Discovered

The first of three linked stories, from Blushes 10

Amanda pushed the door quietly open, and winced at the high-pitched squeak emitted by the hinges. Equally carefully, she let the door close behind her, and trod softly down the corridor towards the Principal’s Secretary’s office on the first floor.

Past the stairs, through another set of swing doors and down an unlit corridor. Amanda could feel the nervous sweat start as she stood outside the door, her heart pounding and her breath coming in short gasps. What she was doing was stupid, she knew, but it was the only way she and her chums Vicky and Susan would get through the exam in two days’ time.

Amanda’s two years at Sixth Form College had been a chequered affair, with bouts of hard work tempered by long periods of inactivity, frustrating her tutor — who knew she could do the work — and irritating Amanda herself. Now the crunch had come. With just 48 hours to the final exams for her history A-level, Amanda had done virtually no revision. She was not alone, for Vicky and Susan had also spent more time out enjoying themselves than they had revising or doing the work set them by their tutors.

It had been a collective decision, and Amanda had drawn the short straw. They had all decided that one of their number must somehow get into the Secretary’s office where the exam papers were kept under lock and key, remove the relevant papers and photocopy them, and return them to the sealed folder from which they came. No easy task. Which was how Amanda came to be standing in the darkened corridor outside that all-important office one Friday evening, long after everyone else had left for the weekend…

Her hand reached out for the door handle, and with a sigh of relief Amanda turned it and pushed the door open. At least the bloody door wasn’t locked, she thought to herself. Swinging the small torch round the room, she quickly located the filing cabinet where Vicky had told her Mrs Stevens kept the exam papers when they were received from the Examination Board. Sloppy administrative procedures meant that the College had no safe and the secretary didn’t even bother to lock the filing cabinet. She relied on her skills of consistently filing material in the wrong place to confuse anyone intent on dishonesty.

Amanda stepped up to the filing cabinet and pulled open the top drawer: again, Vicky’s information had been correct, for the papers’ brown wrapper was right there, filed appropriately under ‘Administration Personnel’.

Swiftly, Amanda pulled out the bulging pack of papers, and sorted through to find the two slim envelopes containing the history papers. Both were, of course, sealed. But Susan had figured that out too.

After filling the kettle in the corner of the office with water, Amanda turned it on and waited for it to boil. In a couple of minutes, she was able to hold the tape seal on the flap of the envelope against the spout of the kettle as it belched steam. The seal peeled back easily, and she applied the flap of the envelope gently to the spout. In no time, she had the thing open and pulled the papers out.

There they were: General Certificate Examination. Advanced Level. History 1. Gold-dust! The photocopy whirred and clicked as it warmed up, until Amanda was able to extract the required three copies of the History 1 paper out of its warm mouth. She slipped the originals back in the envelope and took out the thick glue Susan had given her to reseal the thing. A generous dab to the flap, and a smear to the paper seal, were all that was required to make the envelope appear pristine. But just to make sure, she placed it under a heavy reference book on the shelf to keep everything flat while it dried.

The entire process was well under way on the second envelope of history papers when Amanda heard footsteps in the corridor outside the office. Her heart hammered and a lump came into her throat. She switched off the photocopier and the kettle, slid the filing cabinet almost shut — afraid it would make too much noise closing completely — and huddled herself behind it.

The steps passed the office by: she could see the figure of the caretaker through the glass panel in the door. Suddenly the steps stopped, and she heard him turn and come back to the office, barely believing it as the torch he was carrying swept over the door.

‘Funny,’ she heard him mumble, as the handle turned and he stepped into the office. He didn’t turn on the light, merely passed the beam of his torch round the room until it stopped on the wisp of steam still coming from the kettle: ‘Bloody funny.’

Walking to the kettle, he leant over and touched it, flinching at the pain of contact with its hot surface: ‘Christ, it’s hot!’ he exclaimed. The torch stabbed the gloom of the office, and it was a matter of seconds before Amanda was discovered squatting in a heap by the filing cabinet, her face screwed up into a grimace with the fear of exposure.

Another exclamation: ‘Good Lord… who’s that… stand up… whattya doin’ here?’ A nervous stream of orders and questions came from the startled caretaker as Amanda got to her feet. He walked over to the door and snapped on the light, and they both blinked in the sudden brightness.

‘Just what the hell do you think you’re doing, young lady?’

‘Well, I…’ Amanda began.

The man’s eyes fell on the brown examination package by the photocopier, and his head nodded sagely: ‘A little preview, was it? Not thinking of cheating were you?’

He touched the photocopier with the flat of his hand and nodded again as he felt the warmth. ‘Well, well, so you are up to something.’

‘I…I… that is, we…’

‘WE? Who’s we?’ asked the caretaker.

‘Look, Mr Rogers, I know this looks bad, but…’

‘I know… you can explain. Well, explain away, young miss. I’m listening. It’s Travis, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Mr Rogers, Amanda Travis. Look, I was just hoping to get a look at the History papers… I wasn’t…’

‘What a load of bullshit. You’ve had the photocopier going, and I’ve no doubt that if I looked in your bag I’d find copies of other papers too. Am I right?’

‘Yes,’ came the unwilling reply.

‘Well, you’re in for the high-jump, my girl. It’s a pity they don’t still have the cane at this place, ‘cos now you’ll just be up for expulsion.’

‘Expulsion? But they can’t do that!’ wailed Amanda, ‘I’ll never be able to retake these exams, and Dad’ll kill me!’

‘Very likely. But I think the Head will have first kill: and you’ll be out. Now pick up your things and get going. You’d better let me have the papers you’ve copied already first.’

‘Look, Mr Rogers, do you have to tell the Headmaster. It’s just that we’ve all worked bloody hard this year, and it would be such a pity if the whole thing went down the pan because of one stupid mess-up.’

‘You keep talking about ‘we’. Who is ‘we’?’

‘I can’t tell you that! It’s just that they’re relying on me, and I’ve let them down. Oh, Christ, this is a nightmare!’

‘I want their names, Travis. Now,’ the caretaker insisted.

‘I’ll give you their names if you don’t report them too. There’s no point in all of us getting into trouble. OK?’

Rogers thought quickly: ‘OK. Who are they?’

‘Victoria Lushington and Susan Hatcher.’ Silence.

‘Mr Rogers?’ Amanda paused, ‘I don’t suppose there’s any way I could persuade you not to report me tomorrow, is there?’ she smiled.

Rogers, in his late forties, could not deny he had noticed the attractive form of Amanda Travis around the college. She was in the habit of wearing tight-fitting jeans or slacks in the winter, and a series of dazzlingly short ra-ra skirts in the summer, all of which served to emphasise the slimness and length of her legs and the swelling roundness of her rump, which bounced delightfully under the ra-ra and jutted provocatively in the jeans.

As Amanda spoke, he noticed for the first time that her dark blue shirt had mysteriously become partially unbuttoned to expose the upper curve of her breasts and the splendid cleavage which accompanied them. The girl patently wasn’t wearing a bra, and the smoothly rounded form of both firm globes could be seen clearly.

‘Travis… you’re wasting your time,’ he said.

Amanda realised her mistake, and swiftly changed tack: ‘Look, Mr Rogers, I realise you have to report me. But the only reason for reporting me is so that I am punished for what I’ve done. Isn’t that right?’

‘Yes,’ he agreed.

‘Well, as you said, they don’t have the cane here anymore, and I don’t want to be expelled, so I thought you might find another way of dealing with me yourself. I mean, we both agree I deserve to be punished.’

‘A sound thrashing is what you deserve, young lady,’ came the response.

‘Well… yes…’ Amanda hesitated. She’d had a good spanking in mind. ‘A sound thrashing’ seemed a little ominous. But she couldn’t stop now. He was obviously interested… ‘Whatever you say, Mr Rogers, only you don’t have to report me, do you, if I’ve been… well, thrashed?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

Amanda breathed an audible sigh of relief, and instinctively reached up to button her shirt a little higher. At least that wouldn’t be necessary.

‘We’d better tidy up here first, Travis, then I’ll deal with you downstairs.’

Amanda thanked her lucky stars that she’d worn jeans this particular summer evening: a ra-ra would have offered little protection from Mr Rogers’ intentions. But what if he told her to get them off? She shrugged her shoulders. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

A few moments later, the girl and the caretaker had finished their work in the secretary’s office and Rogers turned to Amanda: ‘You wait here, my girl, while I lock up, and then we’ll finish this little episode off with your comeuppance. Take a seat in the Headmaster’s study, and draw the curtains, would you?’

‘OK, Mr Rogers.’

Little did Amanda realise that Mr Rogers had been given the task of getting rid of the punishment canes two years ago when they were banned at the college. So three slender, whippy malacca canes had passed into his hands, and he had looked after them in his office locker ever since, wrapped in linseed-oil-soaked cloths and secured in brown paper and plastic. This would be their first activity for some time, and a more appositely rounded target it would be difficult to find.

Roger locked up the exterior doors to the main block, and went down to his office where he unwrapped the package and took out the longest of the three canes, slipping the crook handle over his wrist and swishing it experimentally through the air at an imaginary target, as he had done a number of times before. Only this time. his fantasy of using the stinging implement for real was about to become reality…

Amanda turned in her seat and stood as Mr Rogers arrived in the Head’s study. She had drawn the curtains carefully: even though they were on the first floor and on an internal courtyard, she didn’t want some stray dog-walker to catch sight of her plight. It took a moment for her to realise that he was carrying a cane, which he placed on the desk.

‘That’s a cane, Mr Rogers. You’re not…?’

‘You’re right, Travis. It is. And I am. A thrashing I promised, and a thrashing it shall be. Unless you want to ignore our earlier agreement, of course.’

‘No, no, we agreed…’ Amanda’s voice tailed off. Her bottom felt suddenly very large and very defenceless. This was just awful.

‘First, though, I want you to call your two colleagues in crime, Lushington and Hatcher, and tell them to report to the main block entrance in 30 minutes. You can tell them what you like, but I want them here. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she blurted automatically as his dominant tone made her almost jump to the phone on the desk. Her eyes dropped sideways to the gleaming length of malacca: she found it hard to believe that it would shortly be used on her own backside.

Dialling Vicky’s number, she was glad that Vicky herself came to the ‘phone: ‘Vicky? Trouble. I’ve been caught by the caretaker, and he knows we’re all involved… Doesn’t matter how… It’s just that he’s agreed not to report it if I take the cane. Yes, dummy, the cane. I know how old I am, thanks. Well of course it’ll be on the bum,’ she turned for confirmation to Rogers, who nodded slowly, ‘but the thing is, he wants you and Susan up here at the main block entrance in half an hour. I don’t know if you’ll get the stick too. I should think so.’ Again she turned for confirmation.

‘If she wishes to avoid being reported in the morning,’ whispered Rogers.

‘Sorry, Vicks, the answer’s yes, if you don’t want to be reported. Can you call Sue for me, and explain what’s happened. And don’t be late. It’s ten now: can you make it for half past? Well, you’ll just have to walk it… Wear jeans,’ she hissed, finally, and replaced the receiver.

‘Are you going to cane them, too, sir?’ she asked. She didn’t understand why she called him ‘sir’. It just seemed appropriate in the circumstances and in the surroundings of the Headmaster’s office.

‘Only if they agree,’ confirmed Mr Rogers. ‘Now, how old are you, Amanda?’

‘Eighteen, sir.’

‘Eighteen, eh? Have you ever been caned before?’

‘No.’

‘Spanked?’

‘Well, yes, a couple of times at my uncle’s, with a hairbrush, but not since I was 16.’

‘Bare bottom, was it, the hairbrush?’

‘No, he just lifted my skirt up and hitched my knickers up too. Well, I suppose it was bare, really. But I was a kid then,’ she protested.

Amanda failed to mention her boyfriend’s penchant for occasionally applying a plimsoll to her bottom when she stepped out of line. But that hadn’t happened for some months now, and he was not allowed to take her knickers down when he spanked her. She drew the line at that. Her father, dead for three years now, had been the only other person to punish her.

Underneath it all, Amanda Travis was a very traditional girl. She had not yet slept with her boyfriend, though they had been going out for over two years.

‘Well, I want those jeans off,’ ordered Rogers.

It wasn’t really a surprise to Amanda, and she obediently undid the stud and zip and wriggled quickly out of them, kicking her shoes off as she did so and leaving the jeans in a pile on the floor. The long blue shirt concealed the girl’s bottom: ‘You’d better take that shirt off, too, Travis, it’s in the way.’

Amanda had unbuttoned the shirt completely before she remembered that she had chosen not to wear a bra that balmy summer evening. After the earlier display, Rogers had not forgotten the fact, which contributed to his telling her to take off her shirt. On the spur of the moment, Amanda shrugged the shirt back off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor, unashamed of her mature body.

She stood now facing the caretaker, naked apart from a pair of scanty white cotton briefs, her fair hair tumbling back as she swept her hands through it, causing her breasts to dance, white against the silky tan of the rest of her body.

Rogers’ eyes were drawn inexorably to the two perfectly-formed breasts, the nipples sitting comfortably on the upper curve as they sat proudly firm and moving slightly as Amanda changed her position, placing her hands behind her back.

‘Face the desk,’ he ordered.

Amanda turned and stood erect, feeling the sweat gather in the fine hairs at the small of her back. The caretaker walked in front of her and picked the cane off the desk. He bent it experimentally each way, and Amanda’s eyebrows lifted at the springy flexibility of the instrument. This was going to be infinitely worse than any spanking with a hairbrush or slipper.

‘How many am I going to get, sir?’ she asked, brushing a stray wisp of hair off her face which caused her breasts to quiver.

‘How many do you think you deserve, Amanda?’ he asked.

‘Well, I suppose it’s nothing less than top whack, sir, being 18 and everything — six of the best?’ she asked.

‘Very close, young lady. Six of the best. Plus an extra two strokes for trying it on in the other way.’

‘Oh. So you did notice.’

‘Yes. So it’s eight of the very best. Your friends will get six apiece. Now slip those knickers down and bend over the stool.’

Amanda hesitated.

‘Take your pants down and bend over, girl,’ he ordered.

‘I’m sorry, sir, I won’t take my knickers down,’ Amanda half-turned.

The caretaker couldn’t fathom it: there she was, bold as brass, stripped down to her knickers for a beating, and now she refused to take it bare!

‘Could I hitch them up instead? It’s just that I’m a bit shy…’ continued Amanda.

‘No, do as you’re told and take them off immediately.’

With great hesitation Amanda realised she had no choice in the matter and did as she was ordered.

‘OK sir? Shall I bend down now?’ she asked.

‘Yes, do that.’

Amanda swung forwards and down, her hair falling to cover her face, until finally she was bent fully over gripping her ankles, her feet together, her legs taut and straight. The bleached peach fuzz on her sun-tanned legs gave way to the two pale rounds of her buttocks, still fleshy even in her classic posture.

‘Bend right over.’

Amanda obediently shifted position and pushed her fingers onto her toes, looking back past her legs to see the man take up his position by her left hip and start by spanking her bare bottom.

Ouch! She had forgotten just how much it hurt.

Then out came the cane: He swung the cane in practice arcs, making a slight swooshing sound, to land with a slight tap across her bare rump. The cane dropped down to his side.

‘How many strokes are you to receive, Travis?’ he asked.

‘Eight of the best, sir. Sorry, the very best, sir,’ replied the girl.

‘Right you are. And I want you to call out the strokes as you are ready to receive them, one at a time, one to eight. If any strokes are not given correctly because you move or stand up, you will receive an extra two strokes. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir. I’m ready.’ Amanda bobbed up briefly, rubbed the sweating palms of her hands on her thighs, and bent again to resume her position. There was a long pause.

Then: ‘ONE!’ A loud high-pitched Swwwittt and a meaty Thwwack as the cane travelled down and landed full across its bare target. The teenager swayed briefly onto her toes, gave a gasp, gritted her teeth, and said ‘TWO!’

Again, the caretaker lifted the springy malacca and slashed it down to unwrap eagerly round the well-fleshed 18-year-old’s buttocks. He was glad he had gone to the trouble of binding the handle with electrical tape: it made accurate positioning of each stroke remarkably easy despite the flexibility of the malacca.

Two tramlines now traversed both cheeks, the tip of the second stroke having landed just short of the girl’s right hip causing a deep weal: ‘Christ, that stings!’ she exclaimed.

‘It’s supposed to sting, Amanda. I’m afraid it stings a great deal more than your uncle’s hairbrush, but a cane is designed for the job.’

‘You’re telling me!’ she agreed ‘but how the hell did I get into this. Just wait until I see Sue and Vicky!’

‘They’ll be feeling much the same as you shortly. Let’s get on with it, please.’

‘Sorry sir. How many have I had?’

‘Two.’

‘God, is that all? THREE, then!’

The cane lashed down across the fleshiest part of Amanda’s buttocks, sinking into the supple flesh and leaving the undisguised trademark of its visit as a swiftly reddening tramline of pain.

‘Wow. FOUR!’

The girl started to wobble before the stoke arrived, causing Mr Rogers to order her to keep still before he dealt the fourth blow.

‘You can stand up for a moment, Travis, if you wish, and take a breather, well done. Half way there.’

‘Thank you Mr Rogers.’ She shot to her feet and rubbed vigorously at the soft roundness of her bare cheeks to ease the smarting pain. The caretaker watched as she hitched her knickers up again and bent over without being told. Here was a game one, he thought.

‘FIVE!’ she almost shouted. It arrived with a whoosh and a touch of fire appeared across the lowest curve of her bottom just above the crease of her thighs. The flesh here was tanned from Amanda’s high-cut bikini pants, but it still formed part of her buttocks and was a part of the target. That stroke would ensure that the teenager’s sunbathing was curtailed — in a bikini at any rate — for the next week or so, until the marks faded.

‘God, that was a bit low, sir: is it on my bum, or doesn’t it count?’ she asked anxiously.

‘It was right on target, girl. Your bottom’s quite big enough for eight strokes without crossing them over or caning the backs of your legs.’

‘SIX, sir!’ Another stroke across the lower curve, just above the last.

‘SEVEN!’ her voice lifted another semi-tone.

Swwitt… thwaacckkk! There was a slight gleam of linseed oil on the girl’s unprotected rear from the cane, which caught the light.

Finally, after a long pause during which Rogers allowed the cane to stay aloft: ‘EIGHT!’ and down it came to bite deep into the fleshiest part again, just below the third stroke.

‘Wow… Christ… it burns like hell!’ complained Amanda, without moving her position: ‘Is that it?’

‘Yes, you can stand up now. Well taken I must say. I hope your friends are as self-controlled.’

‘I doubt it,’ was the bitter reply, as she rubbed gently at the glowing striped bottom, ‘God, that hurt!’

‘You deserved it. Now sign this form, would you?’ Amanda, looked at the typewritten form, used in the past by the Headmaster when he was worried about complaints on matters relating to corporal punishment, particularly with girls. It was a simple document which required the offence and punishment to be completed, together with the recipient’s name, age, form, home address, and a short sentence agreeing to undergo corporal punishment. There was a space at the end of the page for the person administering the beating to sign, and a confirmation space for the number of strokes given.

Under Offence Amanda wrote Theft of examination papers with intent to cheat during board exam. Under Punishment she wrote Eight strokes with the cane, administered to buttocks. No mention of her unclothed state. She completed her name Amanda Travis, age 18, form Beta 2 and address 34 Souldrop Drive, Norwich, Norfolk and signed in the space provided. Rogers scribbled a confirming 8 and signed at the bottom. It was done.

‘Right, Amanda. Would you go down to the main entrance and wait for your friends. They should be here by now. Here’s the key.’

She had been sitting at the desk clad only in her knickers, which were hitched high with her bare bottom pressed onto the cool leather of the seat, and she turned to get up, pull her knickers over her throbbing backside, and put on shirt, jeans and shoes. A few moments later, she was on her way downstairs.

Two anxious faces greeted her through the glass. Victoria and Susan were shortly to find out about the caretaker’s comeuppance…

To be continued in Extra Curriculum from Blushes Supplement 3 and Brought to Book from Blushes Supplement 4…