by Victor Bruno
“Five, Fiona. Four for errors. One for delay. You will count them ...”
The class see the milky-white nates contract convulsively. They all understand so well. It’s never pleasant, but the first time is really terrible!
Thwacckkk!
Hester gives it to Fiona flat-out. Just about twice as hard as she had done on the previous day.
A gasping-shriek echoes round the room. It is a cry of disbelief. How can such pain be endured? Squirming frantically, kicking, Fiona immediately rips her knickers.
“Ahhh ... no ... ooo ... aaahh ... n-no ... ooo!” she cried.
“I didn’t hear you counting,” says Hester icily.
“Ooohhh ... one ... oooh ... p-please Miss ... I can’t stand it ... oohh ... n-not so h-hard ...”
Thwaccckkkkk! Just as hard ... if not harder! And about half an inch below the stripe already across Fiona’s curvaceous bottom. Oh how that bottom jerks and twists uncontrollably at that deep-blazing pain!
A pause ...
“Ooooohhh ... p-please ... ohhh please ...”
Thwacccckkkk! The third stroke.
“AAAGGHHHH ... O-OWWWW ... OOOWWWW!” The nates clenching like fists. Fiona suddenly remembers. “Th-Threee ... eee ...” she wails.
“On the contrary,” says Hester. “You forgot. So that was number two.”
“Ooooh ... n-noo ... oooo!”
“Oh yes ...”
Thwaccckkkk!
Again the gasping, disbelieving cries; again the frantic squirming and kicking. “Th-Three ... eeeee!” screeches Fiona when she can catch her breath. There are still two to go ... and there should have been only one!
Thwacccckkkkk!
“YYAAAGHH ... AAAAGHHHHH!” Fiona has forgotten about the exhibition she is making of herself ... of how blatantly she is displaying herself as she twists and kicks. She doesn’t care about that any more. She only cares about the awful burning pain. The single emotion which fills her is a desire for it to stop! “U-Uggh ... f-four ...” Only just in time!
Thwaccckkkkk!
Five stripes encircle Fiona’s bottom, all about half an inch apart. All nicely parallel despite Fiona’s twisting and squirming. Skilful placement. They are a pink-red colour. A deeper red on Fiona’s right buttock cheek, where the end of the strap bites most fierily.
Click! Wrists released. Automatically, Fiona goes to cover her nakedness. But her knickers are in tatters. Sobbing, she walks back the short distance to her desk and places her bare bottom on the hard wooden seat.
Her wincing gasp is clearly heard.
The lesson proceeds. Nothing out of the ordinary has occurred. Just another strapping. It is something that has happened and will go on happening again and again.
Fiona is warned to stop her snivelling.
Desperately she tries, but is only partially successful.
Oh ... oohh ... how can I endure this hideous existence, she wails inwardly? There come no answer. She simply has to learn to endure it!
***
Day Two
(Afternoon) The black leotard is so tight it is like another skin. A slim, acute triangle that cuts into the buttock cleft, leaving almost all of both buttocks exposed.
The gym is filled with gasps and groans. Mid-way through the session. Five minutes have passed and the class is still exercising with heavy ten-pound dumbbells. The strain is beginning to tell, especially on Fiona. Her leotard is ringing wet with sweat. How long can she keep this relentless effort up? Not much longer. Yet she must ... she must! Already she has felt Miss Ingrid’s switch five times (the two Form Mistress’s take the joint gym-classes alternately) and the biting agony of it is quite excruciating. Like a red-hot wire slicing across flesh.
Wwwhhheee ... eeepppttt!
A piercing shriek as another girl gets it. “Keep those legs straight, Vickie!”
Twenty four straining, panting figures hear that cry. It is a most powerful stimulus to continuing effort ... however disagreeable.
Eagle-eyed, Miss Ingrid strolls up and down the rows of girls as they bend and stretch. She is alert for any signs of slacking. She is smartly dressed in red blouse and brief white shorts. Also white boots. It is an outfit that seems to emphasise her proportions ... the strength of her thighs ... the power in her arms. As she goes, she flicks her switches, gratified to see nates clenching everywhere with dread. For quite a while, she stands behind Fiona. With her, the involuntary reaction is almost incessant. Miss Ingrid smiles faintly.
Hidden cameras are constantly running, of course. The Governor is know to much enjoy these gym sessions.
Perhaps, thinks Miss Ingrid, a little later on, I’ll ‘make an example’ of one of them. Put her over the Vaulting Horse and giver her half a dozen.
The Governor would appreciate that ...
Miss Ingrid strolls on.
Fiona grits her teeth with despair ... and wonders how long it will be before she drops with exhaustion.
***
Day Three
(Evening) “That’s the third consecutive day you’ve ripped your knickers Fiona!”
“I ... I’m s-sorry, Miss ... I just ... couldn’t help it ...” Fiona, wearing a semi-transparent, black nightie, looks up appealingly at her Form Mistress.
“You’ve got to learn control, Fiona.”
“Y-Yes ... yes ... Miss ...” Fiona is trembling. She has been struggling unsuccessfully to sew the little briefs together for the last half hour.
“Beyond repair, aren’t they?”
“N-No ... Miss ... I can mend them ...”
“No you can’t. It’s nearly time for Lights Out. Throw them away, girl!”
“P-Pleee ... eeease ...”
“Do as I say!” Fiona is beginning to learn that it is both unwise - and painful - to delay obeying orders!
She tosses away her tattered knickers ... and a terrible wailing moan comes from her as she sees Miss Hester take down a strap from the wall. Single-thonged. One hangs in every cubicle.
“P-Please ... oooo ... please ... no ... m-more ... I’ve ... h-had enough ... f-for ... today!”
Hester smiles faintly. “A matter of opinion. Pull your nightie up and lie face down.”
“Oooh ... no ... oooo ... ooooh ... pleee ... eeease ...”
“Fiona!”
The girl sees a warning glint in those hard green eyes. Uttering another terrible moan, she does as she has been ordered. Pinioning Fiona by the neck and placing one booted foot in the small of her back, Hester gives her three cracking strokes on her bottom in rapid succession.
Three agonised yelps fly up ... heard in all the other cubicles. A familiar enough sound, of course. When Miss Hester has departed, Fiona continues to sob her pain and misery.
A figure comes into her cubicle. “We have about quarter of an hour before Lights Out,” she says. “I’ll put some more cream on your bottom ...”
“Oh thanks ... oooohhhh ... th-thanks ...” Fiona surrenders herself to the girl’s soothing touch. Oh what a joy at the end of the day that ointment is!
The girl, by the name of Yolande, gazes down at Fiona’s shapely bottom ... and decides to make her first approach that week-end!
***
Day Four
(Night-time on the Island) “Isn’t that lovely ... isn’t it?” Yolande raises her yellow-blonde head from between Fiona’s splayed thighs.
“Y-Yes ... it is ... but ... but ... it’s so naughty!”
“So what? Didn’t you do this at your other school?”
Fiona shakes her head. “No, as a matter of fact, I didn’t. I suppose I was scared.”
Yolande smiles. “Nothing to be scared about. It takes your mind off other things.” She feels Fiona shudder. “Sorry, shouldn’t have reminded you.” Her mout
h returns to the waiting lips. Now so wet and warm.
Shortly, Fiona will be brought to her second orgasm.
All round, in other chalets, similar activities are taking place. There will indeed be a wealth of lesbian material for the Governor to enjoy when he receives his next video-tape!
***
Day Five
(Afternoon on the Island) Fiona is going down to Yolande. She was reluctant at first. Rather repelled. But already she is beginning to enjoy it. Particularly Yolande’s exciting reactions.
Oh how she jerks and wriggles!
Oh how she pants and squeals her joy!
This is a whole new world of pleasure to be explored ... jerking ... wriggling ... panting ... and squealing ... become mutual!
***
Day Six
(Morning) “You’re lazy!” Tthhwwaaccckkkk!
“You won’t use your brains ...”
Tthhwwaaccckkkk!
“YYAAAGGGHHHHHH!”
“You won’t make an effort!”
Tthhwwaaccckkkk!
“Eeegghhh ... aaaaggghhhhhh!”
Another week of schooling has begun. Already, in the first hourly session, Fiona finds herself over Hester’s stool. She has failed to answer some simple Geography questions.
This time she is getting the double-thonged strap.
Miss Hester intends to put on the pressure during this second week.
Three strokes, then back to her desk. But double strokes. Her bottom burns painfully. The week stretches ahead endlessly. It is impossible ... impossible ... yet it is all happening.
“Page 56,” Miss Hester is saying. “The map of South America. Learn all the main ports. You have half an hour.”
Fiona’s brain seems about as active as cold suet pudding. Yet the burning in her bottom forces her to make mental efforts far beyond her normal capability. Like all the rest, she has her head bowed ... and is memorising fervently.
She is really trying.
Something unusual for her. Trying is not her scene. She has been spoilt. She has had it all too easy.
A pity, then, that Fiona fails yet again. And once more finds herself secured over Miss Hester’s Strapping Stool.
Another three!
But, this time, it’s with the triple-thonged strap.
Fiona’s shrieking-howls almost split the ear-drums of those forced to watch. Some feel sorry for the new girl; others are indifferent. Each one of them has been through it.
“Back to your desk, Fiona ... and I advise you to pull yourself together. Otherwise, you’ll be sent for a caning!”
At last the dreaded words have been spoken!
It is like a knife being thrust into Fiona’s vitals. She half doubles up, cringing back.
“O-Ohh .. no ...” she moans. Miss Hester says nothing. There is no need. Her jewel-hard eyes speak for themselves.
***
Day Seven
(Morning) English Literature again. At prep, the previous evening, Fiona has struggled to memorise ten lines of the incomprehensible ‘Paradise Lost’ by John Milton. Now, last of all in class, since she is the junior, she is tested upon it.
As she rises, her mind seems to go blank.
Oh God, she must remember, she must!
Miss Hester gazes impassively. “Well, Fiona, what are you waiting for?”
“I ... oohh ... I ...” Fiona bursts into a torrent of sobs and buries her face in her hands.
“Well?”
“I ... I’ve forgotten ... g-give me a few moments .. M-Miss ... please ...”
Miss Hester waits, fingers drumming on her desk.
Still Fiona’s mind remains blank.
“Well?”
Miss Hester looks thoughtful. Then she picks up a pen and writes for a short while on a piece of paper. She folds the paper, puts it in an envelope.
“Time you were taught to make a greater effort, young lady,” she says emphatically. “Take this to the Headmistress!”
Fiona reels back, clasping her hands to her breasts.
“NOO ... OOOOOOOO!”
The note is extended. “Come and take it. At once. Fiona!”
Fiona totters from her desk and takes the note. Her mind is in an agonised turmoil. Panic is mounting uncontrollably.
The Headmistress!
She has to go to the Headmistress!
The ultimate in terror is upon her!
“Hurry along, girl ...”
In silent, sympathetic silence, the rest of the class watch Fiona stumble to the door. Again, they have all been through it. Now it is the new girl’s turn.
She is, as they know, on her way to her first caning.
Poor girl ...
That is something none of them would like to go through again!
***
Pupil’s Personal Narrative
Jessie Carter
17-year-old
from
the USA
***
Resident
of
St Justine’s
for
three
months
***
I HATED THE ‘sports’ we had to do. A different one every afternoon. Especially I hated tennis, since I was not very good at it. Mind you, nobody liked it very much in view of the penalties involved. What’s more, of course, they penalised the good players and left duffers like me unhandicapped. So it all boiled down to the fact that, good or bad, every match was a matter of luck as much as anything. You always had to put in a big effort to win, however. They had designed it that way.
As usual, we all assembled outside a little wooden pavilion alongside the two tennis courts. All, that is, except the new girl, Fiona. She had been sent off to the Head at the end of the morning and, more than likely, had already felt what getting a caning from that monstrous woman is like. If she hadn’t had it, she would be waiting somewhere, sick with dread.
Poor thing ...
Miss Hester appeared ... in a white broderie anglaise blouse and pleated skirt. For a bit of exercise she liked to knock up with us before matches began. I hated that red-headed cow. She has always seemed to take a great delight in strapping me. Giving me just those few ‘extras’. Maybe that is because, I have to confess, I am rather plump and my bottom is larger than that of most girls here. ‘Puppy fat’, I believe they call it. I am forty around the hips, but hope to start thinning down before too long.
That morning, Miss Hester had given me a sixer with the double strap. Because I didn’t answer quickly enough, she said I wasn’t paying proper attention. Not true, really. But you daren’t argue. So I was still feeling pretty sore. A sixer from her, when she is going flat out, is no joke, believe me!
“Good afternoon, girls!”
“Good afternoon, Miss Hester ...” We stood in a circle while she unfolded a piece of paper. Each of us was wearing a simple, one-piece white dress. Nothing else. No brassiere, no knickers. My breasts are large and they can be very hampering when they’re rolling and bouncing about as you run to and fro.
“First two matches are ... Grace versus Jessie and Emma versus Zoe.”
My heart thudded. I was on first. But that wasn’t the reason. I was pitched against the best player in the school. Just my luck! However, I brightened up a little when Miss Hester spoke again. “Grace has been raised in handicap again.” The cow smiled. “Just one more pound on each wrist.” I saw Grace biting her lips, she was a lissom, athletic girl. But extra weighting can reduce us all to the same level.
A box was opened up and leaden rings were locked around Grace’s wrists and ankles. My God, I was glad she’d got those on, otherwise I wouldn’t have stood a ghost’s chance. 6-0 for sure! Emma and Zoe were playing le
vel, so no weights were added.
On to the two courts we went. They were side by side. Then we began to knock up, with Miss Hester joining in occasionally ... and also offering advice and criticism. I came in for most of the criticism.
“Come on, Jessie ... run for them!”
“Double faults will never win you a match!”
“LOOK at the ball, girl!”
I hated her ... oh how I hated her! My only comfort was to see what an effort it was for Grace to raise her arms high. She was serving at only half the pace she was really capable of. Those weights would tell more and more as the match proceeded. Thank God!
Do I sound callous?
I can’t help it. It was simply a question of her and me ... and, if you had ever felt the paddle which Miss Hester wields in that little pavilion, you’d understand better.
“Right ... that will do ... let play begin ...” Miss Hester retired to the sidelines. Two of the waiting girls had already been assigned as umpires.
It was Grace to serve. I bent forward intently, legs a little straddled, feeling my short skirt ride up. Exposing my naked bottom. At first I had cared a great deal about the immodesty of that. Now it concerned me hardly at all. All that mattered was to WIN!
I won’t bore you with too much detail concerning a not very well-played match. Suffice to say that Grace won the first two games and I began to panic a little. Then, when Grace served the third game, she double-faulted twice. That gave me a chance and, running desperately for everything ... and having some luck ... I managed to win it. As we sat down and took a drink, I noticed that Grace looked worried. That heartened me further. All the same, Grace won the fourth game. I was double-faulting too, just because I was such a bad player.
When the fifth game began, I was almost resigned to losing. However, to my amazement, I saw that Grace had slowed right down. She gasped and groaned as she served ... and did the same on every stroke. I realised then they had over-weighted her. Already she was done for. Bad as I was, I had the beating of her. My heart soared.