My Diary — the Misadventures of Christina Winchester 6

A double helping of lovely Christina/Rosaleen, from Privilege Club 13

Thursday is a unique day. It is the only day of the week that my heart is actually heavy upon hearing the end-of-school bell. Generally the teachers bore me to tears but there is one exception — Mr Everett.

Mr Everett is my drama teacher. He is tall with an unruly mop of jet-black hair topping his handsome features. His brow is stern yet kind and from my very first lesson with him he began to creep into my sexual fantasies as a solemn, rugged ‘Mr Darcy’.

Usually I have no trouble in charming the male teachers with my flirtations (my indispensable trick of bending right over to collect my books and teasing them with a flash of my tight, white panties almost never fails). But I have tried everything with my dear Mr Everett yet received nothing but a bemused smile.

I am sure I know what the problem is — my horrid school uniform! I detest it with a passion! It makes Mr Everett see me as a silly child instead of a girl with blossoming sexuality. As I pose naked before my mirror, the petite sumptuousness of my developing curves is a spellbinding sight. But the dreaded uniform covers every inch of it like a mask.

Every morning I must hide my small-but-perfect rosebud nipples and smooth, slim waist under the stiff material of my starched white blouse and tie. My lithe, nubile legs must be bound in uncomfortably itchy knee-high socks. And, worst of all, my proudest feature and secret weapon, my bottom (the most pert, round and lovely in all the world) has to be shielded by pristine panties and then the nasty, unflattering grey pleated cloth of my school skirt. Well this, at least, is probably a good thing for society at large. If I were allowed to wander around with my perfect bottom on nude, gratuitous display, none of the world’s men would be able to concentrate on anything else and the women would simply be consumed with jealousy!

My head was so full with day-dreams of gorgeous Mr. Everett that I was late home. As I turned the corner I groaned to see the rickety frame of Mr Snipe, the school music teacher, waiting on the doorstep. Mr Snipe is a grumpy, grey-haired, mean-eyed old man who reminds me of a Dickensian villain. He hates me! He is forever picking on me and giving me detention. He visits the house on Thursday afternoons (while mummy goes shopping) and monotonously puts me through my paces on the violin. I had forgotten all about the lesson and I hadn’t practised at all this week.

‘Sorry, sir,’ I panted as I ran up to the door and let him in.

‘Twenty minutes, Winchester!’ he spat. ‘Twenty minutes I have been kept waiting! Your mother will be charged extra for my wasted time!’

I forced a smile. How I wished it could be Mr Everett coming to give me a private drama lesson instead!

Half an hour later I was attempting to create something resembling a Beethovian symphony whilst Snipe reclined his bony frame in a comfortable chair, barking criticisms and complaints about my bowing technique. My eyes started to close and the usual wave of boredom swept over me. The only good thing about Snipe’s age is that I can often get him to fall asleep if I play smoothly enough. I did my best and, sure enough, he was soon snoring like a tractor.

I carefully put down the violin and snuck upstairs. I stood in front of my mirror, staring at myself in my awful school uniform. Why can’t my school be like the American ones where the teenagers all look so grown up and are allowed to wear what they want? Then I could wear my wardrobe of foxy outfits that would make Mr Everett’s tongue hit the floor.

 

I opened my wardrobe and dug out a pile of clothes. I always had great fun dressing up. I started to imagine what Mr Everett’s face would he like if he could see me in one of the outfits I wore when I went clubbing rather than my dowdy school clothes. I posed in front of the mirror, revelling in the divine image before me. I wished Mr Everett could be there, giving my bottom the attention it was due.

‘Oh Mr Everett,’ I whispered in my most sultry, grown-up voice. ‘Why are you looking at me like that? What would you like to do to me?’

I was just pulling myself into an enchanting little sailor costume that I had worn in one of my ballet concerts when I was startled by a cough behind me. I whirled around to find Mr Snipe standing in the doorway holding my violin with an expression like a wolf about to devour its prey.

‘So, young lady,’ he growled. ‘This is how you choose to spend my lesson.’

I opened my mouth defiantly but couldn’t think of any defence.

‘It seems you would rather waste your parents’ money posing like a brazen little hussy than learning the joys of Beethoven.’

‘No, honestly I…’ I stammered but got no further. I had never seen him so mad.

‘So you’ve got a crush on Mr Everett, have you?’ he sneered, choking with amusement. ‘Well, it might interest you to know that Mr Everett was complaining to me just the other day about your behaviour. He is well aware of the little Lolita games you play in his class.’

I blushed deeply, hanging my head.

‘You are a foolish little girl. Do you really think that Mr Everett is going to jeopardise his position at school? In fact he mentioned that what you really needed was discipline. I wonder what he’ll say when I tell him how you spent my music lesson?’

I gasped. A picture formed in my mind of my darling, handsome Mr Everett laughing at horrid old Snipe’s version of ‘what the silly little Miss was doing’ the next day. Goodness! What if he told the other girls?

‘Please sir,’ I begged in my most sugary sweet voice. ‘You can’t tell Mr Everett! You just can’t!’

He stared at me for what seemed like ages.

‘Well,’ he said finally with a slimy smirk, ‘we had better come to some agreement. Perhaps I will not tell Mr Everett about your behaviour but I do feel his advice about discipline should be taken. As you are well aware, we teachers are not permitted by law to use corporal punishment in school. But, as you are also aware, we are not in school at this moment. You will not be getting off with detention this time.’

A gleam sparked in Mr Snipe’s narrow eyes. I bet he’d been waiting years for the opportunity of thrashing the living daylights out of me. ‘The decision is yours, Winchester. Either I inform Mr Everett or we continue with your… lesson.’

Mummy wouldn’t be home for another hour or so and there seemed no way of avoiding the punishment Snipe clearly had in mind for me. But whatever he dished out couldn’t be worse than his ridiculing me in front of Mr Everett. Slowly, I nodded.

‘Right. This time you will be making music of quite a different kind. This lesson will be far more…’ he snickered… ‘rhythm based!’

I felt the very air thicken. His gaze met mine. He was enjoying the fear in my wide eyes. He reached into his bag and brought out a metronome. For those unfamiliar with this instrument, it is a device that clicks back and forth to keep the performer in rhythm. He set it down on the dressing-table. He held my violin bow firmly in his right hand.

‘Listen carefully. I will set the metronome on a slow, steady pace, say… a beat every two seconds. On the first beat you will present your arm outstretched, palm up. On the second, you will spin around and present that bottom you like to flaunt so much. For the third you will present your other palm, then bottom again and so forth. Is that clear?’

I gave more of a tremble than a nod.

‘Excellent. We shall begin. Ready?’

The metronome clicked and my hand shot out reluctantly.

WHAAAPPP!

Down came the back of the violin bow, cutting cruelly across my shaking palm. It stung so much I almost forgot to turn. I got into position just in time to feel the bow slice with full force over my poor buttocks. Mr Snipe’s arm may have looked old and frail but it had the strength of a much younger man.

Up I spun again to receive a crisp CRACK across my other palm, and then back around to offer my scantily-clad bottom for an almighty SMAAACCKK which felt like sitting on an electric fence.

‘Stop!’ Snipe yelled. ‘Remove your skirt and jacket. I want you to feel true humiliation when I punish you.’

Reluctantly, I did as I was told. Shame filled my veins at being made to stand, semi-naked, in front of this nasty old brute. I wanted to hide.

The punishment continued. Front. Rear. Palm. Bottom. On and on I went, getting dizzier all the time to the regular click-click-click of the metronome. I didn’t know which was worse, seeing the stroke landing or merely feeling it. My head spun, and my maidenly buttocks and both palms were growing scarlet. Snipe paid no heed to my yelps and ouches. He administered stroke after stroke with impeccable timing, never tiring and never missing a beat. Finally, I collapsed to my knees, rubbing the two sore areas together furiously.

‘Owwwwwwwww,’ I wailed.

‘What are you doing? I’m not finished with you yet!’ he growled.

‘Please, Mr Snipe, I’m so dizzy. I can’t go on like this.’

Snipe surveyed me with menace His hand reached over and stopped the metronome.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘As you’re such a little cry-baby I will concentrate solely on your rear-quarters for the last part of the chastisement. However, the cost of relieving your palms will be that your bottom must take its due without protection.’

I was drowning in embarrassment. If it had been Mr Everett standing there I wouldn’t have minded blessing him with the glorious sight of my bare teenage curves, but not horrid old Snipe!

Tears welled in my eyes as I shimmied my panties off. I could see in the mirror that my bum-cheeks were already pink.

To my surprise, Snipe handed me my violin and bow.

‘You will play the piece that you should have been practising. Every time you make a mistake you will hand the bow to me. After it has been applied firmly to your bareness, you will receive it back and begin again until it is played perfectly.’

Oh God! Why hadn’t I practised?

I couldn’t even hold the bow steady, let alone play. I made an error within the first five notes and this was sharply corrected. The more mistakes I made, the more nervous I was, and the more nervous I was the more mistakes I made — and, consequently, the more scorching the fire on my bottom. The individual strokes blended into a deep rouge colour, making it look like a delicious ripened plum. Snipe yelled orders with the enthusiasm of an Army General. I couldn’t help punctuating the melody with a chorus of squeals. At long last I completed the piece without fault. Snipe scowled and gave a sarcastic round of applause.

----//----

A few Thursdays later, Mr Everett asked me to stay behind after class.

‘Nothing to worry about, Winchester,’ he smiled. ‘It’s just that I have really noticed a change for the better in your behaviour over the last few weeks. I’m glad, because you’re an exceptional actress and I hope to cast you as the lead for this year’s play.’

I beamed and shuffled my feet.

‘The part is quite demanding, and you’ll need to put in a lot of practice. I was speaking to Mr Snipe, who assures me he’s discovered a way of getting a spotless performance from you. He was very secretive, and wouldn’t tell me what it entailed. I was just curious, and hoped you would explain…’