Dormitory Monitor

Story from Roué 23. Could this possibly be a sighting of Verushka Granchova who we saw in Under the Hammer in Janus, and Comrade Verushka, Isolation Wing and The Unseen Eye in Blushes Supplement?

A room. A bed with a white coverlet turned neatly back, bed-linen crisp, pillow plump. Varnished floorboards, slippery under the rug, a blind at the window pulled partway down, institutional green. An institutional room.

A photograph in a plain frame on a cabinet beside the bed, a girl smiling at the camera. Books on a desk, clothes in an open wardrobe, an upright wooden chair. A pair of knickers turned half inside-out, forsaken on the shiny floor.

The door is ajar, and beyond is a corridor. Outside this room a girl leans her back and her bottom against the wall, long legs propping her at an angle, one knee slightly overlapping the other so that her air of waiting has a suggestion of modesty to it too. Her hair falls a little over one eye as she lets her head incline to one side. Her eyes wander every few moments to the far end of the corridor, as though she is expecting someone or something from that direction. Along this corridor there are doors on one side and tall windows on the other, rain pattering against the panes. Outside each of the doors are other girls, and at a guess one would say that none of them is more than eighteen years old; the girl who is leaning against the wall would be seventeen and a bit, perhaps, possibly not even the bit.

This girl, like all the other girls, is wearing a high-necked blouse which buttons at the side of the stiff collar. It has short sleeves set neatly into the shoulders and comes down to her midriff where it fits snugly with an elasticated waistband. The whiteness of it, and the starched look of the collar, give it a vaguely medical appearance.

There is a sound from the far end of the corridor, as of footsteps on a staircase, and each of the girls straightens up to a whisper of warning which flutters sibilantly along the passageway. The girl who is seventeen and a bit — perhaps — stands up away from the wall and her blouse rides up a fraction over the smooth swell of her tummy. Her dimpled navel peeps out below the elastic.

The footsteps approach, accompanied oddly by an intermittent clank of metal against dull metal. Feet shuffle in low-heeled brown buckled shoes, bare thighs hush together, thin cotton knickers smooth out around firm bottoms as the girls stand at the feminine equivalent of attention.

The footsteps turn out to be those of a man in his late forties, a man tending to plumpness about the middle, casually dressed in a cardigan and corduroy trousers. He stops at the far end of the corridor, feet comfortably placed, one hand in his trouser pocket and the other holding, unexpectedly, an old-fashioned hand bell. He has about him the look of someone at home in his surroundings and comfortable in his self-assurance. Looking down the length of the corridor his eyes are met only fleetingly by those girls who dare turn their heads towards him. His pocketed hand moves quietly inside the corduroy, unhurried, untroubled by the momentary glances in his direction which one or two girls risk after the first tension of his arrival. The bell clangs mournfully as he lets it swing. His voice, when at last he speaks, has a little of the bell’s timbre about it as it echoes down the long hallway.

‘Dormitory Monitor?’ He says it as though it were a question, although he knows well enough who she is.

The girl who is seventeen and a bit, perhaps, steps away from the wall and answers, ‘Yes, Comrade Inspector!’

‘Ah!’ He beckons her to him. The bell clangs dismally. The girl walks as quickly as walking will allow down the length of the corridor, breasts bouncing just enough to tease, hips swinging no more than she can help, conscious all the time of his eyes on her bare thighs and on her knickers around her plump little mound, white against the faint tan of her skin, white knee socks setting her legs off. She stops directly in front of him, breathing more heavily than the walking should have necessitated. She holds herself erect, though her eyes go down to the lazy hand in the pocket.

‘Well now. Going to do better this month, hmm?’

‘Yes, Comrade Inspector!’ She crosses her fingers behind her back for luck, even though she knows that luck will have little enough to do with whether she keeps her knickers on or not. The Inspector’s Fire Drills are designed to ensure that he has an hour or so’s amusement. There would be no point in having the girls get it right first time; where would the fun be in that?

‘D — do you wish to inspect the students, Comrade Inspector?’

‘Of course, my little Verushka.’ Of course; why else would he have them standing around in their knickers, if not to ‘inspect’ them?

The girl steps aside, inviting the Inspector to precede her along the corridor, but he chooses to fall in alongside her and shoos her along with a hand cupped up under her bottom. They stop in front of the first girl, who is dressed exactly the same as all the others, cheeky young breasts pointing in a vaguely upward direction, knickers close-fitting around the swell of her pubic mound, high-lifted bottom pushing out behind, knickers stretched tightly around her buttocks.

The Inspector runs an eye over the girl, watching her blush. He remembers her shyness from other occasions. He smiles, though it isn’t a smile which invites a like response, while his free hand slips round under young Verushka’s bottom and between her thighs and gooses her gently, almost absently, bringing the girl up onto her toes as she pretends not to notice too much.

They walk on, and proceed down the corridor until each of the girls has been ‘inspected’.

‘Verushka. Fetch the bell.’

‘Yes, Comrade Inspector.’ Verushka walks quickly to the far end of the hallway, round young bottom pushing saucily to this side and then to that, back straight, toes seeming to turn out as each foot touches the floor. The Inspector recalls seeing her for the first time some three or four years previously, at a school for would-be gymnasts. He has an idea he ought to remember, but just at this moment he can’t quite recollect how she came to be at a college for student nurses. So difficult to keep these things fresh in one’s mind with so many schools to visit and so many faces, and bottoms, to remember. But she still has that cute, impish bum with which gymnastics endow a girl. He really will have to suggest some ‘keep-fit’ for the girls here. Might plump out their bottoms like little Verushka’s.

Verushka hurries back, the bell in her hand.

‘To your places then!’ There is a shuffle of feet, though the girls are already in position. He looks pointedly at his watch, raises the bell, and then shakes it vigorously so that it clangs and echoes along the corridor.

----//----

Ten minutes later the girls are back outside their rooms, flushed of face and damp from the rain, having been made to evacuate the building three times in quick succession. The Inspector is not particularly happy with their performance. He lectures them from the middle of the hallway, while Verushka stands a little to one side and holds the slipper and the cane. Her hair has fallen over one eye again, and she tosses it back with a flick of her fingers. The Inspector finishes his lecture and strides off along the corridor, his slipper-carrier at his heels.

A pair of knickers slides down damp thighs, a plump bottom is thrust out while the girl leans against the wall on her hands, legs straight and feet together, back hollowed, eyes looking nervously over her shoulder. The Inspector holds out his hand for the slipper, and Verushka hands it to him with anxious haste.

The sound of the slipper on the girl’s bare buttocks rings loud along the corridor, the tone seeming to persist until the next swift stroke startles the air of hushed expectancy.

Girls gasp under their breath, and chilled buttocks tweak at each resonant reminder that their turn is coming, and it won’t be long! The first girl bleats, then pants, then bursts into tears. She pulls a leg up and twists it round in front of her other leg, bottom swerving away from the slipper. The Inspector spanks her hard on the backs of her thighs and the girl has to put both feet back on the floor or fall over. Her knees bend and her breasts press fervently against the wall, and her reddening bottom squirms frantically with lewd thrustings this way and that. She is left weeping against the wall, her bottom, scarlet and jumpy, is smacked one last time for no better reason than that her bottom seems to be asking for it, and then the Inspector yanks her pants down to her knees and tells her to stay like that!

A dozen bottoms flinch in self-conscious sympathy as the crying girl’s buoyant bum-cheeks shiver into resentful quiescence, while a certain other young bottom gets a playful pat of Inspectorial anticipation and a smack which makes the cheeks judder inside the knickers.

‘Now then Comrade Monitor — fetch yourself a chair and get yourself across it. And you can leave this with me!’ The Inspector takes the cane from Verushka, and keeps his eyes on her plumped-out bottom as she scurries into the spanked girl’s room. With a scrape and a bump she lugs the heavy chair out into the corridor. The Inspector takes it from her and ambles along the corridor to a point roughly halfway down its length. He drags the chair nonchalantly behind him, the girl whose bottom he is about to cane following hesitantly.

The chair is parked in the middle of the corridor, simply allowed to thump down onto its four legs as if it and its purpose were of but little consequence to the Inspector. Unprompted, Verushka slides her knickers down, eyes downcast.

‘Verushka —’ He waves a hand graciously at the chair, and Verushka stretches herself across the high back, hands on the seat, hips resting on the chairback and long legs straightened out behind. Her bum loses none of its sauciness in the doing, and its cheeks push up proudly at precisely the height one would wish if one were intending to deliver a stroke or two to the very plumpest parts of those obediently-presented buttocks.

The Inspector paces round Verushka and her chair, as if inspecting the arrangement of the girl’s bottom from all angles, then he places a hand in the small of her back and slips the blouse up, up until it is at shoulder level and the underside of Verushka’s breasts push clear of the hoisted-up waistband of the blouse. He turns on his heel and assures himself that every one of the girls is watching this charade, then he rests the cane across Verushka’s upthrust bottom. A pause, the cane ‘clicks’ against the wall as he draws it back, then it whacks down smartly around the impishness of the girl’s bum.

Verushka jolts violently forward as the cane whips hard across both cheeks, the chair skidding fully six inches on the floorboards as she thrusts convulsively with her toes. The cry is still in her throat as the cane descends again, wickedly angled so that it catches her neatly across the very last fraction of bum-cheek above the juncture with her thighs, the target rendered that much more vulnerable by her snatching forward and stretching out in reaction to the first stroke.

Verushka is still struggling to find the breath for her first squeal as the Inspector is pacing back along the corridor to order the next miscreant to take her knickers down. Verushka struggles to her feet with both hands clutched to her bum.

‘Slipper! Where’s the slipper, girl!’

Gasping, eyes staring wildly and tears starting down her cheeks, Verushka dashes bare-bottomed to the windowsill at the end of the corridor where she has left the slipper.

‘Slipper, sir —!’ she pants, handing it to him with both hands as though it belonged on a silver tray. Her knickers plop quietly down round her ankles.

The second girl’s pants are peeled down from a pair of smooth, ripening buttocks, round and weighty and wobbling as she pushes her bum out for the Inspector’s slipper. She is spanked with a swiftly rhythmic series of strokes, her bottom snatching a little away with each successive Splat! until she, like the first girl, is pressed against the wall in her efforts to avoid the slipper’s full force. Her fingers squeak against the gloss-painted brick of the corridor wall as she struggles to keep her bottom at least more or less at the required height, while her buckling knees want only to let her sink to the floor despite the likely consequences if she dares do such a thing. With a final and particularly vigorous swipe across the twitching cheeks the Inspector abruptly turns away and walks again to the chair halfway along the corridor.

‘Cane!’ He glares at Verushka, while she darts anxious eyes this way and that in search of the wicked, horrible thing, too nervous to notice that it is dangling from the supporting bracket of a fire extinguisher where the Inspector left it a few minutes earlier. She spots it at last and snatches it from its hiding place, handing it over with such haste that the Inspector’s pudgy fingers fail to grasp it and it clatters to the floor. Verushka stoops for it in a panic of anxiety-to-please and the top of her head connects forcefully with the Inspector’s sizeable belly.

Quietly, even gracefully, the Inspector subsides onto the chair, only a growing redness of the face suggesting the struggle for breath which the blow has engendered. This ruddiness of complexion increases rapidly, then a thin, strangled wheeze brings the beginnings of relief to the stricken Inspector. Slowly, indeed painfully so, the Inspector regains his breath while Verushka stands aghast at the results of her stupidity, still clutching the cane in white-knuckled hands. The Inspector’s pink-rimmed eyes flicker vengefully to the girl’s pale face. He gasps, ‘Fire Drill is over for the present.’ Another painful wheeze before he can find breath enough to continue. ‘You, Comrade, will report to the Principal’s office and wait for me there!’ Verushka splutters her abject apologies, lips all but refusing to form the words, half-pulled-up knickers completing the picture of a girl in a great deal of trouble and only too well aware of what she’s going to get for her foolishness. The Inspector heaves himself to his feet and stalks off down the corridor with as much dignity as he can accomplish in the circumstances. Half a dozen girls who have been reprieved when soundly-smacked bottoms had seemed an inevitability gasp disbelieving whispers of relief, while young Verushka, tugging dismally at her half-mast pants, bursts into tears.

----//----

A small, untidy room, with a window at the end opposite the only door. A desk, the only item of furniture in the room not littered with papers and forms, stands before the window, and across the desk, spread-eagled and stretched out over its chill wooden top, is Verushka. Save for her shoes she is naked from the waist down, and her blouse has been pushed up her back as far as her bra strap. Her thighs are wide apart, her legs straight and taut-muscled, toes bent against the rug. Under her hips, raising her still-impudent bum some six inches higher than it might otherwise have been, is a pile of plastic-covered chair cushions hastily gathered for the purpose by the principal. This naked bottom, cheeks apple-round and garnished with the two cane weals which were all the Inspector managed to deliver during his Fire Drill before he was incapacitated, shivers timidly, twitches miserably, and sticks saucily up in such a way that the Inspector, now seated behind the desk and with young Verushka’s pale little face bare inches from his belly, can see perfectly the entire moon-rise of the girl’s tremulous buttocks. The girl’s wrists twist feebly in the Inspector’s firm grasp, he holds her more tightly, she mews plaintively and looks up into his face with pleading in her eyes.

The Inspector ignores her, and instead nods to the Principal who is at this moment hovering over Verushka’s naked other end with the instrument of the girl’s intended correction, a thick shiny strap, poised ready for the first of twenty five strokes which the Inspector has assured him will be quite alright, notwithstanding definite rules to the contrary which the Education Department have circulated to every establishment in the area. At this nod, the Principal, himself a man who believes that naughty girls should pay the penalty for their misbehaviour, albeit in less noisy and less painful ways, and with more of an eye to girlish attributes apart from bottoms, raises the strap and brings it down solidly across the crown of both upthrust buttocks.

These buttocks jolt hard across the cushions, the girl’s legs snap together and then, after perhaps two or three seconds, a pant of breath, a snuffle of intaken air and a high undulating squeal issue from Verushka’s pretty lips. Her hands twist violently in the Inspector’s grip; he holds her the more tightly and nods to the principal again.

Between pauses while the Inspector sees that every single stroke has time to sink in fully, and what with pernickety readjustments to the offering up of the girl’s bottom so that it is presented in that high, pert, readily-visibly position required of her, together with the Principal’s fiddly, too-attentive repositioning of Verushka’s wide-spread legs after each spank, the wretched girl’s punishment takes fully a quarter of an hour, during which time she weeps unceasingly and struggles ever more frantically with every bum-jerking stroke. She pleads, she blubbers, she yelps and she promises, but the Inspector’s nods come on cue nevertheless.

Allowed up at last Verushka cannot help clutching desperately at her bottom and doing a kind of half-hearted hopping dance, her feet never quite leaving the floor between steps, tears streaming down her cheeks quite unchecked. Red-bummed, she is dismissed. Still naked below her waist she scoots away, leaving the door ajar in her haste to be gone to some quiet corner where she can weep the rest of her tears in privacy.

Standing up behind the desk the Inspector stretches his arms wide, thanks the Principal for his assistance, and makes to depart. As if prompted by an afterthought he turns at the door and says, ‘You know, with that girl’s clumsiness I doubt that she’ll ever make a nurse. I have an idea she’d be better suited to some other line of work.’ He rubs his chin while he muses on this idea, then he goes back to the desk and re-seats himself. Picking up the telephone he enquires of the Principal the number of the Central Office of the Education Department. The principal finds it for him in a directory. The Inspector prods at the dial with a dumpy finger and remarks, ‘Yes, I think that’s what that girl needs. A new job. I’ve been thinking for some time now that I really do need an assistant…’