New Girl at St Justine's, Volume 1

by Victor Bruno

  She screamed.

  “That’s better,” remarked Hester coolly. “Now you won’t give any trouble.”

  “Ohh ... ohh ... l-let me go ... let me out ... ooohhh ... w-what h-have I d-done?” wailed Fiona. The panic mounted in her and she tugged futilely at the steel bracelets until it hurt her wrists too much. Then, feeling cool air on her bottom, she realised her skirt had been lifted ... and screamed again. It was a scream of both protest and of dread. Hester took a small bulldog clip from the pocket of her skirt and snapped the bottom hem to the top hem of the gym-slip.

  Fiona was naked from her waist down.

  Hester gazed. Used as she was to seeing young girl’s like that, she had to admit that Fiona was splendidly curvaceous. A bottom simply made for the rod, she said to herself. Which, doubtless, it would be feeling before long!

  Fiona’s blue eyes dilated as she saw Hester take down the single-thonged strap from the wall. It had a sheen of oil on it; the leather was dark brown.

  “N-Noo ... No ... oooo!” she cried. “Oh p-p-please! She felt so helpless like that. As she was. She felt so vulnerable. As she was.

  “Now, Fiona ... let’s get on, shall we?” Hester was standing on the girl’s left-hand side, just by the leathern-topped step.

  “Wh-What are y-you going to do?” It was almost a screech, Fiona’s eyes were wild.

  The strap swung back and fell across the centre of Fiona’s smooth white bottom. A pretty pink swathe sprang up. Hester did not put a very great deal into the stroke. There was no need with one of Fiona’s inexperience.

  However, from the gasping cry that rang round the room ... and by the way Fiona’s bottom jerked and twisted ... one could have imagined it had been a full-blooded stroke. But then, of course, Fiona had never before experienced pain like that.

  “If you keep on forgetting to address me properly ... I shall keep on laying this strap across your bottom, my girl. Understand?”

  “Y-Yes ... yes ... Miss ... oohh ... pl;ease d-don’t ... M-Miss ... oooo ... that h-hurt ...”

  “It was meant to,” said Hester. “But I can make it hurt a great deal more if need be. Now, let’s get on with your little test.”

  Fiona’s mind was in a whirl. The pain ... the shock ... of that simple, single stroke ... had quite unnerved her. She strove to pull herself together. To collect her thoughts. She had to. She had to!

  “Now, Fiona,” continued Hester, “what is the colour of the knickers you will be wearing tomorrow?

  Tomorrow? That was Wednesday. After Powder Blue came ...

  “P-Pink ... Miss ... P-Powder Pink ... M-Miss ...”

  “Correct. And on Friday?”

  “Black ... Miss.” It was ridiculous that she should be kneeling there, nakedly exposed, answering such absurd questions. Yet she was doing so. It could not be denied.

  “Correct?” A page turned. “What knickers do you wear for tennis?”

  That was obvious. “White ... Miss ...”

  Thwack!

  It was a rather harder stroke this time and, as Fiona’s bottom juddered and twisted at the unexpected pain, a series of breathless gasping-cries came from her.

  “Oww ... ooowww ... ooowww ... ooooh ... that h-hurt ... please ... don’t.”

  “You don’t wear any, Fiona. Say it.”

  “I ... I ... ahh ... don’t w-wear any ... any knickers ... at ... tennis ...”

  “What is the maximum number of strokes of the birch you can receive?”

  Fiona knew that. It was printed in letters of fire in her brain. All the same, her nates clenched nervously, just in case she happened to be wrong.

  “Th-Thirty six ... Miss ...”

  “Correct. What is the switch made of?”

  Fiona’s mind went blank. “I ... I’ve forgotten, Miss ... just a... a moment ... leather ... I think ...”

  Thwack!

  “Ahhh ... ooowww ... owww!” It had been an even harder stroke. The stripe was pink-red over Fiona’s curvaceous, juddering-jerking bottom. The tiny briefs tore as her thighs splayed.

  “Whalebone, covered in fine plaited leather,” said Hester. What is the penalty for tearing your knickers?”

  “I ... I have to r-repair them ... Miss ...”

  “Correct. And if you can’t?”

  “I am punished again ... M-Miss ...”

  “Correct. We’ll see about that later.”

  The questions continued remorselessly. Three more times Fiona got the strap across her bottom. Each one had her gasping and crying out with pain. Each one had her squirming convulsively. Oh the burning pain as that leather whacked over her bottom! And yet, in truth, this was the mildest punishment Fiona would ever receive at St Justine’s.

  After a while, Hester closed the book. “It doesn’t seem to me you’ve put your mind to this properly,” she said. “Far too many errors.”

  Tears were running down the young blonde’s cheeks. Never had she know such pain, nor felt so wretchedly miserable, in her life before.

  “Mmmmf ... mmmfff ... mmmfff ...” she sobbed.

  “You can go back and study our Rules and Regulations for a further two hours. Then I will test you again.” Hester pressed the button which released Fiona’s wrists. “Up you get.” Fiona stood, pressing her hands to her bottom. “Hands away. That’s not permitted. Come on, hurry up!” Fiona removed her hands and wiped her tears. “Take those knickers right off.” The tattered shreds of powder blue were removed. “Keep them with you. You’ll have to sew them tonight.” Clutching the flimsy item, Fiona stumbled after Hester as she turned for the door.

  “M-My ... skirt’s still ... still ... p-pinned up ... Miss ...”

  “I know.” the door opened; they were back in a corridor, heels clicking again. Fiona was in dread lest her shaming nudity be seen ... her bottom carrying the burning stripes. But, again, they saw no one. Soon she was back alone in the room which she had left so recently. Alone with the Rules and Regulations.

  This time, she said to herself, I really must concentrate and learn them properly. I really must!

  She wiped away the haze of tears and began to read.

  ***

  “Fiona ... follow me!”

  Once more Fiona was off down the corridors. Her throat was dry. In her mind she kept reciting the various lines she had been learning. She could never remember having tried so hard at anything in her life before. Certainly not at the school she had boarded at!

  The came to the brown door again. Grade I. It opened, to Fiona’s utter horror, she saw it was full of pupils. Gasping, she backed away instinctively. Was not her bottom still nakedly displayed? Oh how indecent it was! But Hester caught her by the arm and hauled her in.

  “This is the new girl at St Justine’s!” she announced in a loud voice. “She is twenty one years old ... and her name is Fiona Von Bal.”

  Fiona could not focus on the sea of staring faces before her. They just swam. She felt her cheeks crimson. Knew the abysmal shame of being displayed in that way.

  “Welcome,” said the girls in unison. A few pairs of eyes were sympathetic, but most were apathetic. All had gone through this themselves. However they thought or felt, they could not alter matters in any way. The only crumb of comfort, or relief, was that someone else was suffering and not themselves.

  Fiona began to sob uncontrollably.

  It was the end of the world ...

  “Over here, Fiona.” Hester pointed to the Strapping Stool.

  “P-Please ... please ... no ... oooo ...” Fiona looked wildly round. Panic was gripping her. How could she kneel so indecently in front of all these girls?”

  “Hurry it up! You don’t want a caning, do you?”

  Once again that hideous warning overcame Fiona’s reluctance! Weeping, she stumbled to th
e stool and knelt. No need this time to take down her knickers or pin up her skirt. The class gazed almost indifferently on the candy-pink stripes. They were, relatively, a fleabite.

  “Wrists ...”

  “Mff ... mmfff ... please ... p-please ...” It seemed to Fiona that her bared bottom was actually blushing with shame. Oh, everyone could see her ... oh ... how awful!

  This time, Hester took down the double-thonged strap. “I hope you’ve put in a better effort this time. Have you?”

  “I ... I ... ahh ... I th-think s-so ... M-Miss ...”

  The questions began again. Repeatedly, Fiona’s nates contracted with dread. She was never quite sure if her answer was right. That terrible strap could fall at any moment.

  The other pupils watched in silence. Fiona choked out her answers.

  Thwackk!

  “Wrong!” barked Hester as Fiona’s gasping yelps of pain echoed around the classroom. Understandably, the double-thonged strap was twice as painful as the single-thonged.

  Another question.

  Thwaaccckkk!

  “Wrong!” Again Fiona got it ... and she squirmed frenziedly on the foot stool, soft pink-white flesh madly aquiver. Never, never had she conceived of such pain.

  “Stoo ... opp ... stooo ... oooppp ... it ... oooohhh ... I c-can’t stand it!”

  Another question.

  Fiona could make no coherent reply.

  Thhwwaaccckkkkk!

  “Answer!”

  Fiona’s brain flared. What was the answer? Indeed, what had been the question?

  Thwwaaccckkkk!

  “Aaagghh ... ooowww ... ooowww ... ooowww!”

  “Answer!”

  “I aaaaghhh ... I c-can’t ... ooooh ... I can’t ...”

  Thwwaaccckkkk!

  “Yyyaaaaghhhh ... aaagghhhhhhh!”

  Oh how poor Fiona writhed and kicked! Gone was any thought of shame as to how she was exhibiting herself. Those only the pain ... the awful, awful pain! That was all. And it had to stop!

  Thhwwaaccckkkk!

  “Aaagghh ... aaagghh ... AAAgghh ... ooohh ... I ... agh ... c-can’t remember the question ... M-Miss ...”

  “Indeed.” The voice acid. “I asked you the fifth disciplinary exercise performed in a Gym Session.”

  An awful moan. “I ... I c-can’t remember ... Miss ...”

  Thhwwaaccckkkk!

  “Yyaaiiieee ... oww ... oowww ...”

  Twisting, turning, kicking, buttocks clenching uncontrollably.

  “You scarcely seem to have made any improvement at all to me, Fiona,” said Hester severely. “I shall give you one more hour of study ... then bring you back here again. And, next time, I shall have the triple-thonged strap, in my hand. Perhaps that piece of knowledge will help you to greater mental effort!”

  Once more Fiona was released. Once more she stumbled weeping from the classroom, almost oblivious now of the uncaring eyes upon her. The paramount sensation was the burning pain in her bottom. Compared with that, nothing else mattered very much!

  ***

  In precisely one hour, a trembling, sobbing Fiona was brought back to the classroom. Back over the Strapping Stool she went. Down came the triple-thonged strap.

  The questioning began again.

  So did the anguished clenching of soft, girlish buttocks. Now there was more pink-red flesh than white.

  Question ...

  Answer ...

  Question ...

  Answer ...

  Question ...

  Clench ... clench ...

  Answer ...

  Question ...

  Answer ...

  Clench ... clench ...

  Hester put aside her book. “An improvement, Fiona,” she said, releasing the girl’s wrists. “Lucky for you.”

  The power of the strap, she reflected. A question of matter over mind. She released the new pupil. She saw that the girl, though she had not been strapped again, was still sobbing and weeping. Sheer terror. Quite understandable. St Justine’s was indeed a bit of a shock!

  “Now you can take your place in class, Fiona,” said Hester. She pointed to a small desk in the front row. It stood exactly opposite the Strapping Stool. No more than six feet away. Fiona would have a close-up of all punishments administered.

  Most salutary!

  Fiona sat down gingerly, gasping out as the hard wood made contact with her bare, burning bottom. She gazed straight ahead, through a haze of tears.

  This was it.

  She was in a classroom at St Justine’s.

  The very worst that could have happened, had happened!

  “And stop that snivelling, girl,” snapped Hester, “or I’ll really give you something to snivel about!”

  Fiona covered her nose and mouth and tried to stifle the sounds as best she could. Her head, beautiful ash-blonde, bent forward.

  Her hot tears continued to splash in relative silence on to the yellow wood of her desk top.

  ***

  Throughout, concealed cameras in various parts of the classroom had been turning silently.

  Peering through almost invisible spy-holes.

  REcording everything in full, glowing colour and stereophonic sound.

  It was all down on a video-tape.

  Dear Uncle Erik was going to have a wonderful times when it arrived. After all, his great niece is such a charming girl. So pretty. And what a figure! Twenty years younger and he’d have done something about it. For real. You bet! Still, even as it was, things weren’t half bad.

  In the months to come, Uncle Erik was sure, young Fiona was going to give him a great deal of pleasure by proxy.

  ***

  Pupil’s Personal Narrative

  Kate de Vere

  18-year-old

  from

  Buckinghamshire

  ***

  Resident of

  St Justine’s

  for

  six months.

  ***

  IT WAS GENERALLY reckoned by the girls at St Justine’s that the first month here was the worst. The first week even. Like that good-looking blonde, Fiona, was going through at the moment. She seemed to have had plenty of strap from Miss Hester during her first few days and, I reckoned, if she didn’t smarten her ideas up soon, she’d be sent for a caning. Poor dear! I recall what my first caning was like. If you think you’ve suffered at Miss Hester’s hands, just you wait until you’re secured over the Headmistress’s Horse!

  However, I digress. I am not so sure about that first month being the worst. I mean, when you’re right on the sixth-month mark, they may be going to let you go ... or they may be going to keep you there for another six months. You never know for sure. And that is a terribly nerve-racking situation to be in.

  The thought of spending another six months here is a mind-bending horror.

  So I’m hoping.

  Believe me, I’m hoping for that release.

  It is the week-end again, but I shall not be going to the Island. As always, two of we girls are kept back in the School. Our job is to ‘assist’ the four male staff in this awful place. ‘Assist’ is a euphemism for being used by them for sexual purposes. I shall deal with two of them on Saturday, then swap over with young Rita (she’s still only sixteen) and deal with the other two.

  Utterly degrading, but there’s no way out of it. This assignment comes round to us every twelve weeks. I wondered if I would ever have to do it again.

  Rita and I drew lots to see whom we should take on first. Not that it makes much difference. I drew Boris Mann, the gardener and Jan Havelet, the Boilerman. Both working class types, of course, and both pretty disgusting, each in his own way. Boris was in his mid-forties, pasty-faced and
fat; Jan, in mid-thirties was lean, dark-eyed and cadaverous.

  Still in my school uniform, I went first to Boris at around ten on Saturday morning. He lived in a chalet in the grounds. Feeling a little sick, I knocked. He opened the door at once.

  “Bit late, aren’t you?” he said. He peered at me. “Ahh ... I remember you. You’re the one with the lovely big tits, aren’t you?”

  Well, I am rather large-breasted. “Yes, Sir,” I answered. One has to be very polite to them and do what they want, otherwise they might put in a bad report and you could get caned.

  “Let’s have a look at them then,” he leered at me.

  No point in demurring. Best to get it over with. I removed my gym-slip, blouse and brassiere, standing there in only briefs, suspender belt and stockings.

  “Oh, they are a couple of beauties, aren’t they?” he said, and proceeded to squeeze and nuzzle them to his heart’s content. Horrible! “How old are you?” he asked at one point, coming up for air.

  “Eighteen, Sir,” I replied.

  “Mmm ... yes they ARE big for your age ...” Then back he went. I just endured it, hating him. Then he pulled off at last. “Kate, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yes, Sir ...”

  “Right, young Kate, for being late, I’m going to give you six of the best. Take your knickers off and bend over that sofa.”

  “Yes, Sir,” I said meekly. I had expected nothing else. Fortunately, the canes they supply to the male staff are very clumsy compared with those used in the school. Still, they do sting quite a bit. However, they are not permitted more than twelve strokes. I bent over the couch, my nails digging into one of the cushions. What a foul beast this man was ... and I had to put up with him.

  “Open your legs, girlie ... wide ...”

  I did so.

  “Lovely ...” The cane swished. “Only eighteen, eh?”

  Crack!

  He gave me the first stroke. It stung, making me gasp, my head jerking up.