From the Top Shelf - Rules are Rules

You have probably guessed by now that I'm fond of schoolgirl spanking stories. Here is a nice little tale from Janus, written by Geoff Kell.

"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?"

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.

Well, I certainly hope not!