Spankers Gallery — Miss Glover

From Roué 37

Miss Glover had her own special brand of punishing inattentive pupils. Unlike the vast majority of her fellow members of staff she, more often than not, wouldn’t resort to chastising talkative and giggling girls. Instead, she would order the miscreant to stand in the corner. Although this never failed to set off a bout of sniggering from the girl’s classmates (possibly the reason for the punishment in the first place), the woman revelled in the humiliation suffered by the girl in question. Standing there at the front of the class and facing the wall was indeed a most embarrassing thing for a girl of sixteen to have to do. It was the sort of punishment a junior or infant pupil would be more likely to be made to undergo. And it was because of this very fact that Miss Glover chose this particular method of disciplining her charges.

It had been during a discussion on the greats of Russian literature that such a course of action was called for. Deeming the relative merits of the likes of Chekhov, Tolstoy, Sholokhov and Solzhenitsyn somewhat less absorbing than the copy of a certain adult publication which was secreted under exercise and text book, Stephanie Brown was taking no part whatsoever in the lesson. Then, suddenly, her name was called out. She immediately looked up at Miss Glover.

‘Who am I describing, young lady?’ asked the teacher. ‘Born in Moscow in 1890, he published his first poems in 1931. His novel, Dr Zhivago, which describes the Russian revolution, was published abroad, though banned in the Soviet Union. He was awarded the Nobel prize but obliged to decline it. He died in the year 1960… Well, Stephanie?’

Covering up her forbidden reading matter, Stephanie searched her brain for what, at best, would be little more than an intelligent guess. ‘Er… is it… Karl Marx, Miss?’

Miss Glover’s face took on a stern appearance. ‘Apart,’ she began, ‘from the fact that Mr Marx is known more as one of the most original and influential thinkers of all time, as opposed to being a writer, Karl Marx, 1818 to 1883, was, let me inform you, young lady, not Russian, but German.’

It had not even been an intelligent guess. Having been informed that the person in question was Boris Leonidovich Pasternak, Stephanie was then quizzed on the works of Dostoyevsky, and her answers were similarly pathetic. The teacher then had the girl hand out copies of a book of short stories by Anton Chekhov, telling the unfortunate miss that she was to read hers standing in the corner. Titters and sniggers abounded as the fair-haired little imp stood in the ‘corner of penitence’ (as Miss Glover chose to call it), and these were hushed by the young woman.

After a few minutes Miss Glover left the room, saying that she’d be back in a few minutes and telling the girls to get on with their reading. ‘Questions will be asked,’ she intoned briskly as she departed.

Stephanie’s classmates took this opportunity to deride and ridicule her as she stood facing the wall. So incensed was she at this that she turned round to face them, stuck her tongue out and sat herself down on the floorboards. Knees together, feet apart, and with her chums positively guffawing at the girl’s act, Stephanie casually thumbed through her book, seemingly ignorant of the other girls’ laughter.

The din was brought to an abrupt halt upon the reappearance of Miss Glover. ‘What is this?’ she stormed, and then glanced over at young Stephanie. ‘I see… Well,’ she said, turning to face the class, ‘you will all write four sides on the works of one of the Russian writers… While you,’ swivelling round to face the girl in the corner, ‘will, as the cause for this turmoil, have a little something which should cause you to think twice before sitting down again for some time to come.’

So saying, the teacher went to the cupboard in the opposite corner of the room, opened it, and extracted a long, wickedly thin cane. Shutting the doors, she strode purposefully over to where Stephanie sat. There were shocked murmurings going around the class as Miss Glover’s intentions became clear. Their rebellious chum was in for the cane. This was something that the woman only employed for the most serious offences, and it was clear that she considered the deliberate flaunting of her authority in this way as suitably serious.

Stephanie remained in her sitting position as the woman stood over her, legs apart, brandishing the rod. ‘Up, girl!’ she barked.

‘Won’t,’ came the pupil’s little girl-like retort, bringing further mirthful emissions from the others. The teacher turned on her left heel to address the class again.

‘Very well, you lot. You can forget the imposition. When I have finished with this young madam here I will have you lining up for a stroke of the cane on your palms — the part of Stephanie’s anatomy I had intended to deal with. But,’ she went on, turning round to face the girl once more, ‘as she refused to obey my instruction to get up I shall apply this nice swishy instrument on her bottom.’

‘Oh, please, Miss Glover,’ the girl begged as she swiftly got to her feet, ‘look… I’m up now, Miss.’

‘Too late, young lady,’ the teacher announced. ‘You can put that book down, bend over, and take your medicine.’

More pleas came from the anxious girl — all to no avail. Within a minute she was bending over in that corner, hands resting on her knees, her pleated school skirt clear of her bottom, and her white, lace-trimmed knickers tautly encasing her cheeks. The cane was hovering somewhere above her; she was seconds away from the first of four awful, searing strokes…