Bottoms Up, Angela

From Blushes 79

‘Well, how are things, Angela. Settling in alright? I expect you are.’

Angela said a nervous ‘Yes sir.’

She was standing in front of the Head’s desk in his beautiful oak-panelled study where barely two weeks ago she had come for an interview with her mother. An interview in which Mr Kimbell had calmly raised the subject of discipline. It had meant nothing then of course, because Mr Kimbell hadn’t gone into any details. Probably he never did, not at interviews. Not to mothers. It was only when you were here that you found out what discipline at Stonleigh School meant. It meant, unbelievably, getting your bare bottom strapped. After you had had to take all your clothes off. It could also mean the cane… also on your bare bottom.

‘Good. That’s very good.’ Mr Kimbell’s keen eyes were taking her in. Eyeing Angela’s figure in the form-fitting grey skirt and pale blue blouse. Had Mr Perrett discussed yesterday afternoon with the Headmaster? Described her performance while being strapped. That vicious two-tongued heavy leather strap.

Mr Kimbell was looking in his large red leather desk calendar. ‘Yesterday I see… you had a tutorial with Mr Perrett. In the afternoon at his house.’

‘Y… Yes. Yes sir.’ Angela could feel herself trembling at the mere mention of it.

‘And that went alright, did it?’

‘Y… Y… Yes sir.’ Sweating a little bit now, and not just with the memory. Because she sensed that Mr Kimbell did know what had happened. And he was going to make her talk about it — when all she wanted to do was try and forget. Because just maybe… there wouldn’t be any more, anything else as awful as that. But if Mr Kimbell wanted to talk about it it would mean that there would be: what she had had was only a start.

Yes Mr Kimbell knew. ‘I believe Mr Perrett gave you a little introduction to discipline, Angela. Am I right? With the cane — or perhaps it was a strap he used?’

Flushing, she stuttered an answer. ‘I expect it was painful? A difficult thing for a girl to take if she’s not used to it?

It had of course been the most awful thing Angela had ever experienced. She wondered if she might burst into tears.

Mr Kimbell was getting up from his desk. ‘Did he… make you take all your clothes off, Angela. Before he strapped you?’

Angela struggled to hold back the tears. The Head had come close. He took hold of her chin, making her look at him.

‘Having to take your clothes off is part of the treatment of course. Part of the discipline. Because generally a girl doesn’t like having to strip for a master. So it’s part of the treatment.

And what you had with Mr Perrett was just the start of your training programme. Proper disciplinary training is regarded as essential here at Stonleigh. If you recall I informed your mother of that and she was in full agreement.’

Mr Kimbell hadn’t said that. Not at all. He certainly hadn’t said anything about having to strip nude and then being strapped. But Angela, fighting the tears which were already brimming in her eyes, wasn’t going to argue. The Head’s hand had slid round behind her and now it dropped down. To cup the cheek of her bottom.

‘I like to be involved with discipline myself. It is part of a Headmaster’s responsibility. So I’d like to see you this afternoon. I have a free period at 2.30. If you’ve a class scheduled just tell whoever it is. I’ll see you in my flat, alright? Just ring the bell.’

Angela knew Mr Kimbell had a flat in one wing of the school where he lived during the week. A girl had told her that he also had a cottage in the country, she had said he sometimes took girls there at the weekend. But Angela wasn’t thinking about that. It was his flat. He had more or less said he was going to give her another strapping in his flat.

‘Alright, Angela?’ The hand was squeezing her bottom. Angela felt slightly sick. Now, the very next day after Mr Perrett she was going to get another dose from Mr Kimbell. This afternoon. No…!!  

But of course you couldn’t say no. She was stuttering ‘Y…Yes sir.’

----//----

‘Do you know rural Suffolk at all?’ Mr Kimbell asked. ‘I’ve got a little cottage there, on the edge of a tiny hamlet. A lovely little place, it scarcely seems part of the twentieth century. I sometimes take girls there for the weekend. I’ll have to take you. Would you like that?’

They were in the sitting room of Mr Kimbell’s flat, an elegantly furnished room on the first floor overlooking Stonleigh’s gardens. Angela was seated on the sofa with the Headmaster opposite in a deep armchair. She had arrived just a few minutes ago and Mr Kimbell had some coffee ready. Angela was feeling sick of course, knowing what Mr Kimbell had brought her here for. It wasn’t just to give her coffee.

He was going on about his cottage and she tried to show an intelligent interest. But how could you make polite small talk — about a country cottage or anything else — when you knew that very shortly you were going to… have to take all your clothes off? For a mind-boggling strapping.

‘Perhaps we could manage a visit this coming weekend? The autumn is such a lovely time of the year there. Would you like that? I’ve got a marvellous old chap who looks after the place for me. A lovely old character. Albert Giggins. You’ll love Albert.’

Angela wasn’t really taking any of this in. She couldn’t help her eyes glancing surreptitiously around. Expecting to light on the fearsome sight of a tawse just like Mr Perrett’s. On the sideboard… or perhaps the windowsill…?

‘Yes, this weekend perhaps, young lady.’

What? Oh, spend a weekend with the Head at his cottage! That was the last thing Angela wanted. It could only mean more… of this awful business that she was very shortly to get. How could she get out of it? But she was saying, ‘Y… Yes. Yes sir, that w… would be marvellous.’

‘Good! I will definitely plan on it.’ The thought of the proposed weekend was certainly marvellous for Steven Kimbell, but there were more immediate matters to attend to. This lovely girl was here to have her second taste of discipline, Stonleigh style. That gorgeous bottom which he had slid his hand over this morning, it needed an early second encounter with a disciplinary instrument. The physical effects of yesterday’s session with Tony Perrett would by now have worn off. But the mental effect would still be there, fresh in this lovely girl’s mind. It was important to build on that effect, that was what training was all about.

He smiled at his pretty guest over his coffee cup. ‘But now, Angela, the more immediate matter. Yes? What you are here for. I am going to give you a caning. As the next stage of your training. So can you stand up and take your knickers off. If you’re wearing stockings they can stay on but if it’s tights they’ll have to come off too of course.’

It was like a shock of cold water, Angela’s head taking in those simple but at the same time earth-shattering words. The cane. Not that tawse but a cane. Probably even worse than the tawse if that was possible. If it was on your bare bottom. And he had said… knickers off. And tights. She was wearing tights, after yesterday.

Angela felt her head swimming. She had to stand up and… take her knickers and tights off.

Somehow, although her body felt paralysed, as if it would refuse to comply, she was struggling to her feet. To stand on shaky legs… and reach up under her grey skirt. Fumbling fingers up into the waistband of her tights… and sliding them down. Bending to slip off her shoes… then, almost falling over, completing the removal of the tights. And then… he did mean knickers as well? Yes…

‘Good. Now come here, Angela.’ Mr Kimbell indicating a spot next to his chair. She stepped forward, as if walking on air. In her bare feet and ultra-conscious of the absence of anything under her skirt. Of the absence of knickers.

Mr Kimbell’s hand was sliding up, up the backs of her smooth warm thighs. Right up… to caress the ripe flesh of Angela’s nude buttocks.

‘Yes, that’s lovely, Miss. Now I want you bending over the end of the sofa. With your head down in the seat. Get in that position and slide your skirt up round your waist. Alright? So that your bottom is quite bare. But first of all you can go and fetch my cane. It’s standing at the other side of the cupboard.’

Mr Kimbell did a bit more fondling of Angela’s nude rear divisions, then gave a pinch of the undercurve of one bottom-cheek and took his hand out from under her skirt. Angela, breathing heavily now, wondered if she was going to fall over, collapse. Her legs wouldn’t walk… But somehow they did.

Yes the cane was there. It was like being in some awful dream. Taking it, dream-walking, back to Mr Kimbell. And then dream-walking back to the sofa. To get down over the end as he had told her. Yes it had to be a dream, one of those awful dreams where you are compelled to do the most sickening things, with no choice. Lying over the end of the sofa. With her skirt pulled up. Right up round her waist. Feeling the cool air on her exposed flesh… and then feeling Mr Kimbell’s hand. At her bared bottom. ‘Stick it out, young lady. You can tuck your knees in but get your bottom stuck nicely out. And I want it kept nice and still. Can you do that?’

The voice that must be part of her dream stopped. The hand went away. She was left there. Waiting. Suspended, over the sofa end. In her dream. Waiting to be caned. Waiting for the dreamlike, agonising ache.

SPLATT…!!

‘Aaeeeiiiaaaaahhh…!!’

Oh God! Hearing the frantic animal-like yell erupting from her mouth. No. It wasn’t a dream! The appalling, clinical cut of the cane — it was not remotely dreamlike. Worse than the tawse. Oh yes, quite definitely! No… ooo…!! she was yelling. As…

SPLATTT…!! A second dreadful cut landed. Followed by that half demented yell again.

No! she couldn’t take this! Not possibly! NO!

‘Keep it still, Miss. Mr Kimbell’s calm voice, as if from a great distance.

SPLATTT…!!!

----//----

There had been a slight hitch about the weekend. Mr Kimbell wasn’t able to get away as he had intended, but he was still very keen for Angela to go and experience the tranquil country air. What he arranged therefore was that Angela could travel down by bus on Friday afternoon, to be met by the man who looked after the cottage for Mr Kimbell, the ‘marvellous character’ Mr Albert Giggins. Mr Kimbell himself would be able to join Angela late on Saturday.

Angela was not at all keen to go, even with this arrangement of only one night there with the Headmaster, but her mother said of course she must go. Marilyn Phillips thought it was really marvellous that Angela was getting this personal interest from the Head. But then she didn’t know about those sessions with the cane and the tawse. Naturally Angela hadn’t been able to tell her, it would have been much too awful. So awful indeed that possibly her mother wouldn’t have believed her anyway; maybe she would think Angela was making it up.

So Angela was going to the cottage — for two nights. Mr Kimbell was going for just the one. One night could be awful — but at least it wasn’t two. The other night, Friday night, would be just Mr Giggins. That at least would be alright. Wouldn’t it?

Well maybe. Except that another girl, Susan, who had been to Mr Kimbell’s cottage said: watch out for that Giggins. He’s a proper Dirty Old Man.

Yes, that was something else for Angela to think about as the bus sped out into rural Suffolk. Wednesday had been dreadful — Mr Perrett with his tawse, not to mention his awful hands which went literally everywhere. And yesterday there had been the Head with his cane — giving her it mind-bogglingly on her bare bottom. Now to meet Angela this evening was Mr Giggins, a ‘marvellous character’ according to Mr Kimbell but according to Susan Linwood a ‘Dirty Old Man’. Had Susan been serious?

Mr Giggins was certainly something else to think about but mostly it was Mr Kimbell in Angela’s head. That cane! It had even driven Mr Perrett’s tawse into the background. And… was he going to bring it with him? Or more likely he had another one waiting in his cottage. Oh God! The thought of getting that cane again! But perhaps Mr Kimbell kept caning for school. The cottage was supposed to be for relaxation, wasn’t it? Not getting caned on your bare bottom.

The thought made Angela squirm her bottom in her seat. Her poor bottom. Probably there were still red marks on it.

‘It’s a long journey, eh?’

Angela realised she was being spoken to. It was the man sitting next to her who had observed her squirming. He was eyeing her appraisingly. ‘Yes,’ she said, embarrassed, and tugged her skirt down where it had ridden up on her thighs.

Now he had made his opening the middle-aged man wanted to get into conversation. He said he was a farmer, and he looked it with his big ruddy face. Angela didn’t want to talk but the farmer was very persistent, wanting to know all about her, where she was going, everything. After a while he put a friendly hand on her knee. She quickly pushed it off. It came back again, though, more than once, before thankfully it was time for her to get off the bus. But her companion as it happened was getting off too. He let Angela get out of her seat first… And then made the most of the opportunity by getting both hands at her bottom. She gasped as both hands groped. In her ear he said he hoped they’d meet again.

Angela thought: I certainly hope not! He was without doubt a Dirty Old Man — and her thoughts turned to Mr Giggins. Oh God!

She had to change onto a second bus now for the final part of her journey. At least that awful man wasn’t on this bus — or any other like him. Angela dozed a bit. The long trip was tiring, and it was made worse by all the rest. Images, generally not pleasant ones, jumbled in her head. Mr Kimbell… and a Mr Giggins who looked like that farmer.

----//----

Albert Giggins, when he met Angela at the bus stop, did look a lot like the farmer. Older probably, Maybe 60, but with the same big red face and partially bald head fringed with close-cut grey hair. But he seemed OK, with a gruffly friendly manner, and at least he didn’t try to grope her at the first opportunity. He picked up her bag and they walked over to where his car was parked. It was a nice warm evening, the tranquil country air as Mr Kimbell would say. Mr Giggins’s car was old and dilapidated-looking but it started alright. He said the hamlet was about five miles.

They set off, out of the little town. As soon as they were out of it and on the straight road Albert Giggins’s hand came down onto Angela’s thigh. It squeezed.

‘Well you’re a nice-looking one, young Miss. But then your Mr Kimbell likes the nice-looking ones I reckon.’

At least there was a Mrs Giggins. Thank God for that! Angela hadn’t been too sure whether there was a Mrs Giggins but when they arrived there she was: a reassuringly rosy-cheeked lady who had prepared a meal for Angela at the Giggins’ own cottage which was in the hamlet and some 200 yards from Mr Kimbell’s place. Yes the sight of Mrs Giggins was a big relief after Albert Giggins in the car — and his hand which had been even more persistent (a good deal more persistent in fact) than that farmer’s.

Because Mr Giggins in the car had really been quite difficult to handle. He had adopted a proprietorial air for one thing, boldly taking the line that in Mr Kimbell’s absence he was going to be in charge of her. The man on the bus couldn’t do this, he was a mere stranger trying it on. But Albert Giggins had taken the line that Angela was in his care — and therefore if he wanted to put a fondling hand on her leg it was quite reasonable for him to do so — and unreasonable for Angela to object.

‘I’m sure you’re not a silly girl with those masters, young lady,’ Albert said owlishly en route. ‘Eh? Mr Kimbell? And all the others. If they want a friendly little squeeze of a girl’s leg. And when she’s got such pretty legs I reckon they’re after a friendly little squeeze all the time. Eh? A squeeze of her leg. Or something else!’

The sort of thing Mr Giggins presumably had in mind was demonstrated when they arrived at the cottage. When Angela thankfully got out of the car, at last away from the persistent hand. But no, she wasn’t away from it. He was helping her out… and immediately groping her. A proper grope now, his hand sliding round behind to Angela’s bottom (quite like the farmer’s hand in fact).

She sprang away with a little yelp, only to be grabbed again. This time both hands went round Angela from behind… to cup her boobs through her thin summer dress.

In spite of desperate squirmings, accompanied by equally desperate yelps, it was some long seconds (running into long minutes it seemed) before Angela was able to struggle free. By this time Mr Giggins had helped himself to a really good feel of her tits — and right at the end slid one hand down to briefly grope her pussy.

So certainly after that Mrs Giggins’ beaming countenance was a real answer to a girl’s prayer. The thought that there might not have been a Mrs Giggins! With Angela here completely at the mercy of Albert Definitely-Dirty-Old-Man Giggins. Well it certainly didn’t bear thinking about.

But… after the meal (a flavoursome steak-and-kidney pie followed by home-made apple tart)… Well, unfortunately Angela had to go back to Mr Kimbell’s cottage with Mr Giggins. Mrs Giggins, beaming her friendly smile, said she would see Angela in the morning.

Angela reluctantly went off with Mr Giggins. Inevitably it seemed, his hand was immediately at her bottom again.

Mr Kimbell’s cottage was delightful, with white walls and a thatch roof and a pretty little garden. Inside it was also delightful and cosy too, but maybe a bit old-fashioned in some respects. It had a bathroom with a shower but there was also an ancient galvanised bath hanging on the wall in the kitchen. You took it down and filled it with jugs of hot water from the geyser.

It was this bath that Albert Giggins was now pointing to. ‘I reckon you’ll be wanting a bath now, Miss. Afore you gets to bed.’

Angela was breathless from the latest struggle with Mr Giggins’ hands. Going everywhere as he breathed. ‘Ah! Let me have another little feel again Angela.’ He had finally desisted —for the moment. Angela’s wide eyes now took in the bath — and its unpleasant possibilities.

‘No! No really. I… perhaps in the morning.’ There was also the other question about Mr Giggins. He was going back to his own place now, wasn’t he?

‘A… And thank you for bringing me over. But I…I can manage by myself now. Really.’

Mr Giggins’ big face grinned. ‘Don’t worry, Miss. I’ve got plenty of time. And Mr Kimbell would want me to see you’re alright. He’d want me to stay until I’ve got you in bed at the very least. And the bath: a girl definitely needs a bath. I happen to know Mr Kimbell always has a girl in that bath before she goes to bed. Relaxing he says it is, for a girl to have a nice hot bath before bed.’

No! Angela vigorously shaking her head. No to that awful bath (with Mr Giggins no doubt in close attendance if he had his way). And no to him staying until ‘I’ve got you in bed.’ No!!

But Albert Giggins was merely grinning again. In the manner of a man who has encountered protesting girls before — and knows how to deal with them. You simply ignored their protests. Or maybe you ignored them and closed in. For more highly satisfactory grabs at all those delightful parts they have. Which was what Mr Giggins did now.

More squeals from Angela. The hands were at her bottom again. And her pussy… Albert Giggins continued to grope as he told her in somewhat wheezy tones:

‘I’m going to take the bath… to your bedroom, Miss. You can be getting undressed… while I bring up some jugs of nice hot water. Then you can have… a nice sluice down. And after that… well we’ll see won’t we?’

He finally let go of her. Angela was close to tears. This was just awful. She shook her head. No… She wasn’t going to strip off and get in that awful bath. In front of Mr Giggins presumably. No!

No?

‘Get moving, young Miss.’ Albert Giggins’ voice was harder as he took down the bath. ‘Look a bit sharp. I ought to remind you there’s Mr Kimbell’s cane. I knows where he keeps it alright. And I got full permission to use it. If I have trouble with a girl in any way. Now, we don’t want that do we? We don’t want that cane on that lovely bare bum…?’

This dreadful statement confirmed all of Angela’s worst fears. Her very worst fears. The cane. So there was a cane. And there was clearly no point in disputing his claim that he was entitled to use it. Force majeure. Was that the phrase? Irresistible force. Yes, awful Mr Giggins would simply do it.

And Mrs Giggins? Could that seemingly kindly lady possibly provide any protection? If Angela were now to run out, back to the Giggins’s cottage and plead for help? No, Angela reluctantly dismissed the idea. Mr Giggins was clearly the boss. He would just drag her back. No doubt groping her horribly as he did so. Or maybe he might decide to cane her there, in front of Mrs Giggins. That might be even worse.

So she had no choice. Up the stairs. Into the little bedroom where the dreadful tin bath was now on the floor in front of an old-fashioned tiled washstand. As she eyed it, feeling sick, Albert Giggins came in with a jug of steaming water. He gave her a sharp look.

‘Not undressed yet, my girl? Maybe I better help. I’ll have them things off in no time flat. And then warm you up with that cane.’

No! No I…I’ll do it. Really!’

Angela’s hands going rapidly to the buttons at the front of her pretty green-and-yellow dress. Oh God! Mr Giggins was going out with the jug. To get more water presumably. This was utterly dreadful: a horrible repeat of that dreadful afternoon with Mr Perrett. Except that now it was going to be the cane on her bare bottom, not that leather strap. Because Mr Giggins was sure to do it, to find some excuse to do it. To use that cane. Even if she did get in this awful bath.

It wasn’t a big bath, only really room to stand in. Angela was nude now. With her bare tits quivering she stepped gingerly into the hot water. Mr Giggins was still away but very shortly he would be back, with more water… and no doubt that cane. No! Being caned was murder. She knew that now, was in no doubt. That session yesterday with Mr Kimbell. Utter murder!

He didn’t have the cane when he came back, just more water. ‘How’re we going?’ Mr Giggins asked. His eyes of course were greedily on Angela’s body now wetly shimmery from sponging herself with the flannel.

‘O…OK!’ she stuttered. Her hands, one with the flannel, had automatically come across to cover herself. The thrusting tits, now stiff-nippled. And of course her pussy. Albert Giggins, grunting, pushed Angela’s hands away.

‘Having a good wash?’ His fingers flicked at the wet nipples.

‘Y…Yes… L…Look… I…I really don’t want that cane.’

Mr Giggins took a grip of the nipples. Fingers and thumb of each hand, squeezing, gently pulling them. While quizzically appraising the nude girl.

‘Not want the cane? Well I reckon I’ve heard that before. Girls do say that. Mind you I haven’t definitely said you’re going to get it. Have I?’

What did that mean? He wanted something, that was in those greedy eyes. The cane? Or something else?

Mr Giggins squeezed her tits some more and then told her to get out and dry herself. He’d have to see, he said. Was she really sure she didn’t want the cane?

He handed her a towel and sat down on one of the chairs to watch. Angela began to rub herself dry, trying to ignore his eyes. What was he going to do? All sorts of awful thoughts jumbling in her head.

When she was finished Mr Giggins said, ‘Well, why not a spanking. For starters at least. I know your Mr Kimbell would want me to at least give you a good spanking. On that pretty bum.’

----//----

Yes, she was over his lap. Nude still of course. All glowing now from the stand-up bath and then rubbing dry with the fluffy white towel. Albert Giggins’s hand was fondling her glowing bottom which was across his lap. Fondling and getting her positioned just so. Her bottom and her thighs. Sliding her thighs apart. The hand briefly stroking the inner side of her thigh. And then… commencing the spanking.

Gasping yelps. It was hurting! Sharp stinging smacks delivered with the full weight of Albert Giggins’ arm. It was really hurting. But not like the cane of course. Oh no. You could take a spanking, even though it really hurt. But not a caning. Anything except a caning.

Anything?

He had stopped now. Was it over or was he just taking a breather? And if it was over…? The hand was sliding over her bottom again. Caressing. Her bottom that was now bright red, really glowing and sore. She winced.

The hand slid down. Along the back of her thigh… and in between. It slid up again, but now between Angela’s thighs. To her pussy.  Her breath shuddered out.

Mr Giggins was speaking, quietly, as he handled her. His fingers in her pussy, working at her. Telling her. It could be the cane. Did she want the cane? Or maybe… it didn’t have to be the cane. Did she want it?

It wasn’t easy to think straight, with what he was doing. She didn’t like it, not at all, what he was doing. But you couldn’t help it affecting you so that it was difficult to think. Nonetheless she guessed what he was saying. What he really meant. And…

----//----

Mr Kimbell arrived early on Saturday afternoon. ‘How have you got on?’ he asked cheerily. ‘Has Mr Giggins looked after you properly?’

What could she say to that? Complain that he hadn’t? Mr Giggins certainly hadn’t. He had threatened her with the cane and so she had agreed to… the other. But Angela didn’t think there was much point. If she made a complaint Mr Kimbell might just think that was a good reason for caning her. Because girls weren’t supposed to complain.

So Angela didn’t say anything. But Mr Kimbell caned her anyway. He said they would go for a nice walk in the country. But first of all she probably did need… a little session with the cane. Part of her training. So would she go upstairs to her room and get ready. Take her knickers off…