped to be made prefect next year — that was if she wasn’t expelled first. In Col. Mather’s eyes smoking was just about the worst crime there was, almost worse than murder it seemed. A hand went up to a moist blue eye, continuing on to brush back a blonde curl. She wasn’t crying yet, not quite, just feeling sick.

She shook her head again, then remembered that at this stage you did have something to say according to Penny James. You said ‘Please don’t report me to Col. Mather, sir.’ You said that and then after a bit of hmm-ing and ha-ing you would be offered the alternative. That really awful alternative which of course he wasn’t allowed to do and which no one was going to speak about except in secret whispers. Well, it would be slander wouldn’t it, said Mary Parsons who knew the law and that could certainly get you expelled and possibly sent to prison as well.

The words came out sounding strange and alien, as if they belonged to someone else. Popping out into the space, the width of his desk and a bit more, that lay between them. Her words hanging there in the still air, to be met by Mr Wilmot’s answering words. Calm, neutral words intermingling.

‘But Susan, it has to be reported, that is Col. Mather’s very strict instruction. You know that, I am sure.’

After those words there was a pause and then there were other words floating around. They were innocent-sounding but quite clearly crucial.

‘What… er… what else could you have had in mind, Susan?’

That was the key, Penny had said. If you said it then it got him off the hook. This time naturally it sounded even stranger, they couldn’t be her words, not Susan Watson’s, someone else’s…

‘I… uh… I’ll… take a spanking, sir… Or… whatever I have to…’

‘A spanking, Susan? Or whatever?’ He didn’t sound surprised or anything; which meant that all those whispers were correct. Still not looking at him but at the wall above his head she could nonetheless see he had taken up a plastic ruler. A transparent eighteen-inch ruler. He was tapping it against his other hand.

‘And where, Susan, would you take this spanking? Or whatever?’

Wh-what, Sir?’

‘Where on your pretty person would you take this spanking? Or whatever?’

She knew the answer to that, of course, although it was not easy to make the words come out.

‘On – on – on my bottom. Sir.’

‘On your bottom. And what sort of bottom, Susan?’

Again she didn’t know what sort of answer he wanted.

‘What state would your bottom be in, Susan. I mean at present your very attractive bottom is covered by your skirt and I presume underneath there are also your knickers. If I could possibly see my way clear to agree to the serious irregularity that you suggest I certainly should not want your bottom in that state. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes sir.’ Yes sir she understood now all right.

‘So how would it be then? What state would that bottom be in?’

‘B-bare sir. Kn-knickers down sir.’

‘I see, young Miss.’

He got up from his desk and went to the window to draw the curtain, shutting out that dreary, drizzly scene. Then he went to the door and turned the key. With that done he came back to sit on his chair again, this time first pushing it back so that it was well away from his desk. Space to operate. After that he told her to come and stand at his side.

Standing there again looking straight ahead she got a lecture about what she had suggested being quite illegal and he shouldn’t even consider doing it; but nonetheless out of pure kindness and to save her from the awful consequences of a report to Col. Mather he just might, this once, as a special favour.

But if anything about it ever got out he would naturally deny it and he would also see that she got expelled in disgrace forthwith. The steely hand showing after all this pure kindness.

Yes sir, she said, when he asked if she understood and agreed to all this. Then he told her to take her skirt off.

No one had told her about that. She had simply assumed, when she had been able to force herself to consider this truly awful situation, that it would just be pulled up. Green, pleated, knee-length, the ordinary regulation school uniform, it now somehow assumed a great significance. Without it…

Hands nevertheless had gone to her waist, to the buttons and the zip at the side. It slid down. She stepped awkwardly out of it, put it on his desk. ‘Knickers — just my knickers — he can see me —’

Tight and white, snugly containing her private and most intimate regions. She forced herself to stand still and straight. Above, the blouse and green-and-blue tie and her green cardigan; below, white knee socks and black strap-over flat-heeled shoes.

But in the centre where Mr Wilmot’s eyes were now intently focused just those tight, white, rather brief nylon knickers. Plus of course a pair of softly rounded and quite bare thighs. ‘He likes to smack your legs as well as your bum,’ Penny had said. ‘The backs of your thighs…’

‘Take them down,’ Mr Wilmot said.

How did you bring yourself to do that? By not thinking, pushing it out of your mind, thinking instead of Col. Mather and being expelled. ‘Right down,’ said Mr Wilmot, certainly not content with any half measures. ‘Mid-thigh; so the dog can see the rabbit.’

Softly rounded girl-flesh. Private curves and dips and dimples all now bare to his gaze. Taut and firm, she was quite slim with her 5’6” height and, in the centre of it all, the neat whisper of brown hair two shades darker than the blonde curls surrounding the now hotly-flushed face. A hand moved automatically across to cover that neatly-downed mound but Mr Wilmot ordered, ‘Stand straight; hands at your sides.’

After a bit he said ‘Turn.’ Her bottom now turned, softly rounded above the crumpled, lowered knickers. Twin pale cheeks trembling slightly, then jerking suddenly away as the Head’s hand reached out.

‘Keep still please —.’ Like warm spiders the fingers touched, tested, patted, squeezed lightly. More of his words popping out behind her.

‘Quite a nice firm one, eh Susan? A firm and very pretty bottom. So now we’ll see, shall we, how this very pretty bottom likes a bit of spanking.’

It was happening. She was over his lap; right over and no nonsense, head down close to the floor and bare bottom at the highest point squarely centred on his lap.

A bit more groping and then she was being spanked. She gasped at the sudden shock of it. Hard, crisp, jolting smacks, spaced out, each one knocking the breath out of her.

In desperation she hung on to the one saving thought. Col. Mather. At least she was not going to be reported to him. What was happening was so awful it was scarcely credible but when it was over that would be it. She would have paid the price, awful as it was.

The smacking continued. Splatt! — Splat! — Splatt! — systematically covering the whole of her bottom over and over again, At last it stopped — but only for Mr Wilmot to take hold of her lowered knickers and pull them on down, over those white socks and the black shoes, to take them completely off.

Then her legs were being pushed apart and the hand was smacking down on her thighs, on the backs, on the tender inner surfaces. In spite of those determined efforts to think only of Col. Mather and the fact that she was not going to be reported she was now crying, hot salt tears on the equally hot cheeks. Hot tears of pain and also of humiliation at this unbelievably awful business.

Finally it did stop. She lay sobbing, scarcely conscious of anything — including Mr Wilmot’s hand which had come to rest lightly holding the upper inner surface of her nearside thigh. Gradually the sobs became less intense. The world came back. The little closed world of Mr Wilmot’s office with its locked door and curtained window and its cosy gas fire. And her position over his lap. As she became aware so also she became aware of where his hand was… the first finger almost…

Softly seductive tones from Mr Wilmot. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it Susan?’

She made a ‘Nnnggg’ sound. Then she let out a little, startled squeak. The finger, and the rest of the hand, had moved up that extra little distance.

His voice almost a caress. ‘Just relax, Susan, like a good girl. We don’t want that report going to Col. Mather, do we?’

Her breath spluttered out as the hand took hold. The stinging smart in her rosy red bottom was now forgotten in the face of this. No one had ever said anything about this.

But what could you do? With that open threat of Col. Mather. Nothing — except let him do it. And what with the awful nervous tension of the whole thing plus the truly horrible spanking itself, well, somehow she found she was responding. Not wanting to, but her hips starting to move rhythmically against that fiendish intrusion of clever, experienced fingers.

Soothing words from Mr Wilmot floating in the air. ‘That’s better — Just relax — Let’s see what a good girl you can be —’

----//----

Outside, 20 minutes later, she walked her bike out of the school gates. Walked because she was still too trembly to get on. It was cold with that thin drizzly rain falling but she had her raincoat on and anyway it was not unpleasant; the fresh air and the rain in fact a relief after the stuffy warmth of Mr Wilmot’s and what had happened there. That dreadful spanking and then that business afterwards that in its way was even more dreadful.

After a bit with her knees now feeling somewhat less jelly-like she thought about getting on the bike, then decided to keep walking anyway. She had remembered she didn’t have any knickers on. Mr Wilmot had kept them.

‘Come round to my place in the morning and get them,’ he had said. ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday. We’ll have a cup of coffee. You know where it is, don’t you? About 10 o’clock. My wife will be out so it’ll be just the two of us.’

Susan shivered, but it might only have been the rain that made her feel so chill.