Lessons for an Errant Wife
Story from Janus 43 by R.T. Mason
A bright shaft of afternoon sunlight slanted across the Headmaster’s office to highlight the blonde bowed head of a girl seated at a table at the side of his large polished oak desk. It was 4.15 and the raucous clamour of departing pupils had now died away, leaving the school largely deserted except for a few masters, like the Head, holding a detention.
The brightly-lit head remained bowed as its owner
continued, unhappily, to write over and over: I must endeavour to do
very much better. James Wescott, fiftyish, tweed-jacketed, looked
momentarily up from the papers he was marking and experienced a pleasant glow
of anticipation. She was an extremely attractive pupil. She was also a very
special pupil. And his instructions were to make her life very unpleasant
indeed. Her name was Carole Wright.
The reason she was very special was that although she at
present was not wearing a wedding ring Carole Wright was married. She was also
22, though she looked no more than 17 in the school uniform and with her blonde
hair tied in two girlish bunches with red ribbons. Carole Wright in fact was a
young married lady who had not been behaving very properly.
So she had to be punished. Being a schoolgirl again was
that punishment. This was her first day, getting kitted out with her uniform in
the morning and starting at Mr Wescott’s school after lunch. A lesson of
English with the Head had conveniently brought her this detention. Carole was
to attend school for two weeks. They were to be two weeks that she would not
forget for a very long time.
‘How many have you written?’ he queried.
The blonde head was raised to give a view of the slightly
flushed face. A softly pretty face, full-lipped, sensuous. That tied in with
what Mr Wescott had been told by his friend Adrian Farnworth who had brought
her to him. A sensual appetite which had been indulged outside the confines of
marriage. Unfortunately for Carole her young husband had found out.
She bit her lip. ‘Forty-six, Mr Wescott.’ It was still
difficult to accept that this was happening.
‘Get on with it,’ he growled. ‘You’d better learn to write
faster than that, my girl.’
When she had done 100 he would tell her to stop. Then he
was going to cane her. James Wescott savoured the thought. Girls were normally
off-limits for the cane.
None of the other pupils knew the situation. Her new form
mates had simply been told that she was attending while she spent a short stay
with her uncle. A couple of members of staff had been told, Mr Gatting, Games
Master, for one, but that was all. When the idea had been first suggested James
Wescott had been doubtful. Could a 22-year-old pass for 17? But when he saw her
it was clear she could, especially once they’d got her in the uniform and with
her hair done in those schoolgirl bunches.
Adrian Farnworth had said, ‘Young Carole has got to have a
very unpleasant two weeks.’ Well, James Wescott could see to that.
He got up from his desk and walked round to look down: at
the blonde head, the slim shoulders in the white school blouse, the hand
wearily repeating its boring message. Mr Wescott’s own hand reached out to
sharply pinch the lobe of a pretty ear. Carole gave a squeak of pain.
‘How many?’ he kept hold of her ear.
She let out another yelp. ‘Pl…please! Oooh!
Eighty… eighty-six. Sir. I think.’
Mr Wescott gave a final tug at the ear and then went to
sit down. ‘Stop writing. And come over here.’
The pretty face was quite red now, with an apprehensive look. Carole got to her feet and came hesitantly forward. She had a very nice shape, firm good-sized tits pushing out of her white blouse on either side of the school red-and-grey striped tie, and with the very short grey pleated skirt showing a good six inches of shapely bare thigh. Her skirt was in fact deliberately several sizes too short and the white knee-socks Carole had on were normally only worn by the younger girls.
She stood uncertainly at the side of the Head’s desk,
blinking in the face of a hard stare.
‘Now I’m going to cane you, Carole.’
As the blue eyes rounded in fear he added, ‘The cane on
your bare bottom. That’s what naughty girls need.’
‘No!’ she blurted. ‘You can’t… not
that.’
‘You’ll very soon find out that I can, girl. And if
necessary I’ll bring the Deputy Head in here to hold you down whilst I do it.
Please remove your skirt.’
Carole’s eyes looked desperate. No one had mentioned the
cane before. But she knew she was in no position to argue. She had been forced
to accept this whole ridiculous humiliating affair, it had been either that or
have Bob get a divorce.
‘Come on,’ Mr Wescott barked. ‘Get it off. It shouldn’t be
a problem. You’ve had enough practice by all accounts, taking your clothes off
for every Tom, Dick and Harry.’
Carole bit her lip, and an even deeper flush suffused her
delectable features. It hadn’t been like that but there was no point in
arguing. Her hands went to the button which fastened the waist of the skirt.
Blushing, she slid it down. Underneath were neat white nylon knickers tight
over her hips and rounded buttocks.
‘Put it on the desk. Now take off the knickers.’
She tried not to think about it. Tried to shut out the
fact that she was standing in front of Mr Wescott with his stern
schoolmasterish gaze keenly on her, missing nothing. Carole told herself again
that she had no option as she forced her hands to slide down the knickers. She
stepped out of them. One hand came quickly across to cover her blonde bush
while the other was left holding the bunched-up briefs.
‘Put them on the desk,’ Mr Wescott instructed. ‘And then
stand up straight. At attention. From what I hear of your behaviour, Miss,
modesty is a little out of place.’
With an effort Carole made herself stand with her hands at
her sides. This was simply diabolical — but presumably that was what they
wanted, to humiliate her. Her bottom lip started to tremble.
‘Good. Stay like that, at attention, whilst I finish these
papers. Then I shall cane you.’
Carole stood there, in blouse and tie and white knee-socks
and the sensible schoolgirl shoes and nothing else, while Mr Wescott got on
with his marking. From time to time he glanced up — at Carole’s flushed face
and at what she was being forced to display below her waist. It was desperately
horrible and it seemed to go on forever. At last the Headmaster shuffled the
papers into a neat pile at the side of his desk.
‘Ever had it before? A nice whippy cane on that bottom?’
Numbly Carole shook her head.
‘Good. You’ll find it most stimulating. Not perhaps the
stimulation that you’re used to but stimulating nonetheless. It really gets
those nerve endings jangling, as you’ll see.’
Mr Wescott had been clearing one side of his desk and now
got up. ‘Bend over, Miss. Lie yourself across the desk. Knees nice and straight
and stick your bottom out.’
Carole felt as if she wanted to be sick. ‘Look…’ she
gasped.
‘Get over it! Or I’ll have Mr Matthews in here
holding you.’ There was a long curved cane in his hand now.
Carole stepped forward and bent over. How could they do this
to her. The shaft of sunlight had moved round and was now on Mr Wescott’s desk,
momentarily dazzling her as she lay across it. She closed her eyes, the shiny
surface warm against her cheek. Her fingers clutched at the edge. With a shiver
of terror Carole felt the cane laid across her bare bottom, pat-patting the
soft flesh. She held her breath.
CRACK!
The breath burst from Carole’s mouth in a yell of anguish.
The cane had zipped in across the full meat of her bottom like a glowing hot
poker. A red blur of pain exploded in her head as her pertly rounded rear
performed a frantic dance. Its pale soft flesh was now decorated with a tight
pair of rapidly reddening tramlines.
‘No!’ she yelled. ‘NO!’ But as the words
gasped out there was a second CRACK! biting in half an inch
below the first stroke.
Mr Wescott’s voice, somewhat breathless with effort and
excitement: ‘You will, my girl. You’ll take six.’
Carole had no idea how she took them, her mind giving up
registering detail after the first two and seeming to float helplessly above
the intense shocking pain as the cane repeatedly struck down. But six it was.
Six nice bright red double stripes on the taut rounded bottom cheeks. When it
was over the pretty young housewife could barely stand up and her face, red and
blotchy and wet with tears, really did look like a 17-year-old’s. As for her
bottom it felt as if a thousand wasps had been at work on it.
Somehow Carole managed to put on her skirt and knickers,
and then her blazer. Outside, humiliating school satchel in hand, she crossed
the deserted yard on tottery legs; then made for the bus stop. Still ringing in
her head was Mr Wescott’s parting shot.
‘I hope that’ll give you something to think about, young
lady. For your information I shall be giving you a dose of exactly the same
medicine every afternoon that you’re with us.’ This had been accompanied by a
sharp slap to her stinging bottom as she went out.
A quarter of an hour to Mr Farnworth’s house, or ‘Uncle
Adrian’ as Carole had been told to call him. An unpleasant quarter of an hour
with, it seemed, all the other passengers staring at her, and the youngish bus
conductor joshing her about her short skirt. Then the few minutes’ walk to the
house. Horrible Mr Farnworth’s house, whom she had to stay with for these next
two weeks.
Carole rang the bell. A smiling Mr Farnworth opened it. If
it wasn’t bad enough to see his grinning face there with him was Mr Mannings as
well.
----//----
It was Mr Mannings who had organised this whole diabolical
plan. He was the solicitor Bob had gone to when he found out that Carole had
been going round to her boss’s house at lunch times and not just for a cup of
coffee. In blazing anger he had gone to the solicitor demanding an immediate
divorce. But Mr Mannings had persuaded Bob that perhaps he was being too hasty.
Why not give her one more chance, but punish her for what she had done.
Carole certainly didn’t want a divorce. She had simply
been having a pleasant fling on the side. Mr Brightling’s attention had been
very flattering and it hadn’t needed a lot of persuasion to get her to say yes.
For a couple of months life had been utterly fantastic, doing it with Mr
Brightling at lunch time and that proving to add an extra dimension to her
nights in bed with Bob. Then of course Bob had found out. Carole had been
desperate, losing the security of her husband and marriage being the last thing
she wanted.
So she had been eager to agree to any alternative. What
suave, smooth-talking Mr Mannings had come up with had been this way-out idea
of going back to school. A friend of his was acquainted with the Headmaster of
a small, old-fashioned boarding school for girls, a rather bleak institution
particularly favoured as a dumping-ground for unwanted stepdaughters on account
of its relatively low fees, lack of leniency and optional holiday boarding
facilities. Why not send Carole to stay with Mr Farnworth for a couple of weeks
and attend Mr Wescott’s school?
Mr Mannings had smiled his professional solicitor’s smile
as Carole and Bob sat in his office.
‘Your dear wife has behaved irresponsibly and childishly,
Mr Wright, so why not treat her as a child? Two weeks in a short schoolgirl’s
skirt and carrying a satchel to school. She won’t enjoy that one little bit.
And we can ask Mr Wescott to make life a little, ah, hot for her.’
Carole had flushed. It sounded pretty sickening but not as
bad as Bob getting a divorce. It never entered her head that making life ‘hot’
for her could possibly include the cane across her bare bottom. Now as she
returned from that sickening first afternoon here was Mr Mannings as well as Mr
Farnworth, both grinning at her as she stepped into the hallway.
‘I thought I’d drop over and see how you were settling in,’
Mr Mannings told her. ‘My, you do make a cute schoolgirl, don’t you!’
Carole gritted her teeth. She didn’t know whom she hated
most: Mr Mannings who had devised all this or that Mr Wescott who had just
thrashed her with that dreadful cane. Not that ‘Uncle Adrian’ was much better.
That visit with him to the school outfitter in the morning had been truly
beastly. Forced to strip in front of the two men and then have them try the
various items of ghastly schoolgirl clothing on her.
‘How did you get on, dear?’ inquired Mr Farnworth. He was
the same sort of age as the other two, fiftyish, and was obviously getting a
real kick out of this. There was a Mrs Farnworth but so far Carole hadn’t seen
much of her.
‘Bloody diabolical!’ she spat out. ‘He could be reported
for… for what he did.’
‘You mean the cane, dear?’ asked Mr Farnworth mildly. ‘Oh
no, it’s perfectly legal. And you did agree to it as I
understand.’
Mr Mannings’ eyes were shining. ‘Of course she did. Let’s
have a look, Carole. Let’s see if our friend has left any marks of his
handiwork.’
‘No!’ Carole gasped. But they simply grabbed her and dragged her into the sitting room. And then ‘Uncle Adrian’ held her arms while Mr Mannings got her skirt off and then yanked Carole’s knickers down to her knees. She finished up face-down on the carpet with Mr Farnworth holding her shoulders. A hand, Mr Mannings’, stroked Carole’s bare bottom.
‘Oh my, he certainly has left his mark.
Or should I say marks.’
Carole kicked her legs but was helpless. She could feel
hot tears of humiliation in her eyes. The hand lightly smacked her bottom again
and again while the two men laughed. Then they let go of her. Carole rolled
away, grabbing at the lowered knickers.
‘You… you bastards!’ she hissed.
‘Now, now,’ admonished Mr Farnworth, now sitting in an
armchair and watching keenly as Carole got her clothes back on. ‘We may have to
remember that before bedtime, eh Charles? I should say coarse language in a
schoolgirl calls for a slippering.’
With shaking hands Carole put the skirt back on. She was
trembling all over and her breath was coming in half sobs.
‘C…can I go upstairs?’ she managed.
‘May I go upstairs please, Uncle Adrian,’ Mr
Farnworth corrected.
Carole forced herself to say that. ‘Of course, my dear.
Got some homework to do I expect?’
Both men thought this a great joke. Mr Mannings smacked
her leg as she went out. Upstairs Carole threw herself on the bed and burst
into tears.
Half an hour later there was a knock at the door. It
proved to be Mrs Farnworth. She was younger than her husband, quite
pleasant-looking, and was carrying a cup of tea on a saucer with two little
biscuits. Carole, still lying on the bed, sat up. Her face was red and puffy
from further outbursts of tears.
Mrs Farnworth told her to cheer up. ‘No use crying over
spilt milk, and from what I hear it has been all your own fault. There’s much
too much of that sort of thing nowadays, married girls running around and doing
just what they want. I think it’s a disgusting way to carry on — in my day you
would never have dreamed of it. It’s all wrong! So you can’t complain.’
Carole took a sip of the warm tea and said nothing.
‘Did Mr Wescott really cane you?’
Blinking at the memory Carole nodded. Mrs Farnworth shook
her head. ‘Well, maybe that’s what’s needed.’
Carole certainly didn’t feel hungry but a little while
later when the dinner was ready she had to go down and sit at the table with
the others. Carole was ordered to eat up every scrap that was put before her —
just like a little child. Forcing herself to keep eating she thought she was
going to be actually sick, but somehow managed to avoid it. ‘Uncle Adrian’
playfully suggested it might be a good idea if they got a high chair for Carole’s
use. They might even put a bib on her in case she made a mess. Struggling to
finish Mrs Farnworth’s casserole, Carole said nothing. There was always the
chance that Mr Farnworth was serious.
After dinner that gentleman said that if his wife didn’t
mind he and Mr Mannings would take Carole out to the pub. ‘Give her a little
airing.’ Oh God, what has he thought up now, Carole wondered, for it was
unlikely that the visit was being planned with her enjoyment in mind.
This proved to be the case as Carole was banished to a children’s parlour, Mr Farnworth telling her that young girls weren’t allowed in the bar. She had to sit there with a bag of crisps and some lemonade, in her too-small schoolgirl uniform, with two young children and their parents eyeing her wonderingly.
‘How old are you?’ inquired a little boy of
about nine.
At least it could be worse Carole told
herself, forcing down crisps which she didn’t want any more than she had wanted
dinner. Very soon, though, it did get worse as Mr Farnworth
and Mr Mannings came in from the bar bearing glasses of beer and bringing two
acquaintances with them.
‘Here she is,’ announced Mr Farnworth. ‘My niece Carole.
Stand up, Carole, and say hello to these two gentlemen.’
What Mr Farnworth had in mind soon became apparent. A
little spot of humiliating embarrassment. ‘Just between the four of us,’ he
confided, ‘Carole’s been a naughty girl. Had to have the cane at school this
afternoon. Not working properly. So right now she’s got some nice red marks on
her bottom.’
Mr Farnworth was speaking quite loud enough for the couple
with the children to hear. Carole cringed. One of the two newcomers, a fat man
with a red sweaty face, said, ‘I wouldn’t mind watching her get that. Eh Jack?
On the bare was it?’
‘Oh yes,’ replied Mr Farnworth. ‘I told the Headmaster
that he would have to deal strictly with her otherwise she might get really out
of hand. Actually if you two are interested she’s got to have a slippering
before bed tonight. Bad language. Why not come back and view the proceeding?’
Carole felt like sinking through the floor. Naturally the
offer was enthusiastically taken up. On the drive back Carole had to sit wedged
between the two visitors in the back seat. The fat man’s creepy hand was
squeezing her thigh for most of the ten-minute drive.
Back at the house Carole was told to go up to her room and
put on her pyjamas and then come straight down again. Her pyjamas were thin
blue cotton, short-sleeved and with three-quarter length legs. They were very
tight-fitting, designed to show off her trim shapely bottom and the firm thrust
of her breasts, and even the fine shape of her legs. The pyjamas were meant for
the privacy of home of course, not for wearing in front of four horrible older
men whose only interest was in tormenting her. Not for the first time today
Carole found herself bitterly regretting those lunch-time dalliances with Mr
Brightling. On quaking legs she padded down the stairs.
A chorus of raucous masculine approval greeted her. They
were sitting in chairs and on the sofa all facing a leather-covered stool which
was set out in the middle of the room. On the stool was a man’s brown leather
slipper. Through the remarks and laughter Mr Farnworth told Carole to stand
facing them by the stool. He called for silence.
‘Now Carole, are you sorry for using that dreadful
language?’
Carole bit her lip. She had only said ‘bastards’ but she
nodded meekly. Four pairs of eyes were riveted to her choice form.
‘Let’s hear it then.’
Carole forced the words out. ‘I… I’m sorry. I’m sorry I
used bad language.’
‘Right. Very good. But to make sure you remember that you’re
going to get the slipper. Drop your pyjama trousers please.’
Carole hesitated, looking from one intent face to another,
the four men forming one group. Mr Farnworth got to his feet.
‘Come on, young lady, let’s have you! Young girls must learn to jump to it when they’re told to do something. Get them down!’
Trying to close her mind to it all Carole slid the
trousers down. There was a wolf whistle from the fat man. ‘Oh just look at
that!’ from the other visitor. Mr Farnworth, the slipper in one hand, took
hold of Carole’s arm and pushed her down on the stool with her legs, and her
bottom, facing the three seated men.
She could almost feel the four pairs of hot male eyes
boring into her bared bottom, searching into every intimate curve, every little
declivity. In a way it was almost a relief when the slipper cracked down for it
broke the tension of having to just kneel there, on show. In other ways it wasn’t
a relief of course for it hurt like hell, a vicious splat making
Carole yell out and writhe her bottom in automatic reaction.
She tried not to jerk her rear, but to keep it still and
to keep her legs tight together as the slipper proceeded to rhythmically crack
in, but this proved a difficult task. The slipper stung so much that she couldn’t
keep still. Her primly closed knees were jerked apart in what had to be a
revealing manner; but there was nothing Carole could do about it.
Mr Farnworth kept it up, egged on by the other men and in
particular by the fat one, Mr Larkins. When Mr Farnworth at last stopped the
fat Larkins said he wanted to have a go. Carole quickly scrambled to her feet
and with a scared look at Mr Farnworth dragged her pyjamas up over her glowing
bottom. Please God, don’t let them all do it, she prayed.
For the moment anyway her prayer was answered. ‘Not I
think tonight at least,’ said Mr Farnworth judiciously. ‘She’s only just
arrived and I feel responsible. But she is staying two weeks.
Perhaps later. Eh Carole?’
Carole shivered. Soon afterwards the two visitors were
driven home, but there was time enough for Mr Larkins to help himself to
several groping feels at Carole’s bottom. He simply could not have been more
blatant about it. When Mr Farnworth returned he gave her a knowing look.
‘That Bill Larkins really seems to fancy you, my dear.
Yes, very keen. Actually I’m not sure that hitting you with a slipper is all he
wants to do to you. If you get my meaning. What do you think, you’re very
experienced in those matters? I bet you’d rather like it, eh? He said he’d like
you to stop over at his place one night.’
‘No!’ Carole gasped. She could just imagine being
in the clutches of that lecherous fat man.
‘Uncle Adrian’ smiled and slapped her bottom. ‘I don’t
think it would be a bad idea at all.’ But surely he was just being nasty.
At this point Mrs Farnworth brought in that archetypal childhood
drink, a mug of cocoa. Carole hated cocoa but she was made to drink it all up
nonetheless.
‘Make you grow up into a big girl,’ quipped Mr Farnworth
and her tormentor gave her another brisk slap across her tight pyjama’d bum. It
was now 10 o’clock. ‘Long past schoolgirls’ bedtime,’ according to Mr
Farnworth.
‘Ca…can I call my husband, please?’
Carole had only been here a day but already it was a
nightmare. Perhaps if she asked him nicely Bob would relent and let her come
back. The thought of two whole weeks of this was — well, it was unthinkable. Mr
Farnworth gave her an owlish look. Feeling desperate Carole repeated her plea,
this time adding the ridiculous ‘Uncle Adrian’. She had a sudden feeling that
if she could only speak to Bob now he would say yes.
Mr Farnworth, after portentously considering the matter,
gave his assent. He didn’t go out of the room, though, but sat down opposite
Carole as she began dialling. It was a funny feeling dialling her own number
from this place because although she had been here less than 24 hours it was
now almost like another world. She felt like crying and when she heard Bob’s
voice the tears did well out.
He sounded aggressive. ‘How are they treating you? Giving
you a rough time, I hope.’
‘Darling, please!’ Carole had difficulty in making her
voice work. ‘Please let me come back. I… I can’t take it here.’
‘What d’you mean you can’t take it,’ Bob growled. ‘You
haven’t even been there a whole day yet. It sounds to me as if they’re doing a
pretty good job. So that when you do come back in two weeks
you’ll think twice every time you feel randy.’
‘No! Please! You’ve got to let me come back!’ Tears
were streaming down Carole’s face. ‘I… gaa… nngghh…’
Whatever else she was going to say was lost in a series of
convulsive sobs. Mr Farnworth moved swiftly over to sit next to Carole on the
sofa. He took up the phone.
‘Mr Wright? Adrian Farnworth here. Glad to speak to you.
As you can hear Carole is a little emotional at the moment. She is finding her
reversion to schoolgirl life somewhat unpleasant, but naturally that is the
object of the exercise. I certainly would not recommend curtailing her visit.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ Bob Wright’s voice sounded
bitter. ‘I want her taught a proper lesson.’
Mr Farnworth reached down and squeezed one of the sobbing
girl’s thighs. ‘We are at one on that, Mr Wright. Rest assured that we will teach
her a proper lesson.’
He put the phone in its cradle and turned to Carole. ‘That
was a most unfortunate emotional outburst, my girl. A very schoolgirlish outburst
and as such needs dealing with in the appropriate manner.’
Adrian Farnworth dragged the still sobbing Carole over his
lap and then pulled down the pyjama bottoms which not long earlier had been
down for the slipper. Carole’s rear was still somewhat pink from the attentions
of that item but the pink was soon transformed into a nice bright red again as ‘Uncle
Adrian’ firmly and repeatedly applied the hard palm of his hand.
----//----
It was a very long two weeks for Carole Wright, certainly the longest two weeks she had ever spent. Because she was made to stay the full period in spite of repeated, usually tearful, pleadings. There was Mr Westcott’s cane every day in detention after school, and on a number of other occasions as well. There were also other unpleasantnesses at school, quite a few of them thought up by the Games Master who was one of the few other people there were aware of Carole’s true status. Cross-country running; hockey games on muddy fields with big strong girls who had been instructed to play very rough; exhausting special sessions in the gym which made Carole think her heart was going to collapse; and frequently a nice cold shower to round things off.
At home there was ‘Uncle Adrian’ doing his best to keep
everything on the boil, and succeeding very well. Mr Mannings had only stayed
overnight but he visited again a couple of times to help out. Uncle Adrian also
invited other of his friends to assist in the training. Several times he held a
little party in which Carole, sitting on a stool in the centre of a group of
middle-aged men, would be quizzed on some subject or other she had had that day
at school. Failure to satisfy her quiz-masters would result in instant
retribution. On a tender rear that was getting more tender all the time.
Sometimes she thought that her mind was going to explode.
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