by Penny Birch
When I had finished, Miss Campbell and I walked out on to the main span of the viaduct, leaving Ginny and Susan behind. When we were right in the middle I turned and leant back against the granite parapet. I didn’t feel drunk any more, although I suppose I must have been, but I was very aware of the fresh wind blowing my curls across my face and the line of bare, craggy hills that made up the horizon. Miss Campbell spent a long moment with her back to me at the opposite parapet, also looking out across Dartmoor. I wasn’t sure what to say, but it was obviously up to me to start off.
‘I … I’m sorry about the other day,’ I said.
She didn’t reply and so I continued, reasoning that this was probably my one chance to get it right.
‘I just wasn’t ready,’ I went on. ‘And in the shower like that. Someone might have come in. I do like you, and I mean if …’
It was pretty clumsy and provoked no immediate response. She just leant her arms on the parapet and put her head back, as if trying to get herself fully in control. When she finally turned to face me I knew at once that it wasn’t necessary to say anything more. She had been running and her straight, dark-brown hair was up in a pony-tail to keep it out of the way. Wisps of it were blowing across her face, which no longer looked stern, or even shocked. As a schoolgirl I had come to learn every grade of disapproving look, from the sort that says: ‘Oh dear, well I suppose she’ll grow out of it’, to the full blown: ‘What you need is your pants pulled down for a smacked backside, here, and now’.
Ellen Campbell’s look was very different: warm, protective and with all the intimacy of one woman to another when both know that sex between them is a very real possibility. For a moment I thought she was going to come forward and take me in her arms. I would have responded but, instead, she gave me a brief, wicked smile.
‘My cottage, after prayers,’ she said simply and started back towards the others.
I followed, unable to resist watching the movement of her bottom in her tight running shorts. There was a fair bit of cheek showing, pink and soft around the edge of the green material. My fantasy came straight back to me: her bottom in my face, the cheeks open, my lips against her anus …
The rest of the day passed in a dream. Miss Campbell continued her run; Ginny, Susan and I walked back along the railway and reached school in time to shower and go straight into supper. There was an hour to pass after that, which I spent having an intense and rather surreal talk with Ginny and Susan. They knew everything, and talking to them gave me the support I badly needed – at least until the moment I had to go and take prayers and turn the lights out in the junior dormitories. Finally the moment came. I gave Ginny and Susan a kiss each and left them in the corridor, turning them a last smile as I went through the fire door.
Outside the last light was fading in the west; a streak of rich purple over Cornwall. It was warm. Too warm to need tights under my school skirt. My uniform acted as a disguise, although I would have much preferred to change. Miss Campbell lived in one of the little cottages at the edge of the school grounds and, if anybody saw me on the way, they would simply think I was on an errand. As it was there was nobody about and I was soon walking under the scattered trees that sheltered the valley bottom. The cottage was half-hidden by a thick beech hedge, with only the roof visible in the twilight. The porch light came on automatically as I pushed the gate open, and she had opened the door before I got there. I went inside, the latch clicking behind me with a definite finality.
‘Shall we have some wine?’ she said.
It wasn’t really a question; it was a statement. Her tone indicated to me that she still felt very much in charge, although not in the sense of being in genuine authority over me. Instead it was a very personal thing; a determination that in our relationship it was she that would be the senior one.
I accepted the glass although, after the afternoon’s excesses, I was more in need of orange juice. She looked very different from her normal outfit of sports kit or sensible tweeds. A long sheaf of crimson velvet covered her from neck to ankle, clinging to her figure and restricting her walk to neat, precise steps. It was incredibly elegant and made me feel awkward and dull in my plain white blouse and knee-length skirt of dark-green tartan.
She was obviously well aware of this and, from the start, set things up to enhance her superiority. Firstly she motioned me, not to a chair, but to the sheepskin rug in front of the fire. I sat down cross-legged, acutely aware of the feel of wool against my thighs. Next, she placed the bottle where it would be me who poured when the time came to refill our glasses. Then she stretched herself out on the sofa, as languid as a Siamese cat and every bit as self-satisfied.
We talked for a while and my nervousness faded with the wine and her ease of manner. There was a faint scent in the air; a bit like burning leaves. It was quiet, too; very different from the chatter and clamour of school. Everything seemed rather unreal, in fact, only my uniform serving to remind me of who I was and what I was doing. That reminder served to start a delicious naughty feeling inside me: the knowledge that, however refined and adult my surroundings, my presence there made me a very bad girl indeed.
The conversation had reached a pause, both of us sipping our wine from the glasses which I had just refilled. She put down her glass with a deliberation that made me realise that this was it.
‘Show me your legs, Amber,’ she said, gently but in a tone that brooked no refusal.
My heart immediately went to my mouth. Taking the hem of my skirt, I lifted it, baring my thighs and the front of my panties. With my skirt rucked up I knew the bulge of my fanny would be very obvious. I also knew that there would be a tell-tale damp spot between my legs. She was looking at me from under half-lowered eyelids; a lady admiring a pretty pet.
‘Undo your blouse,’ she continued, and my fingers immediately went to tug the white cotton out of my waistband.
I lowered my eyes as I undid my buttons, my fingers trembling as each one popped open to reveal a little more of the pale flesh of my tummy. I reached the top and opened my blouse, then reached behind my back, acquiescing to the removal of my bra without having to be told. I fumbled at the catch, as clumsy as if it had been my first trainer bra and not the full-cupped type I’d been wearing for nearly five years. She gave me a small half-smile, cool and amused, making me hang my head to avoid her eyes. Finally the catch snapped open and I felt the increased weight of my breasts. Keeping my head down, I took hold of the cups and pulled my bra up. My naked breasts felt very big and very prominent as I eased my bra strap down one sleeve. They are quite big – too big to really hide – and I’d always been rather self-conscious about them. Now they were naked in front of the svelte, elegant Miss Ellen Campbell. They were plump and nude, along with my chubby thighs and rounded tummy.
‘Puppy fat, how sweet,’ she said, swinging her long legs off the sofa.
I could have cried. She really knew how to make me feel small, and it was turning me on, which made it worse.
‘Off with your pants, darling,’ she said.
I uncrossed my legs and lifted my bottom, hooking my thumbs into the waistband of my panties. As they came down over my bottom and my sex became bare I felt as if I was removing the last barrier between myself and my total surrender to her. She was standing over me, arms folded across her chest, her face set in an expression of lofty amusement. It was that which triggered my aggressive streak, otherwise she’d have had me on the floor exactly as she wanted. As it was I began to feel rebellious as I slipped my panties off my ankles.
‘I’m going to spank you now, Amber,’ she announced. ‘Roll over on your tummy and lift your bottom for me. No, on second thoughts, kneel and put your head down. I want you to know how it feels to be in the position you made little Susan Wren get into.’
I began to obey, thinking of how rude Susan had looked kneeling face down with her bottom in the air. Miss Campbell wanted me the same way: utterly vulnerable with my pussy and bottom-hole on display. It’s a wonde
rful position for a girl to be in – but preferably another girl. Her hand touched my arm to guide me into position. Somehow I knew that once I’d been spanked I’d be compliant. At least, it was always that way in my fantasies. If I didn’t act now, I never would.
Grabbing her wrist, I twisted around and pulled. She was completely unbalanced and came down hard on the rug, squeaking in alarm at my unexpected attack. An instant later she had recovered herself and had put an arm around me to push me down. I resisted, and a moment later we had both fallen to our sides, each struggling to get on top of the other. We had both started laughing for some reason. Perhaps the release of tension; perhaps because we both knew that whoever lost was going to get a very red bottom from the other.
She was strong and fit and, for a moment, I thought that all my little show of rebelliousness had done was to ensure I got a harder spanking when it came. I was nearly naked, too, which didn’t help. Nor did she fight fair, pulling my hair and scratching until I was forced to let go of her wrist. She had hold of me in an instant and then my arm was being twisted into my back. I turned with the pressure as she took a grip on my skirt, pulling it up so that my bottom was naked to the air.
‘It was going to be a play spanking,’ she gasped as she pushed me face down on to the rug. ‘Now I’m going to take a switch to your fat behind!’
She tried to get a leg across the back of my knees, but her tight dress prevented her, making her loosen her grip for an instant. I gave a frantic lunge and pulled her down, her body sprawled across mine. She recovered quickly, our arms locking as she tried to renew her grip. For a long moment there was deadlock and then her arm began to go back and I realised that I was actually stronger than her.
Her lovely eyes were wide with surprise and alarm as I pushed her slowly down on to the rug. She was still laughing, but there was a nervous, uncertain quality to the sound.
‘Now let’s see who gets spanked,’ I told her as I got my weight across her stomach.
Despite her struggles I managed to turn her over. If she’d told me to stop I would have done, but she just squirmed and giggled underneath me and I realised that it was still very much a game, for all that she had lost. Besides, she had been going to use a switch on my naked bottom and I didn’t see why she should get away with less. Once she was face down I sat my full weight on her back and started on my next task: baring her bottom.
She started to struggle again as she realised what I intended, but with me sat on her back and her arms pinned under my legs there was nothing she could do. Her dress was hard to get up; it was tight and pressed against the floor and rug. Her kicking didn’t help either, with her high heels coming dangerously close to my face. I was determined, though, and soon had her calves bare, then her thighs. She was wearing stockings – sheer and lacy-topped – held up by suspender straps that cut into the soft flesh of her upper thighs. With her dress rucked up to the tuck of her bottom, I took a good grip on the roll of crimson material and started to expose my target.
‘No, Amber, not bare!’ she protested as the first swell of her bottom came into view.
I hesitated, but then continued. My pants had come off, and she’d told me to get into a position which left my most intimate secrets on show. At least she was going to be spared the indignity of showing her bumhole while she was whacked.
‘Sorry,’ I told her and started to lift.
Her little squeak of frustration as her bottom was exposed gave me the most delicious thrill. Her cheeks were already mostly out of her knickers – a high-cut black pair with a lace back that hinted at the dark parting between her buttocks. I had to pull them down; it was too much.
‘Your pretty panties are coming down too, Miss Campbell,’ I said, once her dress was up far enough over her hips to let me get at the waistband.
She squealed aloud as I said this and started to struggle desperately, pleading with me not to bare her bum. Her efforts to sound sincere were completely ruined by her inability to stop giggling between protests. She couldn’t unseat me either. I took her fancy knickers down slowly and methodically, peeling them over the smooth hump of her bottom and settling them around her thighs. Only when they were all the way down did she stop struggling. She then waited meekly to be spanked.
Her bottom was beautiful – small and round – a firm ball of flesh with skin as pale and smooth as cream. Just the thought of smacking those pale cheeks up to a glowing pink made my mouth dry and set my thighs trembling. I knew I was wet, and suspected that she would be too. On sudden impulse I pulled her cheeks apart, exposing the tight brown knot of her anus and the pink of her excited vagina in a nest of dark fur.
She obviously hadn’t been expecting this because she gave a squeak of what sounded like genuine consternation, and clenched her cheeks tightly together. Thinking of her threat to switch me, I just laughed and planted a firm smack across her bare bottom. She squeaked and I gave her another, harder, and another. As I started to spank in earnest and her bottom warmed I found myself grinning. She was kicking her legs and squealing, and had started to give little sobs in between smacks. It was wonderful. Not just sexy, but really good fun – not to mention the blissful feeling of having a beautiful woman at my mercy.
Miss Campbell had spoilt my chance to spank Susan, so it was actually my first time, properly anyway. I’m sure it wasn’t Miss Campbell’s. She had started to moan and push her bottom up, making the cheeks part to reveal the swollen lips of her sex. Twice she had said my name, but it still surprised me when she spoke again.
‘Beat me with the switch, Amber,’ she asked. ‘It’s on the mantelpiece.’
I looked up to find a handle protruding from over the edge of the mantelpiece. I reached up and took hold of it; it was a wicked-looking implement of braided leather, about eighteen inches long. The business end was split into two thongs, like rats’ tails. It looked exquisitely painful and an exploratory smack on my thigh proved that it was. It stung terribly, making two thin red welts despite the relatively gentle blow I had given myself. Realising that it was what she had intended to use on me, I found myself increasingly glad that it was me on top.
‘You were going to use this on me, weren’t you?’ I asked as I tapped the vicious little whip against the reddened surface of her bottom.
‘Yes,’ she admitted, the sound as much a sob as a word.
I lifted the switch and brought it down hard across her bottom, making the flesh bounce and wobble delightfully. She squeaked and bucked beneath me, gasping with the sudden pain.
‘Let me get my fingers to my pussy, please, darling,’ she said.
I knew she was turned on, but her request still startled me. It was a frank admission of her need to come, and made me realise that I did too. I decided to refuse her request and get my full pleasure out of beating her before letting her play with herself. If we were to have full-blown sex, then I intended to come first, riding her back with one hand on my pussy while I whipped her lovely bottom.
It would have been great but, unfortunately, that was the moment the headmistress walked in on us.
Two
So I got expelled. If I’d let Miss Campbell have her way in the first place, things would have been different. We’d have been comfortably ensconced in a relationship and when she’d caught me with Ginny and Susan nothing would have happened. But it had, so there I was, staring morosely out across the flat grey waters of the Exe Estuary as I headed back towards London and the inevitably painful interview with my father. I was pretty depressed and not a little nervous but, beneath these emotions, I couldn’t help feeling pride and a certain satisfaction.
The pride was because I had taken the fall alone in order to save Ginny and Susan from the same fate. Whether Miss Trent, the headmistress, actually believed that I’d been actively assaulting Miss Campbell I was not at all sure. I’d admitted to it, though, and nobody had challenged me. The fact that I’d had neither bra nor panties on at the time had been conveniently overlooked, and I supposed that Mi
ss Trent had looked on expelling me as a sort of damage limitation. It’s odd that sex is somehow more shocking than violence, but that’s certainly how Miss Trent saw it. Miss Campbell, of course, had no wish to press charges and by mutual agreement we had declined to mention Ginny and Susan.
It had ended with Miss Trent getting a scandal of the smallest proportions she felt morally acceptable, Miss Campbell keeping her job, and Ginny and Susan not even being mentioned. Only I suffered, and my sacrifice was not quite as altruistic as it looked. Ginny’s family owned a fair-sized chunk of Wiltshire and she wouldn’t have been in the least troubled by being expelled. Susan was a different matter. She had a place at Oxford for the next academic year, and goodness knows what they’d have thought if the story had come out. I had done my A levels and knew my results would be at least fair, and that was the reason for my satisfaction.
My father had had my career mapped out more or less from birth. I was to be given a public-school education, kept firmly away from temptation, go on to business school and then join the firm of accountants of which he was a senior partner. The plan had now failed. All putting me in a remote girls’ school had done was make me fall in love with the English countryside and turn my sexual thoughts towards my own sex. That wouldn’t have mattered to his plans, even if he had known about it. As long as my results were good enough I would go on to college, lesbian or not. Getting thrown out of school for assaulting a mistress was a very different matter.
By the time I got to Paddington I had a lump in my throat which felt the size of a tennis ball. The short tube ride up to Highgate was spent thinking of clever things to say, all of them useless. I eventually decided on a policy of contrite stubbornness, and rang the doorbell with at least some determination.
As it was, it wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. Dad was more exasperated than cross. My Mum defended me, as I knew she would have done even if I’d tarred and feathered Miss Trent. She had always spoiled me, though, her laissez-faire attitude being largely responsible for me ending up as such a tomboy. Dad knew I was just as stubborn as he was and, in the end, he had to admit defeat – at least temporarily. It was when his temper had cooled that he dropped the bombshell on me.