Spankers Gallery — Groups

From Roué 23

The Gallery, back again in this issue, concerns itself this time with a particular theme; girls punished in groups.

Illustrators interested in the punished female sit-upon frequently depict their girls in situations where several stages of a disciplinary encounter can be shown in the same drawing. The illustration which we have included this time where the girl is being tugged by her shorts through a doorway makes this point very well. Though she herself is yet to be punished, the probable outcome of her interview with the person utilising the cane in that novel way is not in doubt. There in the middle distance is, in effect, another picture of the self-same girl as she will be when the cane has done its work. Every picture therefore can indeed tell a story, and doesn’t necessarily fail in this objective by leaving out the actual application of the disciplinary instrument to the girl’s bottom.

The other drawings in this section approach the matter in another way, leaving the reader to invent his own scenario to fit in with the picture. Those little stories which we have appended to these drawings are therefore no more than one person’s suppositions, and the reader is of course free to invent his own atmosphere within which the girls and their situations can come to life for him.

Detention Room

Two punished bums, an unoccupied stool, and a blonde-haired girl parked in a corner. Is she pulling her knickers up, we wonder, or is she pushing them down? From the look of anguished suspense on the face of the girl with the big eyes, whatever has been going on is still not concluded, and from the angle of her hands and elbows that one in the corner surely is pushing her pants down, isn’t she? The other girls have already had part of their punishment; probably not all of it, or they wouldn’t still be spread-eagled across their stools with their knickers hauled up so nicely, but it’s that girl over in the corner who’s the enigma. She doesn’t look to have been punished at all; one wonders what she’s being saved for. Although she is having to take her pants down now — it would seem that whatever the drama which is about to be enacted here, we have arrived just at the point when all is about to be revealed, though not to us unfortunately.

Eight pairs of eyes followed the woman as she paced around the room. She shook her head and stopped beside her desk. Looking up, she addressed the throng.

‘I just cannot understand it,’ she said. ‘Blowing up the school lab is bad enough but to choose to do it today — today of all days. I’ll never live it down — never!’

The time was indeed somewhat inconvenient for the terrors of 6B1 to try out their latest — and most catastrophic — chemical experiment, for Uplands School for Young Ladies had that day played host to none other than His Royal Highness Sheik Khaleb whose daughter, it was hoped, would be joining their number in the new term.

The Royal personage had been quite impressed with what he had seen and had just sat down with the Headmistress, Mrs Wolf, when the explosion rang out. He ran along the corridor with Mrs Wolf and sundry other teachers to discover the blitzed laboratory. No-one had been injured but it was obvious that it would cost thousands to repair the damage.

Mrs Wolf apologised over and over again to her distinguished visitor but it was clear that he was far from pleased with what he had witnessed. Bidding the woman goodbye, he said he’d let her know about whether his daughter would be attending the school and left in a flurry of robes.

Mrs Wolf was certain what form his decision would take — there would be no Sheik’s daughter joining Uplands in the new term and it was all down to the eight little wretches of 6B1 who sat nervously before her in the detention room.

‘Mr Partridge left you for just ten minutes — ten minutes! And just look at the havoc you caused,’ she stormed, setting off on a head-shaking walk around the desk. ‘Well, there is nothing else for it — you must all be punished. At least if I can assure His Highness that you have all been severely dealt with he may have second thoughts — I doubt it, but he may. At any rate, punished you shall be and, let me say, punished as never before. All of you choose a separate desk, take off your skirts and bend over.’

There was much scraping of chair legs and muttering as the eight complied with Mrs Wolf’s wishes. Within a couple of moments eight navy-blue-knicker-clad bottoms were presented to the redoubtable Headmistress who had by now extracted from a drawer of the desk twelve inches of brown leather.

‘Knickers up nice and tight,’ she thundered and the eight reached behind and tugged at the waistbands of their respective garments.

The woman was standing at the side of the girl who was to be the first to taste ‘Wolf’s Whacker’.

‘Let this be a lesson to you, Angela Freeman,’ she said and held aloft the wicked tawse.

It fell with a swoosh and lashed across the tight seat of the girl’s pants. Angela gasped as indeed she gasped after each of her six strokes. She was ordered to remain in position as the next girl was approached.

‘Jacqueline Yates — your turn. Now stick that bottom out!’ came the command as again the strap was raised. Jacqueline was yelling after only the second stroke and by the time she had received her full quota was weeping copiously.

‘Janet Ball; six for you.’ And the strap wrapped itself around the large behind of the tubbiest girl present. Her fat cheeks wobbled, her large hips swayed as the six strokes were administered to her rear-end.

‘Only two days since Miss Harding had to give you a spanking, isn’t it, Sonia,’ she said as she moved along the line to the next girl. ‘Well, this will hurt somewhat more than that, I can tell you.’ The leather tawse thrashed down onto the girl’s bottom, leaving her gasping for air and stifling cries of pain.

‘Helen Thomas; I thought I told you to get these knickers up tight,’ said the Head as she tugged at the waistband so that the base of the girl’s cheeks were bared. Mrs Wolf made sure that four of the strokes that this girl felt landed on that denuded area — an act that brought forth high-pitched screams from the unfortunate young lady.

‘Do I detect a bit of cheating here, Miranda Fuller? Mrs Wolf asked as she reached the next girl. ‘Two pairs of knickers, eh? No doubt you feel the cold more than most. We’ll have them both down, Miranda, so that you can feel the heat more than most. Come on girl — jump to it!’

Miranda knew that any protests would serve only to exacerbate the situation and within the minute was bending again over the desk with her plump bottom bared awaiting its thrashing — and what a thrashing! Mrs Wolf laid the strokes across the girl’s naked buttocks with all her might and, amidst her wailing and pleas for mercy, Miranda made a mental note to ignore the suggestion of one Teresa White of Form 5A2.

‘Bottom out, Lesley Bugden,’ came the order as the Head moved on to the penultimate culprit and the strap swooshed down its half-a-dozen times onto the thinly-covered bottom.

‘And last but not least,’ announced Mrs Wolfe, ‘we have Julie Howard. Something of a regular customer, aren’t we, Julie. I wouldn’t mind betting that you instigated the little bit of fun in the lab. No? Well, nevertheless it’s six for you so hold onto that desk-top firmly, young lady. This is going to hurt you more than it’ll hurt me!’ The strokes rang out and Julie, for all her experience of being on the receiving end of ‘Wolf’s Whacker’, yelled her pretty little head off.

‘Right,’ the Head began as she resumed her position at the desk at the front of the room. ‘I want you all as Miss Fuller is — that’s right, knickers down — and be quick about it. Let’s see how much damage my strap has done.’

Eight bare bottoms were now on view as Mrs Wolf strode down the aisles inspecting the glowing cheeks.

‘Hmmmm — yes, very good. I think you all felt that. Er, Janet and Helen — what are you doing? Did I tell you to pull your knickers back up? Well?’

‘Er, no, Mrs Wolf. It’s just that…’

‘Yes, Helen — I’m waiting.’

‘Well, it’s just that… w-we th-thought you’d f -finished with us.’

‘Finished? Come come — you know me better than that, don’t you? Finished! — I’ve only just begun,’ she announced as from the confines of a drawer she produced a long, slender cane. ‘We’ll have those knickers right down and all of you right over those desks — and stop that chatting. Surely no-one believed that I was going to let you off with a half-a-dozen whacks with the strap, did you? Now, bottoms right out, girls…’

A ‘buoyancy’ of bottoms (collective noun, OED)

Four fat young bottoms fresh from the pool, wet costumes clinging to thighs and in other places, damp skin glistening in the cold light of the changing room. A slender cane for these plump, pushed-out bums, and a portly, stern-faced gentleman to organise the proper presentation of those same.

Can’t we just imagine the breathless flurry of spray in which each of these girls swam her two lengths, lunging desperately for the wall to give the next member of the relay team the best possible start in the inevitable race against the teacher’s stopwatch at the end of every training session?

Can’t we hear the sharp Smack of palm against wet buttocks as the toe-touching girl next on the starting block was sent off on her two lengths with a resounding spank to urge her to her very best efforts?

Can’t we picture the exhausted girls as they flopped out of the pool at the end of their relay leg, panting for breath, half in and half out of the water, hips athwart the pool’s tiled edge and bums balanced in ideal positions to catch a spank or two from their impatient coach?

Can’t we see the huddle of bum-cheeks and the plucking-down-a-little of sopping costumes around half-bare bottoms as the team hurried off to the changing rooms and their twice-weekly pep talk, and can’t we imagine the hopefulness in their young faces as they told each other that this time, surely, they must have beaten their trainer’s target time!

All this, and more, is here in this compact illustration of the girls’ twice weekly disappointment as their coach announces their failure to match up to his expectations yet again. These chubby young bottoms are going to feel that nasty cane; of that we can be sure!

And what of the gentleman with the cane?

His is a job for which he must have volunteered, surely. Let’s picture him beside the pool with his stopwatch as the girls plough up and down with their polystyrene floats thrust out in front of them and their legs kicking determinedly behind.

It’s a constant source of amazement to him. How is it that they’re so buoyant? How is it that they can float along like that with so much of their bums pushing up out of the water? It’s fascinating — he could watch it for ages, the way their bottoms sort of swivel and bounce and wobble like that. It’s — well, it’s distinctly lewd, that’s what it is! He thinks he’ll have them do another length or two —.

That’s the beauty of one-piece swimming costumes, of course. If you’re taking detention then naturally it’s perfectly alright to tell a girl to take her knickers down. No-one minds that. But eyebrows would certainly be raised if you told a girl to take her blouse off, and then her bra! But with one-piece swimming costumes — well, you can’t very well have her take her costume down without her little tits popping out, can you? And not always so little, of course, with sixth-formers like these. Pedants could always say that a caning even with their costumes on would leave you plenty of bare bum to aim at. But that wouldn’t be the same somehow. One acquires little habits; little ways of doing things. It wouldn’t be the same at all if you didn’t tell them to take something down.

He declares that his team have failed to attain the target time by eleven seconds. The girls risk a whispered protest, though without any real hope that the implied sentence will be mitigated. Eleven seconds; eleven strokes. Each. Three of the girls will get theirs now; Annabel will get hers later, after her ‘special lesson’. There are ‘special lessons’ for one of the girls after each training session, and tonight it is Annabel’s turn to pretend that she doesn’t know what the point of ‘special lessons’ really is. She won’t ask why she isn’t allowed to keep her costume on while she balances on her tummy across a tall stool and practises her breast-stroke in thin air. She’ll draw her knees up just as high as she’s told to and hide her blushes as teacher’s hand slips under her belly from between her legs and coaxes her hips up, up into the required ‘bottom-high’ position. She will no longer pretend to herself that by being a ‘good girl’ she will be let off the eleven strokes that she has to come, but she’ll be a ‘good girl’ anyway because that’s what’s expected of her. Annabel will be a little late for supper.

Mandy hasn’t pulled her costume right down and she gets a waspish stroke as a reminder full across her pert damp bottom. She whimpers and presses her belly and breasts against the chill tiles and yanks her costume down to her thighs. Her eleven strokes come at measured intervals, each one making her jerk against the wall, she squirms agitatedly until she can force herself to thrust her tender bottom out for the next one. She dangles from the coat-hooks when he has finished with her, mewing plaintively.

Gillian too squeezes herself up against the wall, but keeps her bum pushed out for the cane to tease and pat-pat-pat between whacks. Her bottom glows with neat reddening cane-marks while she weeps quietly and her tears roll down to her bare breasts and a teardrop plops onto the seat on which she is kneeling from the tip of an erect little nipple.

Annabel, whose turn will be delayed, presses her thighs together and goes all trembly at the sight of her friend’s bottom jerking under the cane. She has no way out, she knows that her bottom too will be shimmying just like Gillian’s within the next half-hour, and suddenly she is crying along with the other girls, dread of what’s to come pushing her beyond the brink of tears.

Barbara’s bottom, that bottom which of all bottoms has perhaps felt the cane more often than any other in the school simply because it is so delightfully plump and responsive to the painful stimulus of a well-applied cane, jumps more than anyone’s even before it gets a proper stroke, and it must be admitted that in truth it is the very liveliness of poor Barbara and her most caneable bum which has made her so popular amongst the more discerning members of the staff. She has a way of maximising the excitement of bottom-caning a girl by her remarkably suggestive reaction to even the mildest of strokes, snatching her hips first forward then back, and then oscillating her behind while she presses her thighs together and whispers childish pleas to her punisher to take pity on what she endearingly calls her ‘Bum-bum’. Had she any insight at all into the arousing effects which her performance has on those staff members who almost queue up to get her knickers down, she would doubtless modify her antics; as it is, she gets her full eleven strokes with plenty of time in between to undulate and wriggle and generally invite the next stroke to be harder out of pure curiosity to see what the girl might do next! Her breasts jiggle daintily as she sobs out her silly pleas and her swimming costume slides wetly down her trembling thighs to her knees.

At last she is let off the hook, and she rubs glumly at her bottom as she and the other two who have had their canings are allowed to get dressed. An enquiring look from the teacher prompts Annabel to slip her costume down off her shoulders, tits popping demurely into view just as the caretaker, an opportunist as ever, pokes his head round the door to ask how long the changing room will be needed, as he has to fix the showers. Annabel blushes scarlet, and then goes even redder in the face as she is made to denude herself entirely, the caretaker’s presence notwithstanding. Why she should find it more embarrassing to be naked in the presence of two men as opposed to one man is not immediately apparent to the teacher, who decides to ignore both the problem and Annabel’s blushes as he shoos the other girls out into the corridor and nods conspiratorially to the caretaker, who sidles in and seems to have no intention now of addressing himself to the supposed malfunctioning of the aforementioned showers.

Annabel is not to know that, the caretaker being a handy man to have around when expensive bits of central heating equipment, amongst other things, are to be filched and fiddled from their rightful owners, he is to be allowed to enjoy the spectacle which she is going to provide, as compensation for his illegal activities on the behalf of others. The teacher is not to know that this is not the first time, nor even the second, that Annabel and her knickers have been parted in the presence of the caretaker. Annabel perches herself across the stool and begins her humiliating exercises, avoiding the eyes of the school’s most accomplished blackmailer and rifler of silk-lined purses, while the teacher decides that Annabel’s positioning atop the stool isn’t quite right, and ‘adjusts’ her hips with that indelicacy of touch familiar to all the girls of the 400-metre relay team. One Tuesday evening is, after all, much like many others in the swimming pool changing room.

Next!

‘Next!’ insists the artist’s caption, and we have little need to wonder, ‘Next for what?’ With a bum as round and saucy as hers, this girl is just asking for the cane, which is certainly what she’s about to get. Perhaps we may be tempted to say that it really is her own fault, surely a girl with any sense of self-preservation, in a school where a cane lurks in every cupboard, should have more awareness of the danger her bottom must be in than to solicit the attentions of ‘the stick’ in shorts so brief and bum-hugging.

Yet through the door, inside the bare and airy room wherein the cane is coaxing her, there are two other bottoms, no less tempting than the bum in the foreground, and no more discreetly clothed. These two bottoms would seem to have been caned already; the marks are plainly visible across the crescent of bareness below the line of each girl’s shorts. Bare-bummed, more or less, those other girls stand with their hands on their heads, perhaps weeping still from the smart of that cane, and expecting any minute to hear the familiar Smack of cane on bare girl-flesh as Number Five is made painfully aware that her time is indeed up. Come in, Number Five! would be a splendid title for a series of drawings depicting the actual application of the cane to that bottom of hers. (Contributing artist please note!)

Meanwhile we are left to speculate on the precise method to be employed. It would seem hardly necessary, from a purely practical angle, to do anything more than bend the girl across the stool which is visible beyond the door and give her her caning just as she is; her bum could hardly be barer from a ‘nicest bits to cane’ point of view! Perhaps the unseen administrator of discipline will do exactly that. One can imagine the tweak and wriggle of those bum-cheeks pulling tight little creases in those snug shorts, up along the line of the cleft. And yet — perhaps the matter warrants further consideration.

Who is it behind that door whose pleasure and duty it is to chastise these delightful miscreants? Who, indeed, are the girls? Members of a team, certainly. A netball team, do you think? And the wielder of stingy canes the Games Master? Whoever he is, may we not suppose that he has a full appreciation of the temptingly presented schoolgirl bottom? Witness the charming teasiness of those little white pants. Imagine those girls of his bouncing around a netball court. Wouldn’t that be an enervating sight? May we not suppose also that this unseen teacher of physical education has had something to do with the selection of these very outfits? I think we may. In which case, wouldn’t it make sense that someone who has taken the trouble to see that his girls may be seen to their best advantage on the netball court, would grasp the opportunity in private to have them slip their sweet little pants down and offer up their bottoms in that state of total bareness at which those same brief pants hint so tantalisingly?

So, let us retract our criticism of this girl’s cheekiness in the manner of her dress. Let us lay the blame squarely upon her Games Master — and without waiting for any possible future contributions from the artist, let us presume too that, once across that stool, this young lady’s bottom will be feeling the sting of that cane quite, quite bare.