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Subject: {ASSM} A Question of Discipline (MF Mf Ff ff, spank nc) - by Chas Tanet
Date: Mon,  1 Oct 2001 12:10:02 -0400
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A Question of Discipline

   by Chas Tanet

   (MF Mf Ff ff, spank nc)

   Following the huge critical success of my last posting, "Megthorpe
Holiday" (one email received in 18 months), I thought it time to share my
latest effort.

   All the usual legal disclaimers & copyright stuff apply.

   Please note that the author neither recommends nor approves of the
activities described below.  It is a work of fantasy.  In the real world
the story's characters would be, and should be, either in the care of the
Social Services Department, or locked up in jail with the key thrown away.

   --------------------------------------------------

   A Question of Discipline

   "She ought to be punished."

   "And that's your recommendation, Miss Forbes?"

   "Yes, it is, Headmaster."

   Atkins leant back in his chair and looked at the woman sitting on the
other side of his desk: the long, dark hair tied in a severe bun, the slim,
athletic figure in a charcoal grey suit.  He knew it was not a real Chanel;
she could not afford it on a teacher's salary.

   "Well, I'd agree with you on this one," he said.  "It's a serious
offence."

   He gestured towards the half bottle of vodka sitting on the desktop.

   "I take it she's waiting outside.  You'd better bring her in."

   "Do you want me to stay?" she asked.  Atkins took a deep breath and
shook his head slowly.

   "Oh, go on, David." Emma smiled hopefully and ran her tongue quickly
over her lips, a gesture Atkins knew well.

   "This is business, Miss Forbes.  You know we have to draw a line here."

   The teacher gave a little pout.

   "Will I be seeing you later...  Headmaster?"

   "Oh, possibly," he replied.  "But you know how things are: busy, busy,
busy." He waved his hand as if indicating the breadth and weight of his
responsibilities.

   "OK," she said, rising from her chair, her lips set tight.

   The girl she ushered into the office was about fifteen years old.  She
was small, blond and nervous.  Although not overweight, her body conjured
up in Atkins' mind the word 'cuddly'.  She stood forlornly before the desk
in her uniform of white blouse, grey pleated skirt and striped school tie.
He stared at her for some time while she stared at the Turkish rug.

   "Alison Miller of 5b?"

   "Yes sir," she answered quietly.

   "Miss Forbes tells me that when she was inspecting the dormitories this
afternoon, she came upon this bottle under your mattress.  It's yours?"

   The girl did not reply.

   "There are only two possibilities, Alison: either it belongs to you, and
you won't admit it, or it belongs to another girl, and you don't want to
get her into trouble.  Which is it?"

   "It's mine, sir," she replied.

   "Good!" said Atkins.  "Now we're getting somewhere.  Who did you get it
from?"

   The girl remained silent.

   "Come on, now, Alison.  I know that none of the shops in town would sell
alcohol to a pupil.  You must have got it somewhere.  I'd very much like
you to tell me."

   She gazed resolutely downwards.

   "So be it, but you're only making it worse for yourself.  You realise
you've committed a very serious offence, don't you?"

   "Yes, sir."

   "And that I'm going to have to punish you?"

   "Yes, sir," she replied after a slight pause.

   Atkins went to a cupboard by the wall and came back with a birch which
he laid on the desk.  It consisted of seven light hazel twigs, each just
under two feet in length.  The thicker ends were bound together with blue
silk cord.

   "When was the last time you were punished, Alison?"

   "I...  I'm not sure, sir."

   "This term, I mean.  In the last five weeks."

   "I haven't been punished at all, sir," she said.

   "What?  Not even by your form prefect?  That'd be Joanne Beresford,
wouldn't it?"

   "No, sir.  I mean, yes, sir, it is Joanne; and no, sir, I haven't been
punished."

   "Mmm," said Atkins, making a mental note.  "Well that's about to change.
Could you just step forward, up against the desk, please?  Excellent.  Now
bend right over, onto the desktop.  Hold on to the far side, if you would.
Fine."

   Atkins stood behind the girl and lifted the hem of her skirt, tucking it
into the waistband.  He repeated the action twice, so that the material of
the skirt lay in neat folds on the small of her back, and her plump
backside, clad in tight white briefs, lay exposed and vulnerable.  He
picked up the birch and stood a few feet to the girl's left.

   "I'm going to beat you now, Alison.  It won't cut you, or even bruise
you much, but it will hurt.  Please don't try to move until I give you
permission.  Do you understand?"

   "Yes, sir," she replied, her voice trembling.

   "I'd like you to count the number of strokes I give you, out loud, after
each one.  Apart from that, you are to remain silent.  Understood?"

   "Yes, sir."

   "Good.  Then we'll begin."

   Atkins raised the birch high above his head and brought it down,
whistling as it flew, across the dead centre of the girl's buttocks.  She
gave a small cry of pain.

   "Count them please."

   "One," she said.

   He raised the birch and delivered the second blow exactly along the path
of the first, eliciting a louder cry.

   "Two," she said, shakily.  Numbers three, four and five came at the same
measured pace and unfailing accuracy, followed by the sixth, seventh and
eighth.  She was openly sobbing, her breath catching noisily, tears
dripping from her eyes onto the polished oak.

   "I have to ask you again, Alison," said Atkins.  "Where did you get the
vodka?"

   She continued sniffling and crying, but said nothing.

   "Very well, then.  Let's carry on." The birch rose up; the birch fell.

   "Nine."

   "Ten."

   "Elev...  eleven."

   "Twelve."

   The girl's body was shaking, her voice barely audible.  The lower, bare
parts of her buttocks were a welter of thin weals, darkly pink.  Atkins
knew that her panties were giving little protection to the rest.

   "Once more, Alison: who gave you the vodka?  Still not answering?"

   He drew back the birch, this time at waist level, and swung it across in
a more horizontal arc.  The thin, whippy twigs landed across the tops of
the girl's legs, just below the crease between buttock and thigh.  She
yelped.  Atkins paused.

   "I didn't hear you count that one, Alison.  I think we'd better have it
again." He repeated the stinging blow.

   "Fourteen," she said.

   "No, Alison, I believe that was only thirteen.  Once more, shall we?"

   "Thirteen."

   "Fourteen."

   "Fifteen."

   "Sixteen," she managed, eventually, to say.

   Atkins put the birch down and unhitched the folds of the girl's skirt,
smoothing them down over her backside.

   "You can stand up now, Alison," he said.

   Slowly and painfully, she raised herself from the desktop.  As soon as
she could stand without holding the desk, she clasped her hands to her
backside and renewed her sobbing.

   "You're excused classes for the rest of the day.  Go back to your dorm."



   Joanne Beresford lay back on the sofa, picked a Belgian chocolate from
the box and flipped over the page of a glossy magazine.  She was seventeen;
an attractive dark-haired girl, the slenderness of her figure accentuated
by her large, round breasts.  The telephone rang.

   "Prefects' Common Room," she said.  Hearing the voice at the other end,
she immediately sat straight up, the magazine tumbling to the floor, the
chocolate held forgotten between her finger and thumb.

   "Yes, sir.  It is.  Certainly, sir.  In...  oh, ten minutes?  Ah.  Yes,
sir.  I'll be there right away."

   Joanne sprang to her feet and quickly checked her appearance in the
mirror.  She ran a brush through her hair and smoothed down her grey
blouse, the only feature of the prefects' uniform that distinguished them
from the other pupils.  She took a deep, calming breath and set off down
the corridor.

   "Ah, Joanne," said Atkins.  "Come in.  Sit down." He had drawn up a hard
backed chair a few feet in front of his desk.  The girl sat, bolt upright,
knees firmly together.  Atkins smiled, and she tried a small smile in
return, but without much success.

   "It's been, oh, a couple of weeks since our last...  conversation,
Joanne."

   "Yes, sir," she said, her cheeks flushing red.

   "We spoke, I think, about the poor disciplinary record of the pupils in
your form.  And we agreed that you'd take steps to ensure that it improved.
Have I got that right?"

   "Yes, sir," she said.

   "But it hasn't got any better.  I've had a lot of complaints from the
staff about your form's behaviour.  Unruly and disruptive would be a fair
summary.  And then today, at teacher's dorm inspection, that bottle was
found under Alison Miller's bed."

   "Ah," said Joanne.

   "Ah, indeed," said Atkins.  He rose and went to stand behind the girl.
He rested his hands on her shoulders, massaging them gently.

   "We agreed last time that you'd enforce the school rules more strictly,
and punish any misbehaviour more diligently," he said.  "I've looked
through your day book, and I can't see any evidence that this has happened.
Can you explain that?"

   "They're a good bunch really, sir," she said.  "And there are other ways
of punishing bad behaviour."

   "Which aren't working, obviously."

   Atkins' hands were moving down the front of her blouse, brushing the
upper slopes of her breasts.

   "We have firm guidelines as to what constitutes unacceptable behaviour,
and how it should be punished.  They're not just for the pupils, you know.
They apply to prefects too.

   "Your problem, Joanne, is that you really don't like handing out
discipline," said Atkins, now cupping a breast in each hand.  "You're much
happier receiving it, aren't you?" Her nipples were rising to his touch and
he pinched them, briefly but hard, between forefingers and thumbs.  She
gasped.

   "But that has to change, if you want to remain a prefect, that is." He
resumed his caresses.  "You don't want to lose all those privileges: your
own dorm, the common room, the extra free time."

   Joanne was breathing more heavily, her eyes half closed.

   "No, sir," she said.

   "This is your last chance," said Atkins, pinching her more gently. 
"You've got two weeks to put things right."

   He took his hands away and walked back to his side of the desk.  He
opened the top drawer and took out a strap of thick, burnished leather,
about a foot long and an inch and a half wide.  The girl's eyes widened.

   "As I was saying, you've broken the rules, and must be punished.  Stand
up, please, and come here.  Good.  Slip off your sandals.  Now, if you'd
just reach up under your skirt and take off your panties."

   "Sir?"

   "You heard me, girl.  Come on.  Hand them to me."

   Atkins took the flimsy white garment.  He ran his thumb along the
gusset, feeling the wetness that had gathered there, before placing them on
the desk.

   "And bend right over, Joanne.  You know the drill."

   She bent over the desk and Atkins arranged her skirt in his usual tidy
fashion.  His fingers touched the smooth white skin of her backside.  She
shivered.  He slid his middle finger down the cleft of her buttocks, and
into her moist, tight quim.  She sighed, and pushed back against him.

   "Ah, you don't change, do you, Joanne," said Atkins, easing his finger
further inside, past the second knuckle.  "But I'm not going to go easy on
you just because you enjoy it.  Quite the opposite."

   He withdrew his finger, wiped it on a handkerchief and picked up the
strap.  He raised it and brought it down across the bare skin of her
backside.  It made loud, high-pitched noise.  He delivered three more in
swift succession.

   "I'd like to think of this as marking a new beginning," he said.

   He laid on four more hard blows.  Parallel weals were forming on her
soft skin.

   "From now on your pupils will obey the rules, and so will you."

   Four times the strap rose and fell.  At each stroke the girl gave a
short cry of anguish.

   "You'll hand out punishment with the same eagerness that you seem to
receive it," said Atkins, reinforcing his words with yet another four
strokes.

   He put down the strap and rummaged in the desk drawer.  He unzipped his
fly and pulled out his erection.  Deftly rolling a condom down its
considerable length, he moved behind the girl and guided his prick against
her swollen lips.  Grunting, he pushed inside a short way.

   "You know I'm only giving you another chance because I think you're
worth it, Joanne.  I like to think we've developed a certain special
relationship during our occasional chats," said Atkins, pushing
rhythmically more deeply inside her.

   "I want to see some immediate action," he said.  "Report to the Head
Girl tomorrow and tell her what you've done, and what your plans are for
the next two weeks.  Understood?"

   He pushed himself repeatedly into her, hard and long.  He gripped her
tightly by the hips, his breath coming faster.  Then his face contorted in
a brief grimace as he climaxed.  He pulled out, took off the dripping
condom and dropped it into the waste paper bin.  He carefully wiped himself
and tucked his wilting erection away.

   "You can stand up now," he said.

   She did so, picking up her panties from the desk.  Atkins sat on his
swivel chair and smiled at her.

   "You will remember to report to the Head Girl tomorrow, won't you?" he
said.

   "Yes, sir," said the girl, her voice barely a whisper.

   Emma Forbes rolled her head back on the pillow and a gave a last, long
sigh of satisfaction.

   "I can see why you're called the Head Girl," she said.

   Natalie Pearson's perfect face rose, grinning, from between Emma's legs,
her lips and chin slick with juices.

   "The continual pursuit of excellence; that's the school motto," said
Natalie.

   They both laughed.  Natalie moved up the bed to lie alongside the
teacher, whom she kissed, long and stickily, on the mouth.

   "So you found little Alison's stash, did you?" asked Natalie.

   "Under her mattress, the stupid girl.  I mean, of all the places to hide
it.  How she got to the fifth year with so little brain, I've no idea."

   Emma began running her fingers down Natalie's sleek young body.

   "And Joanne's going to be in trouble, big time," said Natalie.

   "Imagine not checking before teacher's inspection!" said Emma, her
fingers now entwined in the Head Girl's luxuriant pubic bush.

   "I should imagine Atko's got his strap out right now," said Natalie.

   "Not only his strap," said Emma, laughing.  "He does like to reinforce
his 'special relationship' with the prefects.  But you'd know about that,
wouldn't you?  You wouldn't have become Head Girl if you hadn't been his
favourite last year."

   "Hey, I only did what I had to do," said Natalie.

   "Do you still fuck him?" asked Emma.  Her fingers were now dipping
between Natalie's legs, coming up glistening.

   "Oh, from time to time," she replied.  "Just to be sociable." They
laughed.  "Besides, he's not bad at it, you know.  I mean, it's not just
his long dick, though that's never a bad thing.  He can be quite sweet,
too. He never actually forces you to do anything, at least not physically.
I reckon that out of the fifteen prefects last year, he only fucked eleven
of us.  And only three at all regularly."

   "What about the ones who didn't?" asked Emma.

   "There were the two hard-core lezzies - Susan and Karen.  The other two
just didn't let him, and he respected their decision.  Probably gave them a
lot more whacks than the rest of us, though.  By the way, do keep on doing
that, please."

   Emma had two fingers inside the girl's quim, her thumb rubbing her
clitoris.

   "Did he beat you often?" she asked.

   "Not really," said Natalie.  "He used to call me in for one of his chats
every couple of weeks.  Funnily enough, I always seemed to end up over his
desk getting whipped or fucked.  Usually both.  No, the real nasty last
year was Juliet."

   "Juliet Dixon?  Your illustrious predecessor?  I never really knew her.
She never seemed very...  approachable," said Emma.

   "Not like me, then," said, Natalie, laughing.

   "No, thank God."

   "She was a total bitch.  But it wasn't personal: she was a bitch to
everyone.  We lived in absolute terror of that cow.  A little stain on your
uniform?  A beating.  One of your girls answered back to a teacher? 
Another beating.  She eased off a bit towards the end, but that first term
was hell."

   "Are you following in her footsteps?" asked Emma.

   "No, I'm a complete softy compared to her.  I mean, I have regular
review sessions with every prefect - look at their progress and how their
form's doing."

   "Then you whack 'em," said Emma.  She grinned.

   "Well, yeah, I suppose I do, usually," said Natalie.  "But it's not for
trivial stuff like with Julie.  It's a reasonable administration of
discipline based on an objective assessment of their relative performance."

   "Yeah, sure," said Emma.

   "But that's enough about that.  Let's stop talking and start moving."

   "Yes.  Let's."

   "Oh fuck, it really, like, hurts," Alison said.

   "I know, I know," Laura said.

   "Eighteen!  The bastard!" Alison said.

   "I know, I know," Laura said.

   "Look, why don't we go get you into a nice hot bath?" Debbie said. 
"That always works.  I remember when I was in the second year..."

   "All right," Alison said.  "Come on, let's try it."

   "There's one running.  You get undressed," Laura said.

   "It really does hurt, you know," Alison said.  "The bastard really laid
it on."

   "Oh, I know," Laura said.  "Come on, through into the bathroom.  There.
Lovely hot bath.  Now get in nice and slow."

   "Ow!  Fuck!" Alison said.

   "It stings a bit at first, but it'll help," Laura said.

   "Yes, it will," Debbie said.  "When I got the cane that time..."

   "Ow!  Ow!" Alison said.

   "There, now just relax a bit," Laura said.  "It'll soon feel better."

   "At least the birch doesn't cut you up," Debbie said.  "Not like the
cane.  You know it took, like, two months..."

   "Excuse me!" Alison said.  "That is so totally ancient history.  Like,
who is it got whipped today?"

   "And you shouldn't have set fire to that lab bench if you didn't want
the cane," Laura said.

   "Well, pardon me," Debbie said.  "I'll just leave you two alone, then."

   "You do that," Alison said.  "Oh, fuck, Laura, it hurts."

   "I know, I know," Laura said.  "Just stay in here ten minutes, and I
promise it'll be better.  And I've got some aloe vera gel I can put on you
afterwards."

   "I'd like that," Alison said.  "Very much."

   "You sent for me, Headmaster?"

   "Natalie!  And as beautiful as ever!"

   "Thank you, sir."

   "Nice dress.  Formal, but sort of...  clinging, if you know what I
mean."

   "It's cotton jersey, sir.  I hope it's not too tight."

   "No, just right, really."

   "Oh good.  You have to watch out for the panty line, though.  Have to
wear a thong.  A very, very small one."

   "Ah, do you?"

   "And I can't find a bra that looks right.  But I don't think my nipples
are too obvious."

   "No.  Not too obvious, no."

   "And it's not too short?"

   "No, no, not at all.  "I've always said you've got wonderful legs.  You
know that, Natalie."

   "It's just that sometimes when I bend down, like this, you can see the
tops of my stockings."

   "So you can.  Yes."

   "Did you send for me for any particular reason, sir?"

   "Well, I've got a bit of a problem, Natalie.  Well, quite a large
problem, actually."

   "Yes, sir, I can see that."

   "I've got a governor's meeting in half an hour, and I can't go into the
meeting with a problem like this...  unresolved."

   "I understand, sir.  Could you just push your chair a bit further back
so I've got more room to kneel down?"

   "Yes, there we are.  Oh, Lord, yes, there we are."

   "It seems to be a particularly big problem, sir.  I think it's going to
take a long time to sort out.  A very long time."

   "Oh, is it?"

   "Mmm.  Perhaps I ought to take my dress off.  Wouldn't want to get... 
anything on it."

   Alison Miller's pubic hair was blond and sparse.  Laura bent down and
blew into it, watching the fine hairs wave in the breeze.  She rubbed her
nose in it, inhaling the soapy aroma and the faint scent of aloe vera.  She
moved down and ran the tip of her tongue, barely touching flesh, up the
cleft of her friend's quim.  Alison's clitoris was large; certainly the
largest Laura had ever seen.  As she began licking more firmly and
rhythmically, it swelled until it was the size of the last joint of one of
Laura's little fingers.  She applied her tongue to either side of it. 
Alison responded, rolling her head from side to side and giving muted
squeals of delight.  Time and again, Laura dipped her tongue as far inside
Alison's ruby lips as she could reach, then drew it upwards to the
sensitive organ.  Within a very few minutes, Alison was clutching Laura's
hair, pulling her harder against her, crying out in a long and noisy
orgasm. Laura waited a while, until the final, tiny spasms in Alison's
vulva died down and her breathing was returning to normal.  Then she dipped
her head and licked anew.  She was determined to make her forget the bad
things that had happened earlier and those still, perhaps, to come.

   Natalie cleaned her teeth vigorously, ridding herself of the lingering
chlorine flavour of Atkins' semen.  She brushed her hair and reapplied her
modest makeup before going through to the study.  She picked up the
telephone.

   "Is Joanne there, please?  This is Natalie Pearson.  Thanks.  Joanne? 
Hi.  Natalie.  The Head asked you to see me tomorrow?  No, not cancelling
it, no.  I'd like to bring it forward to this afternoon, if that's all
right with you.  Five thirty OK?  We'll have time before supper.  You're
not on refectory duty are you?  Good.  See you in about half an hour, then.
Bye."

   She was smiling as she replaced the receiver.

   "Joanne.  Have a seat," said Natalie.

   "I'd rather stand, if you don't mind."

   "Ah, yes.  You had a chat with the Headmaster earlier.  Sore?"

   "It still hurts like hell," said the prefect.

   "Bad business with the Miller girl," said Natalie.  "I heard about it
from Miss Forbes.  Why didn't you report it to me, Joanne?"

   "I had to see Mr Atkins, and he gave me a beating, and..."

   She began crying.  Natalie gave her a paper tissue.

   "Never mind.  That's all over with now.  But you should have told me.  I
do need to know these things."

   "I'm sorry," said Joanne.

   "Fine.  Now you'll be pleased to know that I haven't called you here so
that I can whip your arse too.  No."

   "Oh, good," said the prefect, visibly relieved.

   "I have something different in mind," said Natalie, smiling.

   The martinette is an instrument of corporal punishment much favoured by
the French.  It is used in the home for the chastisement of naughty
children and, for all we know, naughty spouses and lovers.  It can be
bought freely in many shops and even supermarkets, particularly in
traditional, rural areas.  Designs vary, but the one sitting on Natalie's
desk was fairly typical.  It comprised eight thin leather thongs, each
eighteen inches long - or quarante cinq centimetres as the French would
say. The thongs were attractively plaited together at one end to form a
short, comfortable grip.  The martinette is, in essence, a much reduced
version of the cat-of-nine-tails.  It carries a powerful sting.  Its main
advantage is its flexibility: it can be applied to parts of the body where
other implements, such as the cane or paddle, would cause too much damage.
It seems strange that few school French textbooks have a chapter entitled
"Madame Dupont et son fils Mathieu dans le jardin avec la martinette". 
Needless to say, the books at Mr Atkins' school have several sections with
a similar theme.

   "Would you take off your blouse, please, Joanne?  That's right: your
blouse.  Thank you.  And the bra, too, I think.  You do have such beautiful
breasts, Joanne.  If you took a vote on the best tits in school, you'd win
hands down.  Really.

   "Now go over and stand facing the bookcase.  See that brass rail along
the shelf above your head?  Well, reach up and hold it with both hands. 
That's the way.  I'm going to whip you on your back, Joanne, starting at
the shoulders and working down.  OK?  Here we go.

   "One.

   "Two.

   "Three.  Do stand up straight, please.

   "Four.

   "Five.  And one last one, just above the waist.

   "Six.  Excellent.  Now just turn round, back against the bookcase, and
reach up to the rail again.  Perfect.  I think another eight or so should
do it."

   Eddie Chedzoy was neither the sharpest knife in the drawer nor the
brightest light on the Christmas tree.  But the quirks of genetics which
had reduced the number of active cells in his brain seemed to have
transferred them further south.  In short, Eddie was hung like a donkey,
and had about the same moral sensibility.  His lack of intellect did not
stop him being a very good groundsman at the school.  It probably helped
him get through the long days of grass cutting and hedge trimming.  He was
harmoniously married to Clarrie, a similarly dimwitted individual who was
reputed to be a cousin or even more closely related.

   At six o'clock that evening, Eddie was to be found on the polished
wooden floor of the large store cupboard of the sports pavilion, resting on
his elbows and knees.  Beneath him lay Emma Forbes, her legs wrapped around
him, ankles wedged into the small of his back, an enthusiastic recipient of
his thrusts.  She was gasping; Eddie was talking.

   "Oh I do like a good shag at the end of a day's work.  I know you do to,
don't you Miss.  You're nearly coming again, aren't you.  I can tell, see.
Your cunt gets all tight like, up at the top end.  Makes it that bit harder
to push in.  You all right, Miss?  Comfy enough?"

   "Yes, thank you, Eddy," she said.  And shut the fuck up, she almost
added.

   "I was only saying to the missus this dinner time how I wished she
didn't have that cleaning job down the hospital.  She never has time for a
proper shag before she makes my tea.  She says to me: ooh, Eddie, that's
all you ever think about.  Well, as we was shagging at the time, I reckon
that's not so funny.  Oh, you're coming are you, Miss?  Let's just keep
this up nice and steady like.  There.  That's getting you over the hill,
ain't it.  Smashing!  Let me turn you over, Miss so's I can fuck you from
behind for a bit.  My elbows are getting right sore.

   Twelve girls stood in the long, communal dormitory.  Each was freshly
showered, teeth brushed, bladder emptied.  They wore identical loose, white
nightgowns.  They were barefoot and silent, standing by the end of their
beds, facing the top of the room from where Joanne Beresford was addressing
them.

   "So it's going to be different from now on," she said.  "No more
pussyfooting around.  You're going to behave, or you'll answer to me for
it. Understood?"

   There was a low murmur of assent.  Joanne brandished a paddle in her
right hand.  It was a flat piece of polished cherry wood, ten inches long
by four wide, with a short, leather bound handle.

   "You haven't seen much of this so far, but that's going to change," she
said.  "Your behaviour has been bloody awful, and until it improves, you're
going to be seeing - and feeling - a lot more of this."

   The pupils shuffled uneasily from foot to foot.

   "Now I want you all to turn round and face your beds.  Except you,
Alison," said Joanne, pointing the paddle at the unfortunate girl
immediately on her right.  "You stay as you are.  The rest of you, bend
over, right over, and hold onto the rail.  Excellent."

   Joanne surveyed the two rows of the girls' proffered backsides, each
tautly covered by the thin material.

   She stepped up to the girl at the head of the left hand row, rested the
paddle briefly on her buttocks then brought it down hard three times. 
Joanne waited a few seconds, delivered three more smacks, paused again,
three more, another pause, then a final three.  The pupil's knuckles were
white as they clenched the tubular steel of the bedrail.

   Joanne moved on to the next girl in line, giving each in turn her dozen
blows.  The silence of the dorm was punctuated by the sharp, echoing cracks
of paddle meeting backside as she made her unspeaking progress around the
room.  She did not hurry; she let each girl wait a while in anticipation of
the pain to come.  After nearly ten minutes she arrived by Alison's side.

   "You can all stand up now, and face this way."

   Eleven girls eased themselves upright.  Hands were clasped straight away
to stinging buttocks.

   "Miss Miller, has caused me particular grief today, as I'm sure you'll
know.  And I want you to see what the consequences of that are going to be
from now on.  Cause me grief, and I'll return the favour - doubled."

   The prefect weighed the paddle in her hand and stared at Alison.

   "Turn round and face the bed," she said.

   "But, Miss," said Alison, "I've already been punished once today, and
we're not supposed to be punished more than once."

   "I've taken the trouble to read up on that rule, Miss Miller.  There's a
footnote.  It says: 'This is at the discretion of the prefect or other
disciplinary authority'.  I'm exercising that discretion.  Now lift up your
nightdress.  Up to your waist, please."

   The girl hesitated but, seeing the resolve in Joanne's eyes, complied.

   "And bend right over."

   The prefect slipped her thumbs into the waistband of the girl's panties
and pulled them down to her knees.  She stepped back, and the whole class
could see the vivid marks left by the headmaster's birch.  Joanne gazed
down at them, smiling.

   She lifted the paddle and, with all the force she could muster, brought
it down.  The noise was even louder and sharper than before.  Alison
flinched, and felt tears begin to well.

   "It's painful, isn't it?  Good.  Maybe this one will hurt even more. 
And this.  And this."

   The dormitory resounded to the sound of the beating for several long
minutes until Joanne, panting slightly from the exertion, put down the
paddle.  Alison slumped limply across the foot of the bed, sobbing
furiously.

   "You can all get into bed, and I want to hear no talking after lights
out.  We'll be repeating this little session every night until further
notice.  And if any of you get into trouble, you can expect the treat that
Miss Miller has just had.  Good night."

   Atkins pushed open the door to his office and stepped inside.

   "David."

   "Miss Forbes."

   The office was illuminated only by the light on the desk behind which
sat Emma in Atkins' swivel chair.  He could see that she still had on the
charcoal grey jacket and cream silk blouse she had worn earlier.

   "You've kept me waiting a long time," she said.

   She rose from the chair and came round the desk.  She was not wearing
the suit trousers: only a pair of patent leather shoes.  The dense black
triangle of pubic hair was in stark contrast to her milky skin.  On the
desk, lit by the lamp's yellow glow, lay a long, thin riding crop.

   "I hope you're sorry," she said.

   "Yes, Miss Forbes." 

   Make a difference, help support the relief efforts in the U.S. 
http://clubs.lycos.com/live/events/september11.asp 

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