by Victor Bruno
So it proved. Poor Grace didn’t win another single game. I had won 6-3. Undeservedly, of course, but I had won, that was what mattered.
The second match was still going. As we moved off the court, two more girls began to knock up. Grace and I followed Miss Hester into the pavilion. I far lighter than Grace, as can be imagined.
It was hot in that little green and brown pavilion. Stuffy,. And it smelled of creosote. There was a rough wooden table in the centre of the room. Ropes on each leg. The paddle hung in its usual place on one smaller. It was made of hard wood covered with a thin sheet of leather. In the paddle part were half a dozen holes. These were there to lessen wind-resistance and so meant that the thing could be swung down more easily. As well as faster and harder.
It hurt.
It hurt like Hell!
“6-3 eh, Grace? That wasn’t a very good effort, was it Grace?”
Grace, sweat-covered, was very pale. She had taken a lot out of herself and still lost.
“No, Miss,” she replied in a hopeless voice. There was no point in saying she had been weighted out of the match. It wouldn’t have helped her one little bit. Rather to the contrary.
“Not much opposition, either,” said Miss Hester, giving me a contemptuous look. I said nothing.
Miss Hester took the paddle down from the wall. “Over the table, Grace,” she ordered. “Jessie ... pinion your opponent.”
This was always the way of it. Most usually it was I who was being pinioned. But not that day. Poor Grace bent over the table. Already there were tears brimming in her eyes. I fastened her wrists and ankles in turn.
Of course, it was utterly unjust.
That didn’t matter at St Justine’s.
Good or bad, we all suffered.
Grace’s skirt had ridden up high, exposing her bottom. A neat, well-formed bottom. Not like my juddering white blancmange of a thing. As I must, I pinned the hem of Grace’s skirt to her collar. Then I stepped back.
A racking sob burst from Grace.
Then the paddle swung up.
SPPLLAATTTTT!
It smashed violently over both buttock cheeks, flattening and spreading them. Oh how well I knew the agony of that! The paddle covered such a big area. The flaming pain burnt deep ... oh so deep!
A terrible, gasping cry came from Grace. It would be heard by all and sundry outside. Spurring them on to even greater efforts. A great red splodge appeared over Grace’s wildly juddering bottom.
Unhurriedly, Miss Hester, smashed down the paddle again.
Agony! Agony! Oh, I knew! It was so cruel, because that deadly paddle kept on falling in virtually the same place. Intensifying the blazing heat, time and again. Until one prayed for death rather than receive but one single more stroke from it.
But death never came.
Only the relentless paddle.
No wonder poor Grace howled so loudly. No wonder she threshed and writhed so agonisedly. Even if you’re used to it, you can’t help doing that. And Grace was not used to it. In fact, I was pretty sure this was the first time the girl had endured that deadly wood-and-leather instrument.
Nine merciless strokes.
Grace was near fainting when it was over. She had to be carried out of the pavilion and laid on the grass to recover somewhat. Her poor bottom, the colour of an Autumn sunset, was there for all to see.
Meanwhile, the second match was over.
Two more girls were entering the pavilion.
Soon, once again, the awful ‘Splaaattt’ of the paddle could be heard, followed by cries of agony.
I sat quietly, thankful that, for once, I had escaped.
Yet I had to listen to the suffering of my unfortunate companions.
Oh what a Hell on earth is St Justine’s!
Chapter Five
ALONG THE CORRIDOR, with icy tentacles seeming to grip her heart.
The last time Fiona had been that way she had felt an excited interest. She had been a guest; a ‘client’, if you like. How different it was now! It was not her step-sister who was approaching the dread door of the Headmistress’s study (as she had hoped to arrange), but herself.
Perhaps she will give me another chance, she kept telling herself.
Perhaps ...
I’m very new here.
But, in her heart of hearts, Fiona knew what lay at the end of her reluctant journey. For a moment, a picture of Diane’s lacerated writhing bottom came to focus in her mind and she had to stop and lean against a wall. For a moment, she thought she was going to faint. But she did not. Her morning potion saw to that.
Then she was before the big black door with its brass fitments. It bore the simple legend ‘HEADMISTRESS’ in Gothic lettering. Fiona felt sick. She saw her hand trembling as she raised it to knock.
There was no escape.
She could not flee. There was nowhere to flee to. She would only be punished ... and far more severely.
Fiona knocked.
A silence. Her nerves felt as taut as stretched elastic. She felt the soft flesh of her thighs and nates quivering uncontrollably.
Perhaps she is not there, she thought with sudden hope.
Fiona knocked again.
“Come in ...”
Hope died; terror returned.
Fiona opened the door and went in. Wishing the floor would open up and swallow her, she walked towards the large, leather-topped desk behind which the Headmistress sat. There as a pile of Reports beside her and she was writing in a black book.
It was, of course, the School Punishment Book.
Madame Duerrisse did not look up, so Fiona stood there in silence, heart hammering loudly, palms sticky with sweat. Once, she had watched Diane standing there, in the same sort of humiliating uniform, just as she was doing. She remembered she had felt rather amused. Intrigued at the thought that the girl was going to be punished. Yes, actually punished in this day and age!
How different were one’s emotions when oneself was the victim.
A pen was laid down, the pale nun-like woman looked up, features impassive, sea-green eyes chilly.
“Ah, Fiona ... the new girl,” she said. There was no more Miss Von Bal now. “I have rather been expecting you.”
Fiona swallowed. Her voice was hardly more than a whisper.
“M-Mis Hester ... sent me to ... to you, Ma’am ... with a note.”
“Speak up, girl. Put it on my desk.”
“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” said Fiona more loudly. “Yes ... Ma’am.” She recalled the respect she had paid this woman when she had been her guest. How much greater was that respect now!
Madame Duerrisse opened the letter and read the note. Then she looked at Fiona. “Not a very good beginning, Fiona,” she said. The girl felt the hair on the nape of her neck rising. It was happening ... it was all happening! “I shall read you Miss Hester’s note,” went on the Headmistress. “It seems to me, she writes, that Fiona is lazy. Not so much physically but mentally. She does not make sufficient effort in class. Also, lacks concentration ... this probably being all part of her laziness. As a result her work has been far below standard during her first week, even taking into account her newness here ...”
“I ... I’ve t-tried, Ma’am ... I’ve tried so h-hard ...” Fiona suddenly burst out.
“Silence, girl!” There was steel in the cold eyes. “How dare you interrupt me? If you had been here a little longer, you could get a caning for that alone!” Madame Duerrisse looked back at the note. “Although I have taken a strap to her on numerous occasions, she does not appear to be progressing fast enough. Accordingly, Headmistress, I am sending Fiona to you with a recommendation that she be caned.”
As in previous moments of terror, Fiona almost wet herself. There it was. The recommendation for a caning. It
was going to happen to her! Fiona just managed to hold on to her water.
In silence, the Headmistress regarded her sombrely, fingers tapping on her chin. Let me die, let me die, prayed Fiona. But, of course, she did not.
“Have you anything to say, Fiona?”
“Ma’am ... I’ve tried, I’ve tried really hard, Ma’am ... I ... I ... swear it! Oh Ma’am ... please give me another chance ... Ma’am ... just one more chance ...”
The cords came out in a torrent ... and Fiona found herself down on her knees, clutching the front of the desk. Madame Duerrisse raised a peremptory hand.
“It is natural, Fiona,” she said calmly, “that, as you approach the moment of truth, that you should promise and plead. Most girls do. But that just isn’t good enough. You have had a whole week to show some improvement and you simply have not done so!”
“Mmmff ... mmmfff ... mmmmfff ...” sobbed Fiona wretchedly. She knew by the words and the tone that there was no hope for her. Whatever she promised ... however she pleaded ... it would be ignored.
“If there’s one thing I can’t abide in a girl,” resumed the Headmistress sternly, “it’s laziness. Fortunately, I have a way of eradicating it. I use a cane on her, Fiona. And that, my girl, is what I am going to use on your!”
“Uuurrff ... mmmffff ... uuuurrrff ...ooooo ... p-pleeease ...” Fiona was still on her knees, young breasts heaving, eyes tear-filled and wide with dread.
“Stand up, girl! Stand up!”
It was an order not to be delayed for a moment and Fiona somehow staggered up. She felt rubbery-kneed. It was happening. The worst was happening. She was going to be caned.
“Oooh ... n-no ... no .. oooo,” she whimpered, more or less to herself.
She saw Madame Duerrisse turn pages of the Punishment Book until she must have reached the page with her name at its top. “Yes,” she mused, “you’ve had a good deal of strap. But it does not seemed to have been effective. We’ll see what a cane can do.” Another pause. More tapping of the chin. “I’ve a very good mind to give you eighteen, Fiona ...”
Fiona nearly wet herself again. “Ahh ... NO ... OOOO!” she cried out involuntarily, feeling her nates clench violently several times.
“...Even though you are new here,” continued the Headmistress unperturbed. “As I say, laziness is something which irks me more than most faults ...”
Sweat was beading Fiona’s body, she was shaking all over.
Eighteen!
Unbelievable.
She would surely die!
“... However, I shall, in fact, make it twelve,” Madame Duerrisse was saying, as if from a distance. She wrote in the book. “However, Fiona, if this laziness continues, you may rest assured that you will get eighteen. If not more!”
Twelve ...
Oh dear God, was that not bad enough?
Twelve like she had seen Diane getting! Fiona had an urge to run for the door ... to flee anywhere ... anywhere ... whatever the consequences. Fortunately for her, she restrained that instinctive urge.
“H-Have ... m-mercy ... Ma’am,” she whined pleadingly, despite knowing the uselessness of it. “I ... I’m so new here ...”
“All the more reason to pull you up right at the start,” came the unrelenting reply. “Now, Fiona, go into the Punishment Room and prepare yourself.”
For a second or two, the room seemed to whirl. Fiona extended her arms for one final imploring moment. “P-Please ... pleee ... eeease ...”
“Fiona, if you do not go this instant, I shall make it eighteen!”
Sobbing loudly, Fiona went.
Before her was a similar black and brass door to the Study entrance. But this one bore the legend PUNISHMENT ROOM, also in Gothic letters.
Fiona opened it and went in.
***
Still sobbing, Fiona removed her clothes, folded them neatly and placed them on a chair. Then she stood stark naked, seeing herself reflected in a large wall mirror facing her. In that mirror she could not also help seeing reflected the Whipping Horse. It stood before an opposite mirror. There it was ... ready ... some two feet six inches from the floor, with that curved leather bolster running along its top. And there, too, hung the pinioning straps.
Fiona shuddered and closed her eyes.
Time ticked slowly by. Stretching nerves further.
It was deliberately done, of course. Even Fiona was aware of that.
Then the door opened, suddenly and silently. Black-garbed, as always, Madame Duerrisse came in ... and went straight to the cupboard where the rods were kept in brine water. One door slid back. Fiona simply could not look.
“Come over her, girl ...”
Now she had to look!
Madame Duerrisse stood by the Horse, cane in hand, water dripping from its smooth yellowness.
“Although,” said Madame Duerrisse, “I normally use a Grade I cane when I am giving a girl her first caning, in your case, Fiona, I am going to use a Grade II. It is rather thicker ... and thus more painful. The reason, primarily, is because your fault is one of laziness.”
The cane flashed suddenly through the air. A shrill ‘sswwaaarsh’ suddenly filled the room ... and Fiona uttered a stifled scream.
“Right, my girl, get yourself over that Horse!”
Fiona’s legs seemed to be filled with water. She stumbled forward, half fell, then felt the cold leather under her belly ... the bolster which forced her hindquarters up and out, ready for the rod. She sobbed and sobbed as, first, her wrists were secured by straps and buckles, then her thighs.
She was helpless.
Utterly helpless.
Now there was not possible escape.
Her bottom, curving taut, could not have felt more horribly vulnerable.
As helpless as herself to escape the savagery which was soon to be wrought upon it.
The cane that was to be used as placed on the floor, right before her face. But she saw it, at that moment, only hazily, through tear-brimming eyes.
There was an hour to go before her true torment would begin.
Or, as Madame Duerrisse put it, before the moment of truth was at hand.
***
It was one of the longest hours of Fiona’s life.
Yet, in another way, it was all too short.
Her thoughts were a constant turmoil of despair and terror. At times she sobbed heart-rendingly. At others, she tugged stupidly on her bonds. Once she prayed aloud to the Lord to deliver her.
He did not.
There was a moment when the terribly thought came to her that all this was being filmed. As it had been in Diane’s case. So that her vile Uncle Erik could amuse himself! Yes ... doubtless he would be delighted to witness his great-niece’s first caning! Oh ... that monster! Death was too good for him! At the same time, Fiona felt a sudden shame at the knowledge that her immodest womanly nakedness would be gazed upon avidly.
The lecherous, criminal swine!
So the thoughts came and went.
Always there was the cane before her.
Minute by minute, the tension and the terror mounted.
Worst of all, perhaps, Fiona kept recalling phrases Madame Duerrisse had used on that first visit:
‘A girl may not come her very often, but when she does, it is a memorable occasion ...”
‘I do not believe in light canings ...’
“Mine are severe and exceedingly painful ...’
‘You see what I mean, Miss Von Bal, about making sure the whole of a girl’s bottom suffers from a caning.’
Then there was the awful sight of Diane’s bottom after her punishment was at last over.
“OH ... NO ... OOOO ... OOOOHH ... NO ... NOT ME ... NOT MEEE ... EEEEEE!” shrieked Fiona into the silence of that dreadful room.
***
For Fiona, the fearful Eternity of waiting ended with the sound of the door opening. It was not a loud sound but seemed so in the silence of that room.
She actually screamed in terror.
Head jerking up, she saw Madame Duerrisse approaching with her customary calm, purposeful authority. She also saw, from the reflection in the mirror behind her own uplifted, helpless bottom ... the nates clenching, the flesh quivering.
“NO ... OOOOO!” she cried, her voice high-pitched.
After that long wait, an unimaginable panic was filling her, she tugged madly at her bonds, her torso and her hindquarters twisting and turning.
“NOO ... OOOOOO!” she cried again, “NO ... OOOO ... YOU CAN’T!!”
Madame Duerrisse was quite unmoved, it seemed. Her pale face remained expressionless. She simply came to the front of the Horse took hold of a hank of Fiona’s hair and brusquely tied it to the hook inserted ready for it. Thus Fiona was forced to gaze into her own terror-stricken feature. They were almost unrecognisable. Tears had already begun to stream down; her mouth was loose and lop-sided.
The Headmistress picked up the hard, polished rod and ran her fingers along its smoothness.
“Kiss it,” she ordered and pressed it to Fiona’s mouth.
Sobbing, the girl made an effort to do so.
“M-Mercee ... m-merceee ...” she kept on whimpering as she pressed her lips again and again.
“Laziness will be eradicated from you,” said Madame Duerrisse, removing the rod and flexing it. It’s suppleness was very evident. Then it blurred through the air.
Sswwaaarrrssshhhh!
Fiona shrieked and her buttocks contracted.
Once ... twice ... and yet again ...
“I intend to give you this just as hard as I can,” said Madame Duerrisse, moving round and then measuring the flinching flesh.