Susan

Story from Roué 1

‘Four-thirty sharp after school then young lady,’ she heard the headmaster’s voice as if it were in another room, ‘and I mean sharp, don’t keep me waiting.’ Mr Watkins ushered the pretty young girl out of his study door into the old corridor of the Edwardian wing of the co-ed Grammar School, and for twenty seconds or so he peered over his half-rimmed spectacles at the retreating figure walking slowly and disconsolately back towards the newer part of the building.

To his pupils Mr Watkins was quite an awe-inspiring, austere man of about sixty, invariably thought to be lacking in human warmth; a stern disciplinarian of the ‘old school’, a ‘just beast’ as most of the boys and girls described him. Every pupil without exception would have been astounded to have been able to read what was going through Mr Watkins’ mind as he followed intently the trim figure of Susan Miller as she disappeared from view; he almost regretted not having dealt with her on the spot rather than having to wait seven hours at least before that entrancing little rump would be jiggling bared, rosy, and tingling across his knees.

Still, it had its compensations; he would have all day to imagine Susan’s thoughts whilst she had to go through her usual routine of class-work, and there was a decided twitch in his trousers at the thought of the evening’s ‘duty’ in store for him.

After all, it wasn’t every day he managed to find a really cast-iron excuse to strap one of the older girls these days, and even when he did they were usually so unattractive and so upset by the whole procedure that any pleasure he might have derived from the proceedings was evanescent. He had a shrewd suspicion that things would be very different with the young lady he would be dealing with tonight. Her looks and sultry pouts virtually told him that she was ripe for just what he had in mind after school. What a good thing it was that his study was so secluded, especially after hours. Mr Watkins closed the study door with a sense of real satisfaction, even for a confirmed bachelor a headmaster’s duties still had their little bonuses from time to time.

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Satisfaction was a long way from Susan’s mind as she sat at the desk in 5B classroom and tried in vain to concentrate her mind on what Miss Rawlings was explaining so lucidly about the procreative cycle of the bee. She should have worked harder last term, there was no doubt about that. Then she needn’t have tried to cheat in the end of term exam, and she wouldn’t have run the stupid risk of being caught.

Being caught was bad enough, but being reported to old Watkins was awful. He’d been so serious about it too, she hadn’t realised just how sanctimonious and righteous he was about such things, though she might have guessed from his face. He went on and on so, lecturing away — blah — blah — until she’d have done anything just to stop his jawing. All she could think of doing was to stand there with her head bowed and her hands behind her back, twisting her little hanky, occasionally peeping up at him through her eyelashes. She hadn’t really paid a lot of attention to what he was saying exactly, until suddenly she heard him bark out —

‘Look at me girl.’

He hadn’t spoken loudly, but the precise way in which he said it had made her feel quite goose-fleshy with fright, and he looked so severe now.

‘So, Susan, what I have decided is to either expel you, in which case you’ll have no exam results next term, and you won’t be able to go to the training college, or give you the choice of coming back this evening for a good dose of the strap. Now which is it to be?’

Slowly the meaning of what he had just said sank into Susan’s consciousness; expel… no exams… no college… the strap. ‘God, he really means it… the strap… he can’t… I’m sixteen… I know he straps the girls sometimes… but he couldn’t… str-str-strap a girl of my age… I’ll be expelled. No… no… I can’t, Mum’ll kill me… I’ll have to plead with him.’

Mr Watkins’ deliberate voice interrupted Susan’s bemused thoughts abruptly.

‘Come along young lady, don’t keep me waiting all day. What’s it to be then? A short sharp lesson, or expulsion?’

Susan stuck her lower lip out in a sulky pout, and her words came out in a quiet, almost inaudible whisper.

I don’t want to be expelled.’ Then as an afterthought, she added reluctantly… ‘Sir.’

Mr Watkins couldn’t help smiling inwardly at the way Susan had announced her decision, but he was determined to stretch out the interview to increase her shame.

‘I don’t want to hear just what it is you don’t want, Susan, tell me what exactly you do want at once.’

Susan’s face was a picture, she could feel the warmth of her blush rising up from her shoulders towards her neck above the collar of her white cotton blouse.

‘I want you… to… to… str-str…’ she stammered with her mouth dry, and her tongue trying ineffectually to moisten her quivering lips.

‘Speak up girl,’ the Head prompted, ‘I can’t hear what you are saying.’

‘…want you to strap me,’ she blurted out in a rush, wishing there was a trap-door in the floor so that she could disappear from his piercing eyes.

Mr Watkins gave a little rub of his hands together, but he wasn’t satisfied yet.

‘You want me to strap you, do you? Might I enquire where you think I am going to strap you, on what exact part of your anatomy, young lady? Tell me that please.’

During the ensuing silence Mr Watkins couldn’t help but feel some sympathy for the blushing teenager as she stood there wriggling her feet on the carpet. After about thirty seconds, which seemed to Susan like as many minutes, he took pity on her inability to say what she must have realised was in store for her.

‘As you seem to have nothing to say,’ he said, ‘I want you to report to me here after school. Make sure you change into the knickers you normally wear for tennis, you can collect them from the changing room at lunch-time. I invariably make a point of strapping girls only after they are wearing really thin tight brief panties, make sure you comply with that rule. Off you go now.’

Susan stumbled blindly through the study door which Mr Watkins was holding open for her. She could feel the hot shameful tears running down her cheeks, and as she walked down the corridor she had to brush the hair back from her tear-stained eyes.

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All that had happened that morning came back with the vividness of reality, as Susan heard the bell that signalled the end of school for that day. School always finished at four-fifteen, and Susan lingered on in the loo of the cloakroom until the sounds of her fellow pupils had disappeared. She knew her Mum wouldn’t be home until after eleven tonight as it was her late shift at the sweet factory where she worked as a chocolate packer. Dad was at sea for the next two months, so no one would know what time she got home from school. Susan was well aware that the Head knew these facts only too well.

The apprehension of the day had actually made her have to ask to be excused from class twice, but whilst she was changing her thick blue school pants for her clean white cotton tennis briefs she knew she would have to ‘pee’ again before her strapping. As she pulled up the rather too brief white panties she felt a shudder of anticipatory fright tremble her thighs.

Susan quickly stuffed the blue gym knickers into her satchel, and peered anxiously out of the cloakroom door. To her intense relief the corridor was deserted both of pupils and staff, the last thing she wanted was to have to tell anyone why she was still in the school.

Although she didn’t really want to go too quickly towards the Head’s study, she was forced by the circumstances to walk smartly and silently through the two corridors which linked the newer part of the school to the old grim, austere, Edwardian block which was occupied solely by the Headmaster and his secretary, Miss Winton.

Miss Winton had been delighted when Mr Watkins had given her the opportunity to leave at 3 pm to catch up with her shopping. A spinster of nearly fifty, she had been with the Head for fifteen years now, and had a shrewd suspicion that Mr Watkins always gave her the afternoon off when he was going to chastise one of the girls. Miss Winton thoroughly approved of the strap for the young hussies around this school; she would have been delighted to give the Head a hand if he’d asked her; as it was, it was the least she could do to make sure he had the right conditions to ‘strap them properly, as they deserved’.

Susan gave a long sigh of relief as her luck held, and she reached the safety of the door outside the Head’s room, her breathing a little gasping as she summoned up the courage to knock on the door. At the very moment when she was about to rap gently on the oak panel the door opened, and Mr Watkins peered over his half-rimmed spectacles at the frightened girl.

Without a word Mr Watkins ushered Susan into his study, and shut the door behind her. Susan heard the faint click of the lock as the Head carefully turned the key. There was in fact no chance that anyone except the old, partly deaf school porter would be around at all by 4.30, but Mr Watkins was a careful man, and the last thing he wanted was any invasion of his privacy for the next hour. The task of ensuring complete privacy concluded, his next task was to lead the young girl over to near the fireplace.

Susan found herself contemplating the school trophies ranged along the mantelpiece, and the flickering flames of the Head’s fire, whilst he opened one of the drawers of his desk. Suddenly she felt him come round behind her and stand with his back to the fire about two feet in front of her. She found her horrified gaze riveted on the black two-tailed strap he held in front of her face, and as he ran the twin tails through the fingers of his left hand, almost, it seemed to Susan, with pleasure, her legs trembled in spite of all she tried to do to stop them.

‘I don’t think I have had to strap you before have I Susan?’ queried the Head, knowing full well what her answer would be.

‘You strapped me about three or four years ago,’ whispered Susan.

‘I had overlooked that occasion,’ remarked Mr Watkins with a slight smile. ‘Let me see, how old were you then?’

‘Nearly thirteen, sir.’ answered Susan, who remembered only too vividly the smarting sting of the strap across her young buttocks.

‘And how old are you now, Miss?’ asked the Head in an oily voice.

‘I’m just sixteen,’ she said, almost in tears.

‘And no doubt thinking that sixteen is much too old for a strapping I expect. Well I can tell you it isn’t. Whilst a girl is at this school and under my control, serious misbehaviour, or naughtiness of the kind I find offensive, will inevitably lead to the sort of punishment I am about to give you; is that plainly understood?’ His voice was sharp and severe in tone as he uttered these words.

‘As you have been strapped before you will be familiar with my methods, just do as you’re told, I want no disobedience or struggles, or I shall be forced to expel you after all, and I doubt whether your father and mother would approve of the conduct leading to your expulsion. Doubtless you agree?’

Mr Watkins walked slowly across the room towards a high-backed armless chair near to a bookcase, and stood there contemplating Susan in her short-skirted gym-slip, its tight belt throwing into prominence the fullness of her young hips, her school tie sliding down between the cleavage of her developing breasts, her white blouse, knee-length socks and barred black shoes setting off her schoolgirl image to perfection. Mr Watkins once again blessed the authorities who insisted on uniform for the school.

During the minute or so that he eyed Susan up and down, he consciously kept flicking the strap against his left palm, watching Susan’s apprehensive eyes following the snaky ends of the thick black shiny strap. Suddenly it seemed to Susan that he remembered what he was about to do to her, and he sat quickly down on the chair, and put the strap on a low table in front of his legs.

‘Come along Miss… it’s time we started,’ he said, and a crooked index finger beckoned Susan to his side.

Mr Watkins parted his trouser-clad thighs just enough to guide Susan’s shaking legs between his knees, and then closed them firmly.

‘You obeyed my instructions about your undergarments, I hope young lady?’ Mr Watkins’ voice was quite brusque.

Susan nodded as she heard her distant voice emit a hoarse, croaky ‘Yes… sir.’

‘Be so kind as to lift your skirt up, so that I may inspect your choice, and find out for myself whether they meet with my approval.’

Susan felt a hot blush erupt over her face as she slowly lifted the hem of her gym-slip higher and higher under the Head’s instructions, until she had her clothes bunched up in front around her slim waist.

Mr Watkins’ steely eyes were fixed on the revealing display of rounded creamy thighs which promised more and more as the hem went higher. Susan’s panties were thin cotton and clung tautly to her contours, and as the Headmaster reached behind her hips and clasped her thinly covered bottom cheeks in his hands, she stiffened her body, and he felt her buttocks nip tight.

‘Oh please… no… no… please sir… oh… don’t… oh don’t… oh no, not my… oooh…’ Susan was near to tears as she pleaded in vain to stop him from slowly peeling her panties down over her hips, deliberately holding them down at the front with both hands and staring with hawk-like eyes up to the top of her briefs where they had stuck clingingly to her damp thighs on the chubby insides. Susan felt the hot waves of blushing shame flood over her averted face, and then she felt the final ignominy of her partial stripping as his fingers eased her knickers down from the insides of her tightly held thighs. Mr Watkins pretended to find this difficult and his slow fumblings somehow managed to allow him to repeatedly and apparently as if by accident brush his fingertips across the soft fair hairs of her pubic mound, and gently titillate the outer lips of her pussy and the softly curved tops of her chubby thighs.

When he had lowered her panties down to mid-thigh, and seemed at last to be completely satisfied with the amount of girlish flesh he had bared, the Head parted his legs enough to allow Susan to obey his order to —

‘Come round to my right side, and bend well down across my knees girl.’

Poor Susan quickly did as she was told, her relief at no longer having her most intimate girlish secrets on display under Mr Watkins’ eyes and fingers, quite a little reduced by the thought that other vulnerable parts of her charms were both visible and highly palpable.

The Headmaster, who had thought that his previous pleasure during Susan’s preparation was a definite highlight in his career, was rapidly discovering that having a semi-naked pretty teenaged blonde girl wriggling into different positions across his trouser-clad thighs became a sensual experience of unusual quality.

The next minute or so was devoted entirely to placing Susan in the most perfect position for her strapping, and she was completely unable to understand why, when he had adjusted her and patted her into a certain seemingly satisfactory place across his lap, he had to start all over again. After what seemed to Susan an eternity of suspense, the Headmaster seemed satisfied at last. By then Susan was straddled across his spread knees, her breasts just beyond his left thigh, and her soft tummy and the folds of her gym-slip skirt between his parted legs. His left hand held her shoulders down firmly across his left leg, and she was commanded to —

‘Press hard up with your fingers and toes Miss, and get that bottom really high up — right up now, and keep it up whilst I’m strapping you so that I can give you a really good spanking.’

Susan by now was ready to do anything if only he would get it over with, and she pushed her bottom higher and higher, aided by Mr Watkins’ right leg lifting her a little.

‘Good… good girl… keep your bottom up like that… exactly as I want it —’

Susan felt his right hand running over her smooth, cool cheeks, and she just couldn’t stop them tautening in nervous anticipation of her smacking.

‘Do try to relax your buttocks Susan,’ she heard him murmur softly, and he went on fondling her pertly chubby bottom-cheeks whilst he went on talking gently to her, almost like a father.

‘I don’t really want to have to strap you Susan, you know, and make your pretty little bottom smart and tingle. I know you’re going to wriggle and kick and cry a lot, but I must do my duty you know.’

There was a short pause, the room silent except for the plaintive sound of Susan’s sobbing tears as she began to cry, and then the SPLATTTT of the strap as the two tails landed dead centre of Susan’s right cheek. It wasn’t a hard stroke, Mr Watkins believed in working up to a climax with his chastisements, but it had the young girl wriggling like a cut worm across his thighs, and the Head noted with satisfaction that Susan’s fair skin reddened nicely without too much effort on his part. His experienced judgement told him that a healthy tingling stinging smarting sensation would be what the young lady across his lap would be feeling right now as the prelude to what she had in store.

To Susan that first stroke of the stingy black strap had come as a surprise, by no means as gentle as the Headmaster thought it to be. All day she had keyed herself up for this strapping, and now it had started.

Mr Watkins took his time before he whacked the strap down hard across Susan’s left cheek, waiting until some of the wriggling produced by the first crack of the twin thongs had died down, and the fresh stings across her untouched flesh elicited a tensed-up wiggle from her bottom and a sobbing protest from Susan which drowned the Splatt of the third stroke.

He began to warm to the job in hand, and Susan’s bottom started to rise and fall, wriggling like a samba under the steady sensual stimulation of the pliant leather. For the next two minutes or so the enclosing four walls of the study seemed full of Susan’s almost continuous sobbing cries, punctuated every few seconds by high-pitched gasps as the tails of the tawse flicked wickedly across some particular exquisitely tender area of her chubby girlish thighs or buttocks.

The Headmaster knew full well how to lay a strap across a naughty teenager’s cheeks in such a way that the creamy skin became uniformly rosy over the twin summits of her behind, and most masters would have then called it a day.

Not so for Mr Watkins. He deliberately paused for a minute to allow Susan to squirm entrancingly across his lap, too engrossed in her own misery to notice the rapidly hardening ridge in his trousers pressing up against her soft tummy. Slowly her sobbing grew less heart-rending as he let her think her ordeal was over, until with perfect timing, dead on cue, he held her really firmly down and restarted her strapping.

This time the Head was in earnest, and poor Susan began immediately to find out what a real strapping was all about. He had to use all of his skill and superior strength to keep Susan clamped down across his left thigh whilst her hips bounced around like twin beach balls with the rapid hard strokes of that strap.

By now Susan’s cries were echoing round the study, and the Head was thankful that old Bert, the school porter, was almost stone deaf. He began to sense that despite Susan’s movements she was starting to derive some strange sexual enjoyment from being chastised, her sobs were changing subtly from pain to pleasure and her jerking movements across his thighs were no longer the wild uncontrolled movements of a girl being punished. His eyes began to feast on the rhythmic contractions and relaxations of Susan’s rosy buttocks; and then he began to strap her more gently, timing the strokes of the tawse so that the tails curled erotically across her cheeks.

Susan’s legs began to straighten out in time with her other movements, thrusting her hips forwards across his hard right thigh and elevating her rounded red bottom up as if to meet the descending leather strap in mid-air. At each moment of impact there was a gasp from the young girl, and her thighs scissored in a state of tension before she subsided back across his knees, lying there crossing and uncrossing her feet, her fists clenched and her face distorted by the sobbing.

About ten fairly fast, light strokes of the strap were enough to bring her to a climax, and he felt Susan’s hands grip his left leg tightly and felt her fingernails through the cloth of his trousers as she tautened like a drawn bow over his lap.

He stopped strapping her, and gazed avidly down at her buttocks, tense across his knees, her ankles crossing as she scissored her creamy thighs one against the other, gently rolling her rosy buttocks with the aftermath of her first erotic strapping. He extracted full measure from her plight until she had stopped sobbing except for the occasional sniff, and reluctantly he set her on her feet. For a full minute he kept her there standing on the carpet, her panties halfway down her sock-clad calves, and during the whole of the time he held the skirt of her gym-slip high up at the back with his right hand to display her stinging bottom, making her look back over her shoulder so that he could watch her tear-stained face as he lectured her.

‘I hope you aren’t going to be naughty again Susan, or I might have to give you another dose of the strap you know — now run along my dear, get dressed now, and may I suggest a warm bath and an early night in bed before your mother returns home.’

As Susan bent to pull up her knickers she felt a last little stingy slap across her tempting bum.