Spankers Gallery — Miss Jenkins

From Roué 40

Every week upon the publication of the local paper Mrs Chandler would turn immediately to the classified ads section and, in particular, to the part headed SERVICES. For two months she had scanned these columns in the hope that she would find a suitably qualified tutor for her daughter Debbie. Over this period she had replied to numerous advertisers only to learn that such people were few and far between. There had, however, been a couple who appeared to ‘come up to scratch’, but as these were men — and, since the circumstances which brought about her divorce, she didn’t trust the male species an inch — she declined their services.

She had all but given up hope of finding a tutor for Debbie when one Thursday she came across the following advertisement: TUITION OFFERED FOR GIRLS. MATHS UP TO ‘A’ LEVEL STANDARD. RECENTLY RETIRED BOARDING SCHOOL MISTRESS. FEES NEGOTIABLE ‘Phone: Hove ……

Without delay she contacted the woman and a meeting between the two was arranged for the very next day. She was particularly hopeful that at last she had found what she had been looking for because, in the first place, the tutor was a female; secondly, she specialised in Maths (Debbie’s problem subject); and thirdly, she was ex-Boarding School. It was therefore with no small measure of optimism that she arrived at the home of the woman at the appointed hour the following day.

Mrs Chandler, as it turned out, found the woman to be precisely what she had been searching for. Introducing herself as Miss Jenkins, the tutor, a smart, obviously well-educated fifty-year-old, showed her prospective employer her many diplomas and a reference from the school from which she had retired two weeks previously.

Tea and scones were served, and the women chatted about things in general but the education of young ladies in particular. Miss Jenkins left her guest in no doubt as to her beliefs regarding what she termed as the ‘the appalling lack of discipline in educational establishments nowadays,’ explaining that this had been the very reason for her opting out of the system so early in her career. Then, right out of the blue, she asked the question: ‘Am I to assume from your attitude that you discipline Debbie?’

Mrs Chandler replied that, yes, she did discipline her daughter, an answer that prompted the question: ‘And how, may I ask, do you administer this discipline?’ — the word ‘administer’ making her realise that the discipline to which her host was referring was of the old-fashioned, physical variety.

She informed Miss Jenkins that Debbie was punished by way of having her pocket-money stopped or by being confined to the house for an evening or two. The woman clearly was far from impressed with this, and Mrs Chandler found it necessary to explain that since her husband had departed the family home she simply couldn’t find the time to deal with her daughter in the way she should be dealt with.

‘Your husband, Mrs Chandler,’ the woman continued, ‘I take it that he saw to it that the girl was punished in the correct manner?’

‘Well,’ she replied, ‘he gave her the odd thick ear from time to time.’

Miss Jenkins frowned. ‘Tut-tut. No wonder the girl is doing so badly at school,’ she observed, adding: ‘For I doubt that her school use corporal punishment’ Her guest shook her head. The tutor emitted a long sigh then, seeming to brighten up, said: ‘Not to worry, Mrs Chandler — all is not yet lost. Place Debbie in my hands and I think you will find an immediate improvement in both her school work and her behaviour.’

The deal was struck. Debbie was to visit Miss Jenkins for two three-hour tutorials each week. All Mrs Chandler had to do now was inform her daughter of this… and let the girl know just what sort of tutor the woman was.

Having grudgingly accepted her mother’s arrangement, Debbie sat, dumb-stricken, as she listened to what she’d have to expect in the form of punishment should her work not please her tutor.

‘But, mum…’ she protested, her mother silencing her with a sharp slap on the arm. ‘Mum, you can’t…’

‘It’s high time you were taken in hand, my girl,’ she announced, ‘and Miss Jenkins is just the person to see to it.’

On the evening of her first tutorial Debbie was told firmly by her mother that on no account must she misbehave, and that ‘I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes if you do.’ So saying, Mrs Chandler packed off her daughter, happy in the knowledge that she was handing the girl over to not only a fully-qualified teacher, but also one who would not stand for any nonsense.

Debbie’s first session went, she thought, very well. Mindful of what was in store for her if she misbehaved, she was studious and polite in the extreme. Indeed, her first three tutorials came and went without incident, and Debbie began to relax a lot more in the company of the woman.

It was on the occasion of her fourth visit to Miss Jenkins’ house that things changed; that what she had been warned about actually took place. Never having been particularly competent at long division, Debbie had got the same sum wrong on three consecutive occasions. When it was announced that she had not been concentrating, Debbie apologised and asked to be given the chance of doing the sum again. Miss Jenkins agreed, adding the proviso that should the girl fail she would be punished. Debbie nodded and set to work on the problem. She then handed the answer to the woman and prayed that she had got it right this time. She hadn’t.

‘You are not unintelligent,’ Miss Jenkins informed the girl as she put the incorrect answer to one side. ‘but you do lack concentration. Had you listened to what I told you there would be no need for this.’ Debbie looked on in horror as the woman picked up a long, thick wooden rule. ‘Perhaps a taste of my friend here will teach you to pay more attention in future.’

Debbie was instructed to get up from her desk. Reluctantly she obeyed and, wishing to get it over with as quickly as possible, held out her left hand.

‘No, no, my dear,’ she was told, ‘we do not hit girls on their hands. Now, pick up your stool and move it over there next to the blackboard.’ Unsure if this was actually happening to her, Debbie complied and, having carried out this instruction, heard the words: ‘Now, over you go, young lady… feet one side; head the other.’

As if in a terrible dream, the girl bent over the stool, only too aware of the most prominent position her bottom was in. Her vulnerability heightened as she felt the back of her skirt being lifted and placed clear of her behind on her back.

Her bottom felt enormous in its tight white cotton knickers — and was to feel larger still when this garment was taken down and encircled her thighs.

Debbie’s rear was, indeed, bigger than was average in a girl of sixteen, and this fact wasn’t lost upon Miss Jenkins who, having stood back a foot or so, took in the wide expanse of schoolgirl flesh.

Debbie hated this particular portion of her anatomy. It caused her much embarrassment when doing gym in tight shorts or when swimming. It was not a fat bottom — but then neither was it slim. There was certainly plenty of nervously twitching naked flesh for the tutor to attend to, and no mistake!

Miss Jenkins set about her task with relish. She lifted the rule high into the air and brought down about two-thirds of its length onto the quivering twin globes of the girl’s seat. It landed with a re-sounding WHACKK! and Debbie couldn’t help but emit a high-pitched squeal. She flung her right arm behind her to defend her rear, but such was the awkward position she was in this was to prove in vain — just as her mentor knew it would be.

By the time the punishment was over, Debbie had received a dozen well-spread out strokes. She was bawling like a kid and tears streamed down her cheeks — while the cheeks at the other end of her displayed the scarlet marks of her thrashing.

Back home that night her mother asked how the session had gone. Debbie replied that she had done very well; that she had at last perfected long division, and that Mrs Jenkins was most pleased with her.

Mrs Chandler sat herself down on the sofa and in a flash hauled her errant daughter over her knee. In a matter of seconds the girl’s skirt was raised. For the second time that evening she felt her knickers being peeled down over her bottom. Her mother, upon seeing the redness of the girl’s bottom, snapped the knickers back into place. Expecting her skirt to be replaced also, Debbie attempted to rise from her mother’s lap. A strong hand kept her in place, and the next thing she felt was a parental palm on the seat of her school pants.

‘But, mum…’ she objected as her mother got into a rhythm and smack followed smarting smack, ‘W-what are you d-doing?’

‘I dislike lies,’ she was told. SMACK! ’Miss Jenkins telephoned me…’ SMACK! ’She told me about this evening…’ SMACK! ’It’s a good job she did…’ SMACK! ’Because you would never have let me know…’ SMACK! ’Would you?’ SMACK! ’Eh?’ SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!