Woody Woodpecker #070
3 hours ago
"Do you know, I believe we shall get along very well here for the summer, Betsy." Jamie Fanshawe leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head with a satisfied smile.Could Jamie be showing some favoritism here? Will Amelia and Clara be introduced to the tawse in the morning? Stay tuned for further developments.
Betsy knew better than to answer him and carried on with her work, tidying away the trestle and the things that Master Jamie had taken out to use on the young ladies. She hoped his taste for flogging had been sated by the evening's activities. First he had caned Miss Amelia which, Betsy had to admit, she had enjoyed watching. Then he had spanked Miss Clara across his knee, afterwards giving her a mere four light strokes with the cane, a count which seemed scarcely adequate to the nursery-maid. He had stayed a long time in Clara's little room afterwards, though, and Betsy had heard soft girlish moans through the door. Surely he must be satisfied for the night?
She picked up the cane and was about to take it to the cupboard.
"No -leave that! We shall want to use it in a minute. Run down to the drawing-room and fetch me a brandy. I shall see to you when you get back."
Oh Lord, thought Betsy, her heart pounding as she hurried down the stairs and along the corridor. She was plainly going to be served a portion of rod soup tonight, after all. There was no denying that Jamie was a demon for dishing out the cane, and he seemed to like Betsy's big and all-too-tender bottom particularly as a target. She just hoped she could get the brandy without incident. Swallowing anxiously, she knocked on the drawing room door.
"Enter." The languid tones of Lord Alexander summoned her into the room.
Betsy sighed. She had hoped that the Marquis and Marchioness would not yet be back from their visit to the reformatory. She took a deep breath and stepped inside.
"Well, girl, what is it?" Lord Alexander was sprawled in a leather-upholstered chesterfield, a balloon of brandy in one hand and a fat cigar in the other. Kneeling before him, and difficult to ignore, was a girl. It was not hard to recognise Lucy, his chambermaid. The girl's brown ringlets and plump bottom made her easily identifiable, even from the rear. Her bottom was quite bare, Lucy having stripped to her white corset and black silk stockings, and her head was bobbing busily about his crotch.
Lady Alicia, resplendent in a gown of crimson silk, was lounging on a couch, a little to one side, idly fingering a long and very slender dressage whip. Several welts, narrow but deep red, already graced the creamy flesh of Lucy's bottom. Betsy knew quite well whence the livid stripes had originated. She studiously avoided Lady Alicia's eyes. Something like this was what she had been scared of facing.
"Master Jamie, sir, asked me to fetch him a brandy."
Lord Alex gave a distracted grunt before waving his cigar towards the decanters. "Well, get on with it, girl, and be sure to pour the lad a decent measure."
Betsy hurried over to the cabinet that held the glasses and took a balloon over to the side table that supported the flasks of drink.
"By God, that's it. Good! Yes! Oh, yes!" Lord Alex groaned again.
Betsy tried to ignore the slurping noises.
Her hand trembled at the sound of the whip cutting through the air and into Lucy's bottom but she managed not to spill any brandy.
"Damn! The little bitch nearly nipped me," Lord Alex barked.
"Tsk, tsk, she must be properly flogged."
"Yes, dear, of course - but let's just allow the baggage to finish - yes, that's it!"
Betsy escaped while their attention was still on Lucy. Once out of the drawing-room, she leant back against the wall and gave a big sigh of relief. The nursery-maid knew, from bitter experience, that had Lord Alex and Lady Alicia delayed her, then Master Jamie would have blamed her rather than the culprits, and would have punished her accordingly. Fairness never seemed to interfere with flogging matters at Hope Hall.
"What are you doing, girl, lounging around chewing cud like a heifer?"
Betsy could not quite prevent a startled squeak escaping as Mrs Pritchard emerged, quite silently, from a doorway opposite.
"I'm sorry, Mrs Pritchard, I was sent...I was just -"
"Just idling is what you were doing, girl! You are a lazy good-for-nothing. Get on with your duties instantly."
Betsy turned and trotted down the corridor as fast as she could, but it was not fast enough. Mrs Pritchard's harsh voice called after her. "Oh, and put two black marks against your name in the big book. You should know by now what happens to idle trollops at Hope Hall!"
Betsy climbed the east wing stairway disconsolately. Twenty minutes earlier she had been hoping she might go to bed unscathed. Now she had Master Jamie's cane to look forward to, and the black marks would mean at least two dozen with the birch, come Sunday. She had not liked the way Lady Alicia looked at her either. Like most maids at the hall, Betsy felt the best way to be looked at by the imperious Lady Alicia was, generally, not at all.
"You took your time!"
Betsy knew better than to protest. "Sorry, sir," she said anxiously, but he smiled indulgently as she handed him the glass.
"Oh that's all right, Betsy," he said, taking a sip. "I am in a good mood tonight. Take off your dress. I AM going to thrash you - but don't worry I'm not too cross with you." He grinned and put the brandy glass down on the low table beside him, picking up and flexing the kooboo cane in its stead. "No, I'm going to flog you now strictly for my pleasure."
Thank you, Master Jamie, that makes all the difference! Betsy could not quite suppress the flash of sarcasm as she pulled off the grey nursery uniform. She did not dare articulate the thought, but her cheeks went a little pink and she felt suddenly afraid that he might read her mind.
"That's better. Now I can have a good look at you. Should we get you a little 'tutu' like the chamber-maids, instead of that grey sack?"
Betsy said nothing. Lucy and Kitty spent a good deal of their lives in abbreviated mockeries of proper maids' uniforms. The very idea of spending her days dressed like that filled Betsy with horror. Her own outfit was perfectly respectable, if a little dull. Still, she knew that her opinion was not really being sought.
"Hm," Jamie sipped his brandy thoughtfully, keeping the cane in his other hand. He used it to tap a suspender clip where it clasped the top of her black woolen stocking. "I think we will have your skirts taken up to here, anyway. It is just too much trouble getting them up out of the way every time I want to give you a quick freshener."
Betsy tried to stop her bottom lip from trembling.
"Of course," he sighed, using the cane to stroke the side of her leg, over the woolen stocking, "these will have to go. I'll order some silk hose for you. Won't that be fine?"
This was a direct question and so she had to answer. "Yes, sir," she said, trying to sound appropriately grateful.
In truth, fine silk stockings were the last thing she wanted. The things laddered if you so much as looked at them too hard. Betsy had seen the chamber-maids bent over far too often, as they were made to atone for sins that they had been adjudged to have committed against expensive silk.
"Drawers down, Betsy!" Jamie's voice was low and even-toned, but there was no doubt that it was an order. Her fingers fumbled at the knot as she wondered if he would order these replaced as well. The old-fashioned drawers could be opened easily enough at the back for purposes of punishment, but they would look ridiculous with a shortened skirt.
Betsy's face was crimson as she resumed her position. It seemed she would never get used to this; standing in nothing but her long black corset and her stockings, breasts bulging out of the top and private parts entirely bare to the young man's scrutiny. Her fingers fluttered at her sides, desperate to cover her nakedness - but the cane, languidly waving in Jamie's hand, kept them trembling in their place.
"By God, you really are a great piece, Betsy," Jamie chuckled appreciatively and took a swig of brandy. "I don't know when I've seen bigger titties. Unhook your front and get them out for me."
Betsy had always been big. Some might have called her fat, although she had a good waist even without the benefits of corseting. The tight-laced beast she struggled with now could not quite force her plumpness into a fashionable hour-glass, but it certainly emphasised her curves. It was back-laced and hooked at the front so, theoretically, it should have been simple to undo, but the pressure exerted by the merciless lacing meant she had a real struggle to unhook it at the top. Finally, she got the first metal fastening open.
"No, don't take it off. Just get those tits out!"
Betsy had hoped she would have escaped from the tightness of the thing, at least during the duration of her punishment. The long corset always made bending over such a trial. She did as she was bidden; having loosened the top she was able to pull her breasts out and over the top of the corset's front.
"Hands on your head!"
Scarlet-faced and totally exposed, Betsy did as she was ordered. Her breasts were relatively firm and shapely, considering their size, and the action pulled them up so that they jutted out before her...
"Now, come here. No, much closer."
Hesitantly she stepped closer, until she was right at his side. Jamie put the brandy balloon down, though he retained the cane. Betsy closed her eyes and tried to control her breathing as he ran his hand up over her thigh and over the big mounds of her bottom. He rested it there for a moment, using his fingers to caress her left buttock gently.
"Wonderfully firm. You really are quite magnificent, you know."
Betsy bit her lip. If you like my arse so much, Master Jamie, she thought suddenly, what do you see in that skinny little bitch, Clara? She was surprised at the vehemence of the emotion. Surely she was not feeling jealous? Cross with herself for being foolish, she pushed the thought away.
"I've changed my mind. I'm not going to cane you. You can put this away."
Betsy took the cane and scurried over to the big cupboard, trying not to let hope into her heart. It stole in all the same.
"Oh," Jamie said as she put the cane in its place, "and bring me a two-tailed tawse instead."
* * *
"Lower, come on, touch your toes!"
The corset creaked as Betsy tried to comply. If she had been allowed to unhook it altogether, she might have had a chance, but with the stiff whalebone resisting every inch it was quite hopeless. She was red-faced from exertion as much as humiliation now, and the effort was making her pant and her breasts heave. All the time, as she struggled, Master Jamie stood at perfect ease beside her, sipping his brandy, and letting the thick tawse swing languidly from side to side in his right hand.
"Come on, you can do better than that!"
Again, Betsy tried to bend further, fighting against resilient whalebone. "I'm sorry, sir, I can't."
"In my school -" the young man took a final swig and set the glass down on an occasional table, "-there was a master, Mr Whitstable by name. He always used to tell us that there is no such word as 'can't'.
Betsy tried to stifle a little wail as she sensed him move into position at her side, and just a little to the rear.
"Quite absurd, of course," Master Jamie continued. "After all, how could he have spoken the word if it didn't exist?"
Betsy knew it was coming now, at last. She tensed herself and gripped her own legs as low down as she could manage, which was just above the knees.
"What he meant, of course -" Jamie murmured thoughtfully. There was a sickening hiss, followed by a loud retort and white fire shot through Betsy's upper thighs, making her grunt as she desperately fought the need to cry out in pain, " - was not that 'can't' doesn't exist - "
There was another hiss. Another even more explosive crack , and a stripe of flesh across the middle of Betsy's buttocks was on fire. The pain made her gasp for breath and desperately knead the fleshy thighs above her knees.
" - but that it was FORBIDDEN!"
Betsy let out a long and heartfelt sigh as the blaze of pain started to subside.
"Now, bend over further, Betsy."
She managed to fight the corset enough to let her grab her shins just below the knees.
"A little better, I suppose," Jamie said grudgingly. Betsy gritted her teeth as she sensed him raise the strap once again.
"Ooh, ooh, aah!"
"Stop whimpering, you silly girl." Jamie's words were stern but his tone was tolerant, even fond.
After the belting, he had allowed her to take the corset off and she now wore nothing but her woolen stockings. Betsy lay, snuffling, across her master's lap, as he sat on the chaise longue and applied cold cream liberally to her burning hind quarters.
She was usually less conscious of her behind than she was of her breasts but, right now, it was the other way round. The tawsing had not been the worst beating she had taken but Betsy had a special dislike for the split-tailed belt. It had been a new one, fresh from Mr Kimblewick the saddler in Hatherby. The strap was as thick as a finger, yet the leather was so flexible it felt like a whip. Betsy did not know how many strokes Master Jamie had given her, just that it had been too many. Her young master had taken his time, for time was his to take. The thrashing had been for his pleasure and he had made sure that he had taken it at his leisure. Betsy's role was but to bend over obediently and endure.
Still, there was pleasure for her now in his touch, and her sobs were sobs of relief more than pain. There was something indescribably delicious about the feeling of the cold ointment as it soothed her scalded skin and, though she had made little sound throughout the belting, she could not stop some gasps escaping as he stroked.
"Don't you tell Miss Amelia about this luxury treatment, Betsy," Jamie said with a chuckle, "or that haughty stuck-up little baggage will start expecting such privileges too."
"Oh, look, Amelia, the hawthorn is in bloom!"It`s always best to start as you mean to go on.
The hedgerows that sped by the carriage window were dusted with white blossom, but Amelia gave them only a cursory glance. She regarded Clara through heavy-lidded eyes and gave a bored yawn.
"Really, Clara, I do wish you would stop bouncing up and down. One would think you had never been to Hatherby before!"
The fact was that the countryside, the rolling hills, the thickly wooded hollows and neat hedgerows exhilarated her too, with its magical aura and half-forgotten familiarity. But the Honourable Amelia Colinbrooke was a dignified young lady of nineteen, educated and extremely conscious of her position. She most emphatically was not a giddy girl to be over-excited by the prospect of release from finishing school. Therefore she shook her head pityingly at Clara, reminded herself that her cousin was still a child of eighteen, and turned her attention back to her novel, leaving the younger girl to press her face to the glass of the carriage window and exclaim with childlike excitement over the commonplace country sights...
They were not at finishing school now. The time for girlish pleasures was behind them, along with the disciplinary regime of Madame Chavaroff's Academy. Amelia had found it very hard at first, but in the final year she had progressed to the status of prefect, and being given the opportunity to wield the rod herself had reconciled her to the strictness of the institution.
She had ended up as a staunch supporter of corporal punishment, and watching Clara fidget and bounce around the carriage made her regret that the opportunity for its infliction was now past. Amelia had only infrequently had the opportunity to make her pretty cousin strip and bend before her prefectorial cane, but she could still relish the memory of Clara's plump bottom and slender thighs...
The view was changing now, the pastures and hedgerows giving way to thicker woodland, until the train was passing through a deep forest. Suddenly, Amelia felt apprehensive, and even Clara became quiet. It was as if the woods evoked some long-buried memory, as if something sinister and ancient lurked in this remote part of the country. Clara's big blue eyes blinked at her anxiously, the pretty lips forming a questioning 'O'. Then the forest opened up again, giving way to sun-flooded fields, and the feeling passed, leaving Amelia smiling wanly at her own foolishness.
"Do you think Jamie will be at Hope Hall too, this summer?"
Clara's transparent attempt to ask this with an air of indifference provoked a derisive snort from Amelia. "I have no idea. I sincerely hope not!"
The last time the two cousins had visited Hope Hall, Clara had developed a serious crush on Jamie Fanshawe, a distant relative. Amelia, on the other hand, had detested the older boy's lack of respect for her, and she had bridled at the liberties he had attempted. Even though they were related, she had decided that Master Fanshawe was extremely ill-bred. The dreamy expression that settled on Clara's countenance at the mere mention of his name irritated Amelia. The image of Clara's bare bottom came to her mind again, unbidden. My goodness, Amelia thought grimly, I'd put Jamie Fanshawe out of your mind if I had the opportunity!
To Amelia's relief, she did not know the boy who waited for them with the carriage at the tiny station. If Jamie had been at the Hall, Lady Alicia would most likely have sent him to greet the girls. Instead, a burly tongue-tied boy - a stable-lad, Amelia supposed - collected their trunks from the guards van and hefted them into the carriage, before giving his hand to Clara, who blushed foolishly as she allowed him to help her climb into the carriage.
"I can manage very well, thank you, boy!" Amelia said sharply, noting with a certain satisfaction that the lad flushed a deeper shade of red. Content that she had put him in his place, she settled herself comfortably next to Clara for the short drive from the railway station to the great estate of Hope Hall.
She had forgotten. It had been two years. She had forgotten the awesome aspect of the great walls that encircled the grounds, ancient and encrusted with ivy. The hoarse croak of rooks circling the stately elms beyond the gates brought back memories of the mysteries that seemed to cloak the hall; strange cries in the night, strange looks between the servants, odd clothes and even odder objects. Questions answered by infuriating chuckles and "All in good time when you are older," and sly smiles from her Aunt. As the great iron gates were unlocked and opened and the carriage swept on in, Amelia felt goose-pimples rise on her nape and Clara grabbed her hand.
"Amelia..what do you think...will happen?" Clara's voice was timid, fearful.
Amelia forced a sneer. "What on earth do you mean, you silly girl?"
The gate clanged shut behind them as they sped up the gravel drive, the sound coldly ominous in Amelia's ears.
"You know what will happen. We are to stay with Alicia and Alex for the summer. I expect we will be treated to many garden parties, hunt balls and fetes." She took a deep breath, banishing the ridiculous feeling of apprehension with a forced laugh. "Yes there will be lots and lots of fetes."
* * *
Amelia was shaking with fury.
"Really, Mrs Pritchard, I'm sure there has to be some mistake. We are grown women. Please let me speak to my aunt!"
The housekeeper, a black garbed woman in her forties, of ramrod carriage and flinty eye, was unmoved.
"Lord and Lady Faversham are visiting the Hatherby Reformatory. Their instructions were quite explicit. I'm to put you two girls in the nursery."
Mrs Pritchard was unsmiling, but something about her demeanour made Amelia suspect she was enjoying this bitter humiliation of her betters.
"Please follow me. Betsy is drawing baths for you both. I expect you will want to change."
The housekeeper turned and Clara looked at the still simmering Amelia.
"Come on, Amelia, there's no point in making a fuss. It's probably just a mistake. We can sort it out when Aunt Alicia gets back."
Mrs Pritchard stopped and looked back with what Amelia could have sworn was a smirk. Clara pleaded with her eyes. The stable-lad who held the trunk suddenly looked away and Amelia just knew he was grinning.
Amelia picked up her purse from the carriage seat . "Oh, very well," she said angrily, "I shall come with you now as I do need to change, but let me be clear. I shall NOT stay in the nursery and I will NOT be treated like a child!"
The bath had gone some way to soothing Amelia's ruffled composure. She might be too mature to be relegated to the nursery but she had to concede that the half-dozen airy rooms in Hope Hall's finest east wing were comfortably appointed. She even had the bigger bathroom to herself...
At least she was able to luxuriate in the scented water, and she let the fatigue of the long journey dissolve away. As she did so, Amelia soaped her legs, and allowed her fingers to caress the insides of her thighs... So lost was she that even when she heard the maid enter with her clean clothes, she continued to caress herself, intimately and lazily, eyes closed...
"Frigging yourself again, Amelia? I see you haven't changed!" The voice was amused and, to Amelia's utter horror, very male. Startled from her reverie, she let out a startled shriek and sat up in the bath, clasping her arms in front of her to cover her full breasts.
"Jamie, get out of my bathroom this instant! This is outrageous! Get out or I'll tell Aunt Alicia!"
The young man leaned against the doorway and grinned insolently. "Tell Aunt Alicia? Tell your cousin? Tell her what exactly?" he sneered. "That I caught you busily playing with yourself?"
Amelia felt her cheeks flame even more brightly as Jamie sauntered over to the bath.
"Anyway, it doesn't matter a damn what you tell them. Lady Alicia and Lord Alex have put me in charge of the nursery. They feel that you and Clara need some discipline - and you especially. I'm to take you down a peg or two, Amelia!" He bent and caressed her slender neck. "For the whole of this summer, I have been given complete authority here. It is my most welcome task to teach you a little humility." He kissed the nape of her neck.
Amelia quivered in shame and outrage but could not prevent this liberty without exposing her breasts, so she simply hissed, "Don't you dare touch me!"
Jamie just laughed, and Amelia felt his fingers grasp a fistful of her luxuriant auburn curls. "Owww!" she shrieked as he hauled her up by the hair. The young man heaved her out of the bath and propelled her across the room and through the door, straight into the adjoining parlour, before releasing his grip. Amelia stood naked and dripping, trying to cover both breasts and sex, blinking back tears of pain and furious outrage.
Clara was standing staring at her, with her eyes wide and her cheeks bright red, dressed in a quite extraordinary costume; a little smock of cream silk so thin that Amelia could clearly see her cousin's nipples pressed against the fabric. The frock had only puffy little quarter-sleeves and was so short that its hem barely reached to Clara's crotch, and failed to cover her frilly little-girl's knickers. In their turn these were all but legless, and exposed a great deal of slender thigh above the tops of white silk stockings which were gartered just above the knee.
Despite the shamefully revealing nature of the costume, Clara did not emulate Amelia's attempts to cover herself. Instead the younger girl kept her hands clasped behind her neck as she stood there.
"Where are my clothes?" Amelia shouted, looking from her cousin to the sneering young man who was unashamedly staring at her nudity. "I DEMAND to be given my clothes!"
He spread his hands. Amelia had to concede that he was handsome, with his aquiline nose and long, fair swept back hair. Jamie was lithely built and turned out in what she supposed was the latest fashion among public-school bloods, with an immaculate cravat of blue and silver and a fine black velvet waistcoat. The worst thing was his infuriating self-assurance. He seemed perfectly relaxed.
Finally, he deigned to answer her. "Amelia, Amelia," Jamie sighed theatrically. "Your wish is my command!" He bowed ironically and tugged the bell-pull. Seconds later, a buxom maid bustled in carrying a few flimsy scraps of fabric. Amelia recognised a set of garments identical to Clara's humiliating outfit.
"Never!" she hissed, although her mouth had gone dry, and she could not resist another appalled glance at Clara. "I am NOT a child!" She blinked back tears of bitter indignation. "I will NOT wear a little girl's clothes. I won't! I won't! I won't!"
She had given in, of course, she had no choice. She had rushed around in a fit of fury but there were no other clothes in the nursery. She could hardly have searched the rest of the house, stark naked as she was - she might have run into servants, even guests, and the thought had been too appalling. It had been bad enough, naked in front of Jamie, here in the nursery.
Betsy, the nursery-maid, a big buxom girl in a neat grey uniform, had stood waiting impassively. Her pretty, plump face had been close to expressionless but Amelia had understood the twinkle in those brown eyes only too well.
Amelia had cursed and sworn revenge but in the end she had allowed Betsy to help her into the flimsy garments. However, when Jamie ordered her to stand in line with Clara, her hands clasped behind her neck, she had angrily refused. Instead she had stood, scowling sullenly in the corner, covering her breasts as best she could.
"Amelia, Amelia," Jamie sighed but with more amusement than exasperation. "Why can't you be more obedient like your little cousin?"
He opened a tall fitted cupboard to reveal a heart-stoppingly comprehensive selection of whips, straps and canes. Amelia felt her knees go weak as he thoughtfully selected a length of yellow cane.
"Kooboo." Jamie smiled and flexed it experimentally, then slashed the implement through the air. The familiar whooshing sound brought goose-pimples to Amelia's arms. "I expect you used to employ it at Madame Chavaroff's Academy. I believe she has the reputation of using only the best materials. No doubt it's been some time since one was used on you. "
He turned to the maid. "The trestle please, Betsy."
The girl hastened to obey, hefting a heavy wooden trestle out of an anteroom and hauling it into the centre of the parlour. The device was topped with a well-worn leather pommel. Amelia regarded the apparatus with shocked horror, knowing all too well its purpose.
"Now, Amelia, I want you to drop your knickers and bend right over the trestle for me, if you please."
Amelia glared at him, her eyes locked onto his in a furious, fearful defiant stare. "Never!" she spat.
Jamie chuckled. "Never is a long time, my pet. Betsy, go to the stables and ask Mr. Blackstock to come and bring a couple of sturdy stable-lads. We may need a bit of muscle and they'll certainly enjoy the show."
The blood drained from Amelia's cheeks. She maintained her glare a little longer. Surely he was bluffing? He would not, could not dare! But she saw no hesitation in his hazel eyes and suddenly realised that he was perfectly capable of carrying out his threat. Her shoulders drooped and she hung her head, defeated. "No, please don't," she mumbled as a tear rolled down her cheek. "I'll do what you say," and her trembling fingers went to her waist to perform the humiliating demand.
"What a pretty arse your cousin has, Clara, " Jamie grinned as Amelia exposed herself once more before him. "Now kneel down there - closer, girl, I want you to watch this. You will take her place, Clara, if you once look away. Betsy, hold Amelia's hands tightly, she seems a little skittish. Now, Amelia, I'm going to give you six strokes for cheek and another six for disobedience."
Amelia gave a little gasp as the cane was laid across her prominent bottom cheeks.
"You don't know how long I've waited for this moment, Amelia, or jerked myself off imagining this little scene," Jamie chuckled, and the cane was lifted. Amelia gave a little whimper of pure terror as the tension mounted in the room. Everyone held their breath but the mantel clock ticked inexorably on.
Amelia tried to fight the shriek but the pain was just too great. It seared across her bottom, forcing a cry from between her gritted teeth. Oh God - it was worse - much worse - than she had imagined. She could not stand another eleven strokes like that!
Again the blaze of pain.
"Stop writhing, girl, and keep your legs straight!"
"Ooh! Ooh! Aah!" Amelia sobbed as the pain coursed through her in waves. Blinking away tears, she looked back through her own parted legs to see Clara kneeling down facing her bottom, so close that the cane must have only just missed her face. Clara had a glazed expression, part terror and perhaps part something else, and her eyes were brimming with tears.
Jamie grabbed Amelia's hair, and wrenched her head back until she had to look in his eyes.
"Welcome back, my dear Amelia. Welcome to Hope Hall!"
"Rules are rules," said Mr Buller, the Principal. "They are made for a reason and their maintenance is a responsibility - a duty! But do you really think that this is what we want to be doing with our time?"Well, I certainly hope not!
Zoe was eighteen, a young adult. And that was the point. Her recent adulthood, her sense of herself, this would all add to the impact of her punishment. And she knew the way things were done there. She knew what her parents had effectively signed her up for when they paid her fees. So she stood in the Principal's office, distracted, yet self-conscious. It had a kind of dreaminess about it and she kept strangely forgetting what was in store for her, almost a sort of defence mechanism. But then, after a moment's relief, it would hit her, and the cycle repeated itself over and over.
Zoe wondered about how she was dressed, as if she had a choice, and about whether it made things better or worse. She wore her uniform of course. Grey skirt, the hem some inches short of her knees, nicely fitting navy blue sweater; smooth on her flat stomach, snug at her breasts, emphasising her compact shoulders. Her tights were black, sheer on sleek shins, gently curved calves, her small knees and what could be seen of her thighs. She wore flat suede shoes. Her small hands were down by her sides, and she knew herself to be opening and closing her fingers, making and opening fists. Her complexion was smooth and her cheekbones, her blue eyes and her shiny shoulder-length dark hair tucked coyly behind her tiny ears, did all the work necessary to guarantee admiring gazes. And, right then, she felt oddly guilty about this, as if being pretty was something wilful, part of the wrongdoing that had put her in this situation.
She looked at Mr Buller, perhaps sixty, tall, slim and severe. And his office was right for this too -with its dark wood, the trophies and the old carpet. She calmed herself though, convincing herself that it couldn't really be going to happen - at least not the way the other girls said it did! She desperately hoped not! Especially with Mr Oates being there! Mr Oates, a man of maybe forty, a small man with a beard, sat on a chair by Mr Buller's desk, and Zoe especially avoided eye contact with him. With Mr Buller there was no sense of anything inappropriate, nothing for Zoe to be suspicious about. But Mr Oates? She wasn't sure. In fact she didn't want to think about the possibilities too much. She felt sure he had been staring at the hem of her skirt, and at her dainty knees. So she tried to pretend he wasn't there. But he was, and it was his class she had disrupted with her tomfoolery - her phony mobile phone message saying relatives had fallen ill, creating panic.
And Mrs Peters was no help. There, like a nurse in a doctor's examination room, thought Zoe. Mrs Peters was in awe of Mr Buller. She was fiftyish, slim and expressionless, sitting by Mr Oates, right there in front of her. So Zoe was under the scrutiny of these three, none of them saying anything as she tried to look contrite.
"So," Mr Buller said, and opened a drawer in his desk. He solemnly produced a short, thin flexible rod, as though he had just cut a switch from a hedgerow in a country lane. He put it on the desk where it loomed large for Zoe and her heartbeat quickened.
"As you know, we have procedures," Mr Buller said. Zoe shifted her feet, knowing that her punishment was under way.
Mr Buller waited a moment until Zoe nodded then said, "Please remove your skirt."
Zoe drew breath involuntarily. For a moment it was as if someone had splashed her with cold water, but then she moved quite quickly, as though silence and inactivity was worse than actually doing as she'd been told. She reached and fumbled with the little zipper at the back of her skirt. She took hold of it with a dithering finger and thumb and drew it down its full six inches. Right in front of Mr Oates and Miss Peters, her skirt slackened around her hips and fell away from her waist and bottom, down her thighs. She guided it down to her ankles and stepped out of it. Miss Peters took it from her. Zoe blushed, feeling exposed although she was still covered up. They could see all of her tights though.
"Thank you," Mr Buller said firmly.
Zoe looked at him, praying that this was the extent of her disrobing. But there was more.
"Place your hands on your head." Mr Buller commanded.
Again Zoe did as she was told, raising her hands to her head, thinking that at least the problem of what to do with them had been solved.
"Miss Peters," Mr Buller said by way of instruction.
Miss Peters leaned forward and took a careful hold of the waist band of Zoe's tights. The room seemed to expand and then shrink for Zoe as Miss Peters peeled and rolled her black uniform tights down. Clear of her flimsy panties and down from her crotch, right down her slim thighs. All her soft flesh was being exposed! Miss Peters determinedly drew her tights down over her calves and shins. Miss Peters let go and glanced at Mr Buller who had stood up from behind his desk and picked up the rod. He stared grimly at Zoe who blinked and looked down at her feet.
She felt confused and sensed Mr Oates looking at the tops of her inner thighs and at the crotch of her panties. For a moment Zoe clung on to desperate hopes, but Mr Buller nodded again to Miss Peters who responded by taking hold of Zoe's tiny panties. A forefinger dipped under the elastic at each hip and a thumb met each finger tip, as if to assess the quality of the delicate material. Zoe felt dizzy and after a moment's panic when she nearly reached down to grab Miss Peters' wrists, she clamped her hands firmly on top of her head as Miss Peters slipped the panties down! Just like that! She was naked in front of them. One minute her panties were up in place, close about her hips, smooth across her bottom and snug at her crotch, flattening down her bushy hairs. But now they were gone. And Miss Peters was guiding them all the way down to just short of her knees, settling them there, rolled and lowered. Zoe, her face burning, stared at the ceiling, then into the distance, certain that Mr Oates stare was like a laser .
"You can stand there for a moment, young lady, and think about what is about to happen to you and why." Mr Buller said as he positioned another chair in front of his desk.
Seeing it there, Zoe clenched her bottom and steadied her breathing, trying to think about her unruffled jumper, her hair and her ear-rings. Think, in fact, about her undisturbed top half. Trying not to remember that her bottom was to be the focus of all this, for it felt so very bare. She wondered if Mr Oates agreed, staring intently as he was at her exposed pubic hair. She held her legs together, glad at least that Mr Oates hadn't seen everything - her boobs, her bottom-hole, everything down between her legs.
"Go to the chair and bend over it," Mr Buller was saying, but it sounded like something different.
Zoe obeyed, turning and taking the couple of steps with her knickers down, bending, placing clammy palms on the wood, her hair falling forward. Her bottom, of course, was thrust abruptly into the air. Her two perfectly proportioned cheeks ready and waiting for the sole reason that naughty girls sometimes need to be punished. She kept her legs tightly together but her bottom was primed and presented. A bottom which seemed to Zoe to be saying something about the kind of girl she was, and now she found herself wondering what Mr Oates could see, until there was a sudden swish and a terrible, biting sting. It seemed to come out of nowhere and jolted her thoughts to an end.
Then another slice of pain and Zoe cried out. Mr Buller was standing behind her, upright, focused, delivering the strokes, each one painfully striping her pale, full buttocks. One...two...and Zoe went as if to stand up, gritting her teeth and drawing breath sharply between them. Mr Buller waited a moment while Zoe got herself back into position, the taut curve of her bottom presented again. Mr Buller now raised his arm again. Three...then another...four. Zoe yelped and bit her lip. It was all wordless, with the sounds of the swish, the impact and Zoe's cries and sobs. Zoe moved her feet, stretching her lowered panties, seeking some relief, no longer bothered what Mr Oates could see between her legs. Her bottom throbbed.
The fifth stroke seemed to have been aimed lower, across the fullest curve, and Zoe gripped the chair, tears damp on her face. The sixth and final stroke made the raw stinging seem complete, as if her bottom was sunburned. She knew she was panting noisily, and even when Mr Buller said, "That is all. You may rise" she took a moment before standing up straight, as if to give her audience time to contemplate the redness and clearly defined weals across her bare bottom. When she did stand up straight her face was streaked with tears and her hair dangled across her face. And when she eventually pulled up her panties - finally covering herself from Mr Oates' flinty eyes - they felt like a cool cotton bandage covering the soreness. She would never be so stupid again.