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Message-ID: <32800asstr$1002067802@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Chas Tanet" <chas_tanet@lycos.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} RP: A Question of Discipline (MF Mf Ff ff, spank nc) - by Chas Tanet
Date: Tue,  2 Oct 2001 20:10:02 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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*** I am reposting this, as the moderators reformatted the first
posting because of "inadequate formatting". Unfortunately, this had
the effect of removing the breaks between the chapters, making it
difficult to understand. I hope the moderators will allow this
repost. ***
(moderator note: had to reformat this post, too-but took pains to 
keep the chapter breaks)



RP: 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."



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