Every girl in the school knew about it, even if they’d just heard the whispered rumours. They talked about it ominously, like a ghostly legend, or a terrible curse. And when it was discussed, it was only ever in hushed voices and the merest mumblings. It was the threat that hung over them all, the most feared punishment, the just deserts awaiting the perpetrators of the very naughtiest misbehaviour.
How many times had a group of friends begun to scheme some illicit hijinks, only for one of them to stop, and suddenly exclaim: “We can’t do that! We’d all do the Sit Down Dance for sure!”
There was no greater shame than to be summoned to the front of the class, having finally exhausted your teacher’s patience. And then having to stand there, head bowed, as she scribbled your name and misdemeanour onto a little red-bordered card. All while your classmates were excitedly whispering and sniggering just behind you…
“The Sit Down Dance! She’s going to do the Sit Down Dance!”
There was no greater embarrassment than pushing through the double doors of the staff wing, an area normally strictly off-limits for pupils, once the final bell of the school day had rung. Clutching your little red-bordered card to your chest, proffering it to each passing teacher, your pass to the inner sanctum, shirking with shame as they read your name and your crime, scowling disdainfully.
And there was no greater anxiety than trudging down the long corridor, past all the staff rooms and the Headmistress’ office. To shuffle inevitably towards the Punishment Room, tummy tumbling with trepidation.
The door to that notorious room was old and heavy, a dark mahogany hunk that looked incongruously out of place amidst the school’s modern decor, like a pirate ship had somehow been moored at the end of the corridor. Even just turning the ornate brass handle gave the feeling you were about to leave the modern world behind and step beyond into the captain’s cabin.
Visitors saw a small brass plaque mounted at eye-height, a few lines engraved in cursive writing for those about to enter to ponder. It was a quotation from long ago, from when school itself had still been young.
Heaven is not always angry when he strikes,
But most chastises those
Whom most he likes.
– John Pomfret
Alice could feel the dampness of her own palm as she gripped the handle, but after a moment’s hesitation, she pushed the heavy door ajar.
Yet no matter how many times Alice had visited the Punishment Room, the world beyond that antiquated door never failed to surprise her…
* * 1 * *
The Punishment Room had no windows. About the size of a typical classroom, it was a large space that somehow still felt claustrophobic. The cherrywood panelling that clad each of its walls from floor to ceiling deadening any sound, exacerbating the sense of enclosure and its occupants’ feeling of captivity.
On two sides a pair of brass brackets protruded from the walls just above head-height, on each was the bulbous frosted glass globe of a gas lamp. Should a visitor happen to look more closely, they’d see the flame flickering inside; an even closer inspection would reveal the flame was actually an intimation bulb. Considerable care had clearly been taken to preserve the ambience of this room, even during the school’s periodic modernisations, retaining the flickering light that glinted off the antique wooden panels, basking the whole room in a bright but intimate rosy light.
Against one wall was a rack of various disciplinary implements, dozens of canes of various lengths and thicknesses, as well as a whole array of leather straps, whips and paddles. The first time Alice saw it, she thought it was ludicrously overstocked, as if the room was readied for the mass outbreak of delinquency, and the whole school suddenly turning up. But Alice understood better now, those implements were here in such numbers not to be used, but to intimidate.
And then there was The Bench, which completely dominated the centre of the room. It was an unusually tall item of furniture, its seat, a thick flat plank of varnished mahogany wood, stood chest high off the ground. The underside of the bench seat itself had no legs, it was solely supported from its sides by a pair of thick wooden columns, linked at the back by a two thick connecting beams.
The first beam ran behind the seat, to which it was connected by a row of glistening brass hinges. The second beam also ran the full length of the bench, but was located just above the seat, serving as a backrest. Where the bench seat met its supporting posts it was braced on either side by what seemed like brass pistons. The whole apparatus looked archaic, like it belonged in an industrial heritage museum.
In front of the bench were three tall movable lecterns, like the one in the stage in the assembly hall. She could see a blank pad of paper and a pen on the sill of each, at just the right height for anyone sitting on the bench to write on.
Alice let her eyes wander. A framed notice hung on the wall, its gilded frame now rather tarnished with age, advising newcomers what to do when they arrived, whilst they were waiting for their Headmistress to join them. A bold headline left its readers in no doubt what state their disciplinarian expected to find them: Absolute Silence.
Beyond the bench, two stood girls facing the far wall. Alice recognised one immediately, a dark-skinned girl with short curly black hair, but wasn’t quite sure of the other, a pale brunette with her hair tied behind in a single shoulder-length bunch. Both had taken off their skirts, and were standing contritely with their hands on top of their heads. Each stood in her white school regulation panties, with her blouse rolled up neatly above her hips. Neither turned around, or even said a word as Alice entered.
Hanging beside each girl, on a little hook, was her blazer. Underneath hung her skirt, and beneath that, her shoes, neatly paired together. The arrangement made each girl seem like she was standing beside her invisible twin.
Alice looked back at the canes hanging on the wall, imagining for just one moment what it would be like to stride purposefully into this room – to pluck a cane from the rack, and call each girl forward to bend over. She relished the delicious delight of slowly pulling down her panties, tapping the rod against her bare quivering cheeks, and then administering a good hard whacking as the miscreant squirmed, jerked and sniffled.
Alas, Alice wasn’t here to punish them, she was here to join them. She gently pulled the heavy door shut behind her, and crept over to the row of empty hooks on the far wall that awaited her arrival.
As she approached the two girls already present, Alice could see the little brass frame beside them both. Inside the frame was a red-bordered card with the girl’s name hand-written in block letters, and the misbehaviour that sent her here beneath. When Alice was close enough to read the details, she slowed to a dawdle. The one on the left read:
Seeing Pansy here came as a tremendous surprise to Alice, she didn’t know her well, but they were in the same English class. Alice had always considered Pansy to be a bit of a teacher’s pet. Always getting the highest marks, always being first to hand in essays, always the first hand raised to answer questions in class. She could quote whole sonnets, she was like a walking encyclopedia of Shakespeare. But flashing? My goodness, Alice thought, it’s true what they say about the quiet types.
Almost instinctively, Alice let her eyes run over Pansy’s body. She was a tall, athletic girl with lithe legs and perfectly pert buttocks, toned through her love of running. She also had the most exquisite coffee-coloured skin, which Alice found tremendously alluring. She’d often wondered what a dark-skinned bottom looked like after a good spanking, and couldn’t help but smirk as she realised she was about to find out.
Beside Pansy, stood a tall slender brunette girl. Alice craned her neck to read what it said on the card beside her:
CAUGHT OUTSIDE SCHOOL GROUNDS
Ah yes, Alice remembered. Marian was one of the foreign exchange students, from somewhere in Eastern Europe, was it Hungary? Alice didn’t really know her, only that she spoke excellent English with an exotic accent which, along with her height and proud, aloof demeanour, gave the impression that she was actually some mysterious aristocratic countess, somehow exiled from her native lands.
What had been her crime? Sneaking out of school? Whatever for? A secret assignation no doubt, probably to suck off some dashing young grenadier, or whatever horny European countesses went for these days.
But Alice couldn’t stand gawping, she realised, the Headmistress would be here soon, and she would expect to find them all ready. Ready for… well, you know.
Alice was already quite familiar with what she had to do, beginning with fishing her punishment card out of her pocket and slotting it into the little frame beside her. Then she took her blazer off completely, hanging it on the hook on the wall along with her skirt, before kneeling to untie and take off her shoes, placing them neatly side-by-side, before rolling up the loose flaps of her blouse to her waist.
Tummy trembling, Alice placed her hands on her head, edged forward so the wooden panel was just in front of her nose. She stood like a museum exhibit, the handwritten caption card beside her exclaiming her crime for all to see:
Alice eyed her own card with a mix of chest-lifting pride and cheek-pinkening shame. Her own offence made her seem so edgy! So free-spirited! So comfortable with her own sexuality that she thought nothing of satisfying herself whenever and wherever she pleased. On the other hand, she couldn’t help feeling it also made her sound like a horny little slut, so wanton and sex-crazed she couldn’t keep her fingers off herself. The truth, she had to admit to herself, was probably somewhere in the middle. Yet if only the teacher who’d caught her knew the truth of her conspiracy, she’d barely believe it.
In the silence, each girl’s hearing began to tune into the clatter of faraway footsteps. Until one particular cadence began to emerge, getting progressively louder, until the clopping of the approaching shoes began to thunder in each of their ears. There could be no doubt who was nearing, nor about what would be happening next. It was a prospect that made each girl’s knees tremble, even if at least one of them was secretly rather looking forward to it.
* * 2 * *
Headmistress Barbara Hastings strode towards the Punishment Room propelled by an earnest sense of purpose. Three names had been written by her colleagues on the today’s Sheet of Shame, the sheaf of paper pinned to the cork board in the staff room, the one used to record who’d been issued with the infamous little red-bordered card.
She paused for a moment outside the door, taking a deep breath, establishing the persona who would march into the room beyond and begin dispensing discipline. She would be a chastening force of nature, a castigating angel. And those who found themselves being punished by her would help sustain her notoriety, whisper by reverent whisper.
The headmistress dressed with equally authoritative deliberation. A high-collared black jacket that concealed most of her neck, and whose shoulder pads added gravitas to her tall slender frame. Underneath, an ivory coloured blouse, and long coal black skirt, nipped in her waspish waist, its fabric pouring over her modest hips, and falling straight down below her knees like some elegant velvet waterfall.
Moments later, when the door suddenly flew open, the three girls facing the opposite wall couldn’t help but flinch. Their Headmistress entered dramatically, surging into the room like a tsunami wave, slamming the heavy door behind her with a resounding boom.
“Good afternoon, you naughty girls!” she scolded, by way of greeting.
“Good afternoon, Miss” the girls chorused in reply, somewhat half-heartedly.
Miss Hastings surveyed this afternoon’s lineup, each girl looked like a page from one of those spiral bound books, the ones where the page were thick glossy cardboard, divided into thirds, and you could change the costume of a character by turning over the strips to choose a different outfit for her head, torso and legs.
Best get started then, Miss Hastings thought.
“Come here, Alice.”
Alice turned from facing the wall and edged slowly towards where her headmistress was standing, beside a little raised plinth. The platform was barely ankle high, just a square block of wood with two hoops on its top, each about 2 ruler widths apart.
“Such a naughty girl, Alice!” she scolded. “Playing with yourself like that! I expect girls at this school to behave with more decorum. You shall be caned on your bare bottom.”
Alice nodded respectfully. Her sentence had been what she’d been expecting, senior girls almost always got their bare bums whacked. Younger girls sometimes escaped the cane and got the leather slipper instead. But regardless of what implement their disciplinarian choose, everyone sent to the punishment room always left with a very sore bottom.
Alice had been here several times before, and was quite familiar with the procedure without needing to be told. She stepped onto the plinth, putting her feet into each hoop, then bending over to clasp the top of each hoop with her fingers.
Before Miss Hastings had introduced this particular innovation to the punishment process, there had been a lot of silliness from too many girls who should have known better. Far too much flailing of arms as panties were pulled down, and jumping around when their bottoms came to be whacked, not to mention all that clenching of their legs together when it was time to be inspected. The hoops in the plinth kept naughty girls in the proper position for punishment, bent over with their legs apart.
Miss H crouched behind Alice and slowly tugged down her panties until they were stretched between her knees. The creamy smear she saw in the gusset of Alice’s underwear was so unremarkable she let it pass without comment.
The plain fact was, almost every girl sent to the punishment room soaked her panties. Some would seep in anticipation of their whacking, spending a long afternoon of classes squirming in their own wetness. For others the trigger was different, perhaps stepping into the punishment room itself, or seeing the canes and the infamous bench. Or undressing and having to hang up her uniform and stand facing the wall in just her panties. It was a truth universally accepted: discipline made girls wet.
Alice gulped as she felt cool air waft across her wet slit, but remained in position obediently as her headmistress knelt behind her. She was now close enough to inhale the scent of Alice’s arousal. The smell made Miss Hastings’ vagina clench, squeezing the Kegel ball she’d slipped inside herself before she left her office.
Nothing smelled as wonderful as a girl in the moments before she was spanked. The musky fragrance of her arousal mingling with the pungent earthy odour of her exposed bottom hole – and, another smell. Something more ephemeral, something more difficult to explain, an aroma she could only recall encountering when a girl bent over to have her bare bottom spanked. Was it the sweet sweaty tang of nervous anxiety, or some inscrutable pheromone of submission?
The Kegel ball gave Miss H an secret outlet for her arousal. After all, it wouldn’t have been proper for a headmistress to rub herself as she was punishing her pupils. So rather than stand frustratedly whilst her clit throbbed beneath her skirt, the ball allowed her to discreetly relieve some of her tension by flexing her pelvic floor. On occasion she’d even been able to make herself climax, timing her orgasm so it commenced just as the last whack of her cane landed.
Miss H took her time inspecting the region between Alice’s legs. Like an increasing number of girls in the school, Alice kept herself shaved bare, the bump of her mound flawlessly smooth, the thin pink folds of her labia proudly neat and tidy.
“Hold still, Alice” she instructed, as she plucked a tissue from a box on the floor.
She pressed two of her fingers into the tissue and then gently positioned the tissue against Alice’s perineum, before slowly drawing it upwards, between her buttocks until it reached her bottom hole. She circled that little dimple three times, before withdrawing the tissue and noticing, to her satisfaction, that Alice had indeed kept her bottom commendably clean.
Miss H had found the humiliation of bottom wiping particularly useful in dispelling any lingering wilfulness, reminding those about to be punished who was in charge, and if they intended to act like silly little girls, they would most certainly be treated that way. There was a practical purpose too, a chance to check no girl was trying to escape her punishment by surreptitiously applying a numbing gel or lubricant to her buttocks or the crevice between her cheeks. By now, the headmistress knew all the tricks.
The punishment room was not a place for pleading, postponements or reprieves. Once a girl was sent here, she could be sure of being punished. As per school rules, those currently in the midst of their period would be wearing a menstrual cup. Not that some of the older girls bled any more anyway, having taken advantage of hormonal implants that liberated them from that particular palaver.
Even an urgent call of nature was no excuse. Hanging beside the rack of canes was what looked like a giant porcelain slipper, raised at one end, where the heel might be. It was an antique chamberpot kept here for those who, faced with the prospect of imminent punishment, might be suddenly overcome by a need to relieve themselves. Such a chancer would find herself sitting on the potty, piddling like a little girl as her cheeks burned with shame, before Miss wiped her dry and smacked her bottom.
Satisfied by what she’d seen, Miss H concluded her inspection, standing and discarding the folded tissue in a little bin, before plucking a cane from the wall.
Alice flinched as she felt the cane tapping underneath the curve of her bottom, just above the tops of her thighs. A tender region, chosen deliberately. Because in the punishment room, naughty girls always ended up sitting on their stripes.
Facing the wall, Pansy and Marian flinched as they heard a swish, a thwack and a stifled moan.
Alice gripped the handles by her feet, trying hard not to yelp out loud as the cane stung her bottom. Her headmistress gave her no respite, another whack landing mere seconds after the first, unbeknown to Alice, a pause just long enough for Miss Hastings to clench her Kegel ball and reposition her cane for the next stroke.
Miss H caned quickly and accurately, rapidly inflicting a bright pink band of stripes on the lowest half of Alice’s poor cheeks. It was a whacking that burned with such intensity that Alice found herself wondering whether her headmistress had surreptitiously soaked her cane in oil and set it alight.
It seemed like her spanking would go on forever, but after twelve whacks, Miss H stopped.
She laid the cane back in its cradle, then knelt behind Alice once more. This time it was to inspect the warm marks she had inflicted, her thumbs straying inside her thighs to briefly massage Alice’s folds and splay open her little butterfly wings. Her own little act of mercy, she knew the sit-down dance hurt much less with a soaking slit.
Alice found herself pushing back against the fingers of her headmistress, eager for some relief. But her disciplinarian wasn’t here to masturbate her, instead she slowly tugged Alice’s panties upwards, until they were tight against her crotch, then tugged them up even tighter, ensuring the gusset parted her innermost lips.
“There. Stand up, please.”
Alice let go of the handles, and stood as she was instructed, wobbling slightly as blood left her head. At the direction of her headmistress, she stepped out of the hoops, and down from the little plinth, and towards the ominous hulk that was the bench.
The seat of the bench was about chest high off the ground, so a little footstool was kept nearby, allowing Alice to step up and take her place. She gasped out loud as her sore bottom encountered the cold wooden seat, but soon found it was only a temporary discomfort. As any naughty schoolgirl will tell you, sitting on a cold hard wooden seat actually numbs the fiery sting of a spanked bottom, dulling its ache. Had her headmistress had wanted to prolong the discomfort of her whacking, she would have sent Alice to face the wall again.
But Alice had not been seated on the bench for a grandstand view of her classmate’s spankings. She felt Miss H moving behind her, reaching up to tug the waistband of her panties over the backrest, then inserting the two prongs of what looked like a miniature croquet hoop through the tops of each leg hole, which then slid snugly into corresponding slots on the top of backrest.
One final act was to lift Alice’s hands from her lap and place them on the bench by her sides.
“Let’s remove the temptation from those naughty fingers, shall we?” she chided gently, in what Alice construed as a subtle jibe, given the events had brought her here.
“Now, Marian, you’re next. Come here please.”
Alice squirmed as she watched Marian undergo exactly the same routine of inspection she’d just experienced. She found watching it intensely arousing, she longed to rub herself, to just lift one of her hands from the bench, and let it drift over her thigh and in between her legs. But she didn’t dare disobey her headmistress.
So Alice patiently sat where she’d been seated, her feet dangling in the air, well above the ground, which made her feel like she’d been placed in an infant’s high chair. Meanwhile, she could feel her clit throbbing, hot and swollen, pressed tight against the sodden band of fabric between her legs. If she squirmed, even just a merest fraction, an ache of unfulfilled longing radiated through her crotch.
It reminded her of a sensation she’d experienced when playing with Penny, Alice had let herself be tied up, and Penny had taken full advantage, teasing her to the point of agonised pleading. Her favourite trick was to pull the hood of Alice’s swollen clit right back with her fingertips, and just hold it there, completely exposed, just aching for the faintest touch.
But this time, with her panties so tight, the ache in her clit was accompanied by a burning sensation between her legs, as the narrow band of material rubbed between her delicate lips and across her sensitive perineum.
So rather than rocking herself to climax as she watched Marian spread her legs to have her bottom wiped, Alice found herself sitting as still as she possibly could. It became even more difficult when Miss H fetched the cane and Marian got her whacking. It was like watching an artist at work, painting pretty pink lines of exquisite beauty. She couldn’t help but writhe in sympathy with every stroke, each stripe added to Marian’s bottom echoed in a fiery jolt between Alice’s legs.
When her caning was over, and she had been thoroughly inspected, Marian thanked her headmistress and followed her to the bench. She shared a smile with Alice as she took her seat beside her, wincing slightly as her disciplinarian tugged up her panties and fixed them in place.
“Your turn, Pansy. And since you were so keen to expose yourself, I’ve gathered a little audience for you.”
Miss H turned to Alice and Marian, their eyes wide, their feet dangling childishly from their vantage point.
“Pay close attention, girls. Pansy likes to be watched.”
Alice and Marian did what they were told, although in truth, there was precious little else to do. Pansy took her inspection stoically, whilst the girls behind her couldn’t help but stare at her pussy, a mesmerising pink slit glistening in the dark black sea of her trimmed pubic hair. And when Pansy was caned, Alice finally got to see the results of a spanking on ebony skin. Pansy’s bum went pink, bright pink, just like smacked bottom of any other naughty little girl.
Once the whacking had finished, Pansy took her own place on the bench, moaning softly as her panties were tugged up and fixed behind her.
And then, they were all ready. Because painful though their canings had been, the three girls were about to discover that the lines on their bottoms were merely the prelude for what was to come.
Miss Hastings edged each of the lecterns forward, positioning them so they were within arm’s reach, and addressed them all again.
“Now girls. You have some paper in front of you, and a pen. I expect each of you to write an essay for me, explaining what brought you here, and why you are sorry.”
She glanced pointedly at the round clock on the wall.
“You will have half an hour. Is that understood?”
The three girls nodded vigorously in agreement.
“Alice, you know all about this bench, but I’d better explain to the others what is going to happen…”
She walked over to the side of the bench, and rested her hand on a chunky brass lever.
“When I pull this, the seat you’re all sitting on will begin to drop. But you will have noticed that I have attached your panties to the frame behind you. This will not move, so as your seat tips lower, you will slide forward, and find your panties will be pulled tight behind you.”
The headmistress paused for moment to let what she’d just said sink in. She looked at the trio’s feet, high above the ground, dangling nervously in mid-air, like little girls sitting on grown-up chairs.
“In half an hour I shall collect your essays, then I shall pull down your panties to examine the stripe between your legs.”
If any of the girls felt like expressing any dissent at what was in store for them, they hid it well.
Without saying anything more, Miss Hastings pulled the lever downward, there was a faint hiss of air, but nothing dramatic happened. The girls took that as the cue to pick up their pens, and begin scribbling.
The tilt of the bench was so gradual it was imperceptible, but after a few minutes, the girls began to feel themselves slipping forward, and their panties tightening. This growing discomfort seemed to concentrate the girls’ minds, accelerating the speed at which their pens skittered across their pages.
From a distance, Miss Hastings watched the row of three pairs of white-socked feet beginning to dance in the air. The more the girls squirmed and kicked, the tighter she clenched the Kegel ball deep inside her. Beneath her own skirt, she could feel her own wetness seeping, her clitoris swollen, erect and eager for attention. All in good time, she told herself, gripping the ball in her cunt again, like she was squeezing water from a stone, tight inside her closing fist.
* * 3 * *
The Bench really was an unusual contraption. No one among the school staff knew for certain how this piece of outlandish engineering had ended up in this school, or even its original purpose, assuming it hadn’t always been intended as a seat of punishment.
When Miss Hastings had asked one of the school governors about the bench, he had mumbled something about a wealthy benefactor in the school’s dim and distant past. Rumours of a foundry owner, who’d made his fortune casting the immense limbs of steam engines. But that was several generations ago, this was, after all, an ancient school with venerable and cherished traditions.
Affixed to the back of the bench were two dials showing the pressure in the pistons, one marked ‘Time’ and the other ‘Drop’ in archaically elegant copperplate writing. These dials allowed the resistance of the pistons to be altered. The Drop determined how far the seat of the bench will tip, and for this particular session Miss H had set the dial at 12, meaning the bench’s hinged seat would be about 12 inches lower when it finished its descent.
She could have set it lower, of course, the maximum setting would make the seat tilt until it was completely vertical, leaving its occupants completely suspended by their panties, like puppets on strings, the tips of their toes dancing just above the floor, relief cruelly just out of reach. But she tended to reserve that setting for the very naughtiest girls.
The other dial, Time, determined how long it would take for the seat to reach its final position. This allowed Miss H to choose between a quick fast drop, or a slow lingering discomfort. Thirty minutes was the setting she used most often, long enough for her charges to write a good focussed essay, whilst also imparting a nice pink stripe between their legs. A longer setting would, of course, result in an even more painful stripe, but she also had her own needs to consider, and it could be frustrating to wait that long.
Everything Miss H knew about the bench had come from a battered wooden box left by her predecessor, which she’d found in a drawer of her new desk. Inside had been a letter, explaining how the bench worked, and some recommendations related to the art of panty pulling. The new headmistress had read the instructions in rapt fascination.
A few days later, Miss H returned to her office late one evening. Her colleagues had since retired to their own homes, and the staff wing was eerily quiet, so she had gone to the punishment room, and begun to experiment. It wasn’t long before she was sitting on the bench herself, her knickers fixed behind her, the seat slowly tipping downward, pulling her panties ever deeper until they burrowed between her folds. She had looked down at her own feet, kicking uncontrollably in mid-air, and she had felt herself losing control. She had never felt a sensation quite like it.
And when she came, she soaked herself so copiously that she rained a little puddle onto the floor beneath.
Also inside the box were a set of short thin ropes, some covered in stitched leather, others bare scratchy hemp. These, the accompanying letter explained, were crotch ropes, the very cords used to suspend the first unfortunate miscreants who had been sentenced to dangle.
It made perfect sense when she thought about it, after all, elasticated cotton panties were a relatively new innovation. When this bench was installed, a century and a half ago, the school’s pupils would have worn bloomers under their dresses. The box had included a yellowed letter from an long-forgotten headmistress, describing to her successor how to best punish naughty young ladies.
Across the centuries, her elaborately cursive handwriting had advised:
“Those deserving of discipline should to sent to wait in the punishment room. Have her remove her dress and stand facing the wall in her undergarments. Then, when you arrive, be sure to first scold the miscreant for her transgressions, before completing her undressing. Have her touch her toes, and then commence her whackings. Ignore the inevitable pleas for modesty, reminding her that her misdemeanours have forfeited that privilege. The cane should always be applied the bare buttocks.”
“Once a girl has been caned to your satisfaction, select an appropriate rope girdle and have her step into it. The knot at the waist is adjustable, first ensure that it is quite taut, and that the inner cord passes between her labia and is tight to the crevice of her buttocks.”
“Now have the girl sit on the bench, and affix the cords using the slots and pegs. You may now choose a descent commensurate with the young lady’s crime, pull the lever and leave her to contemplate her naughtiness.”
“Afterwards, you may decide to release the miscreant from her girdle. Yet I have also found great improvements in behaviour can be gained by leaving it in situ for the remainder of the day, underneath her bloomers, as she returns to class with a lingering reminder of her wrongdoings.”
“In this case, have the girl report to you should she need the lavatory, whereupon you may temporarily loosen her rope before fastening it again. At the day’s end, you should pay a visit to the young lady’s dormitory to remove the girdle and examine her stripe before she is put to bed. You will find the shame of being exposed and inspected in front of her roommates will produce very positive effects on her future conduct.”
Miss Hastings did like the idea of sending girls away from the punishment room with their crotch ropes still pulled tight. Alas, the ropes she’d found in the box were now far too old to be used, all frayed and brittle with age. But she had contemplated having a new batch made up, as a special treat for the school’s naughtiest minxes.
The headmistress tightened her grip around the ball in her vagina, and checked the clock again. The half hour was almost up, the seat of the bench had tipped downwards to a very precarious slope, and now the only things stopping the three girls from sliding off entirely were their panties, firmly anchored and stretched high behind them.
Each of the three girls was still scribbling rapidly, as if trying to distract themselves from the fiery ache between their legs. Their panties were now just a narrow bands pressed tight between their slits, the white material so saturated by their own wetness it had darkened to grey. In places, some of their juices had collected on the varnished wooden seat in little pools, which had begun to trickle down the slope like raindrops on a window pane.
“Time’s up girls. Finish what you’re writing.”
The scribbling slowed and ultimately stopped.
Miss H approached the trio, lifting the lecterns out of the way so each girl would be able to dismount. She would collect and read what her pupils had written later, but first, there was the important business of inspection to take care of.
She fetched the footstool, placing it underneath Alice’s dangling feet, then reached behind to remove the two-pronged peg and release her stretched panties. Alice grimaced as she stepped down to the floor, and then stepped forward a few paces to where her headmistress had indicated. Marian and Pansy followed moments later, and the three found themselves lined up beside each other once again.
“Stand up straight, girls. Hands behind your backs. Legs apart.”
The trio obeyed, immediately adopting the stance they’d been told. Girls were always much more obedient and well-behaved when their panties were pulled tight, the headmistress thought to herself. She’d often contemplated putting little hooks in classroom chairs, so teachers could tug up the panties of the disruptive and wilful, a final warning, a foretaste of what they could expect in the Punishment Room unless their behaviour immediately improved.
“Now Alice, let’s take a good look at you.”
Miss H knelt in front of Alice, her panties had been pulled tight between her legs, the waistband now level with the bump of her mound, the gusset now just a narrow band of material, embedded between the folds of her slit. It was dark with her dampness, soaking wet, and reeked of arousal.
The headmistress began her examination by placing her fingers into the waistband of Alice’s panties, just below her hips, and slowly tugging them down. Alice wriggled and squirmed, clenching her wrists behind her, fighting the urge to bring her hands forward and rub her aching slit. Miss H could now see Alice’s clitoris, swollen pink and bathed in sticky juices. There was something deeply fascinating about staring at another woman’s clitoris, especially such an aroused one, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
As she lowered Alice’s panties further, revealing a bright red stripe running downward from her hood and between her innermost lips. One last tug down, and Alice gasped as the tight fabric between her legs finally came away from her crotch. Now Miss H could see the pool of stickiness at the entrance to Alice’s vagina, and the bright red line on her perineum that continued as far back as her bottom hole. She tugged her underwear just a little bit further, leaving it about mid-thigh, then moved behind Alice to scrutinise her bottom.
The lines of her recent caning were still conspicuous on her cheeks, but now the whole of Alice’s bottom was a warm, diffuse pink. Miss H gently spread Alice’s buttocks apart, examining the pale purple bruise-coloured line that ran along the length of her crevice. Perfectly punished, the headmistress thought to herself, a textbook example; before thinking: goodness, that would be an incredibly kinky textbook.
She concluded her inspection by smacking Alice’s bottom ten times with the palm of her hand, scolding as she spanked.
“Now, young lady. Let that be a lesson to you!”
Alice vigorously nodded her acquiescence, before her headmistress pulled her panties back up tight, and obediently waited with her hands behind her back as Miss Hastings moved on to inspect Marian who was standing beside her. As she waited, Alice was left to ponder: I do hope all this has been worth it.
Marian and Pansy were inspected just as intimately, both moaned and squirmed as their panties were slowly removed, revealing the same slick sticky slits, and the same bright red stripes running between their legs. Pansy was the last to have her bottom smacked and her panties tugged up, after which, the headmistress moved to the front to address them all one last time.
“Girls!” she said gruffly, “I do not expect to see you here again! You may now get dressed, and go back to your rooms.”
The trio shuffled back towards where they’d hung up their clothes, gingerly stepping into their skirts, each all too aware of the ache between their legs. When all three had dressed, Miss Hastings waited for them by the door, each of them politely thanking her for their discipline as they left the room.
The headmistress stood in the doorway, watching the trio shamble down the corridor in awkward silence, until they turned a corner, and vanished from view. But she did not follow behind them. Instead, she turned back into the Punishment Room, closed the big heavy door behind her, and flicked the latch to lock it.
Alone at last! Miss Hastings clenched the ball deep inside her, provoking a sudden tingling that made her legs wobble. She approached the bench, three little patches of moisture still visible where its occupants had been sitting, and lifted the tilted seat upwards, so it clicked back into its level position.
Then she went over to the lecterns and collected the three essays, placing them on the bench. Some light reading material to enjoy. Girls often wrote the most erotic words when sitting on a sore bottom.
She moved over to the hooks on the wall, where the triohad earlier hung their own clothes, and began to undress. The high-collared black jacket first, then the ivory blouse, her matte-black calf-length boots, and her long dark skirt, her stockings and then her bra, until she stood in just her underwear.
It might have surprised her pupils to learn that underneath her austere, authoritative outfit their headmistress wore the same white regulation school knickers. But while school underwear might not have been fashionable, it was stretchy, and that was precisely what Barbara Hastings needed right now. She stepped onto the footstool, sitting within arm’s reach of the lever, and reached back to peg her panties into the beam behind her.
And now the headmistress was ready to have her own fun. She picked up the essays, reached across to the lever at the side of the bench, and pulled it. It would take a while before she felt herself slipping down the slope, before her panties began to be pulled tight, so she’d often take her time reading the confessions of the girls she’d just punished, giving the Kegel ball inside her a good squeeze at the juicy bits.
* * 4 * *
“I am very sorry for my awful behaviour, Miss. I know my punishment is well-deserved. I behaved very recklessly, and quite disgracefully. I can hardly believe I did what I did, I apologise for the shame it has brought to the school.”
“It all happened on a trip to the local university library. As you know, a weekly trip is organised for the senior girls, to allow us to consult and work from that library’s extensive collection. Well, something else the university library has, that our school library doesn’t – is young men.”
“I am not used to being around boys, Miss. They make me feel funny inside. I feel weird when they look at me, but at the same time I feel like I want to impress them, to get them to notice me. But they don’t look at me like they look at the other, prettier girls. And I wanted them to look at me.”
“I tried moving in front of the male students, making little noises, aheming and coughing, but no one seemed to notice me. In desperation, I went to the lavatory and took off my panties. I wanted to see if they were secretly looking at me, just to see what reaction I might provoke.”
“When I came out of the lavatory, I began to expose myself. I would bend over to choose books from the lowest shelves, letting my skirt ride up, revealing a bit of my bottom to any young man who might be browsing nearby. Then I began to get bolder, contriving to drop books in front of male students then bending over to pick them up, perhaps revealing for just a fleeting moment that I wasn’t wearing any panties.“
“Fortunately, Miss Harper noticed what I was doing before I completely disgraced myself, and she escorted me back to the lavatory to restore my underwear. She told me off quite severely when we returned to school, and wrote out my punishment card that meant I was sent to see you here.”
“Again, I am most sincerely sorry for my behaviour. It was lewd and besmirches the good reputation of the school, which I would never knowingly want to harm. I want to thank you for punishing me, I know I deserved it.”
Miss Hastings shifted on the hard wooden bench, she could definitely feel her seat had tilted, and her knickers were definitely much tighter. She imagined what Pansy had got up to in the library, and how the young male students might have reacted to seeing fleeting glimpses of her most intimate places.
There was something undeniably erotic about libraries, the silence, the regimented order of the shelves, the enforced almost suffocating silence, and the sweet musty smell of old books. She imagined doing what Pansy had done, discarding her underwear, and audaciously flashing passing strangers. It was reckless, and indecent and disgraceful. But it was also unquestionably hot. The thought of exposing herself, however briefly, made her wet, it made her clench the ball inside her, tighter and tighter until surges of pleasure quivered through her torso. Yes, she might have to try it sometime.
She turned to the next page, which was written in Marian’s meticulously neat hand, and started reading again.
“Dear Miss Hastings. When I heard from other girls that you get spanked if you are very naughty here, I confess I began to fantasise about what that would be like. I wanted to experience a proper English spanking before I went home. So I decided to let myself get caught wandering beyond the school grounds. I put the condom in my pocket deliberately, so it would seem like I was sneaking off to visit a lover, it was found when I turned out my pockets. It was the best way I could think of to be sent to be punished.”
“In my home country, I grew up hearing fairytales where errant children would get their comeuppance at the end of the story. Sometimes they would be eaten by terrible monsters, but other times they would just be spanked on their naughty bottoms. The latter form of poetic justice had always fascinated me.”
“I was never spanked when I was growing up, but perhaps that helped fuel my first ‘naughty daydreams’, the forerunners of my first fantasies, which swam around my fevered imagination before I properly became aware of my erotic side.”
“At the centre of my fantasies was The Punctilious Queen; I think she was inspired by all the wicked queens and witches my young mind had read about, but she was more austere than evil, more strict than draconian. In my mind’s eye I gave her the face of my sternest teacher. This Queen, I imagined, had assumed responsibility for all discipline throughout the kingdom. She’d decreed that parents were no longer allowed to spank their offspring, but if any were ever naughty enough to deserve a spanking, they should be brought to the castle, and she would do it herself.”
“I used to dream that I had been really naughty, that my parents had repeatedly warned me what would happen if I carried on misbehaving, but I was wilful and cheeky, and never listened. And now it was too late, I was being led up the hill, dragged struggling by the hand across the drawbridge, and into the ominous high halls of the Queen’s castle.”
“Inside I had to wait in a line with all the other naughty children. One by one we’d be called forward by her chamberlain, and then be sent alone through a thick curtain of embroidered purple velvet. Soon after, we’d all hear the unmistakeable sound of muffled whacks and whimpers, and my tummy would churn with apprehension. Several minutes later the same individual would emerge, often drying their eyes and rubbing their bottom, and their parent would grasp their progeny’s hand with a knowing look, and escort them home.”
“Eventually, it was my turn. The Royal Chamberlain looked down at me, his half-rim glasses precariously balanced on his long gaunt nose, making me feel so small. I felt his bony hand on my back, ushering me towards the slit in the curtains. I took a deep breath, and stepped beyond, and into the Queen’s chamber.”
“The Punctilious Queen was waiting for me, resplendent in a gown of white silk, a modest gold crown embedded in her immaculately plaited blond hair. In her hand was a long honey-coloured rod, like a sceptre, but thinner. It was the symbol of her authority, and also her means of dispensing her justice. She seemed to glow in front of me, like I was in the presence of a goddess. I was dumbstruck, all I could do was curtsey respectfully.”
““I imagined there was a waist high wooden frame in front of me, on top of which was a pile of plush pillows, each embroidered with the royal crest. I knew then my fate was inescapable.”
“Why are you here, child? She asked me.”
“My tongue suddenly loosened, and I impetuously blurted out all the naughty things I’d done, and not just the neglected chores and indolence that brought me here. The Queen paused for a moment, as if considering a fitting punishment for my crimes, before skewering me with her formidable gaze.”
“Bend over, and bare your bottom.”
“Her command was irresistible, as if I could feel her draconian voice thrum through every fibre of my body. I was desperate to obey her, to please her. I hurried towards the bench, hitching up my dress and tugging down my underwear before lurching over the pillows, wiggling forward until my exposed bottom was my highest point, and my hands and feet dangled in the air.”
“Meanwhile, in my bedroom, I began to act it all out, bending over a pile of pillows on my bed, lifting my own dress and pulling down my panties so my bare bottom was exposed to the cool air. I always made sure I wiped my bottom extra clean, I would have been mortified if Her Majesty ever checked between my cheeks and found my bum dirty.”
“Then I’d imagine her placing her rod against my pale little bottom. I never pleaded or begged for mercy, I knew I deserved what I was about to receive. And then I would be spanked, rising and falling, recoiling from my strict Queen’s intangible whacking.”
“It became my favourite fantasy. I’d often imagine being sent to see my Queen when I was in the house alone. Then, one day I happened to arrange my pillows differently, so they were between my legs rather than under my hips. Now when I recoiled from Her Majesty’s discipline, I felt a new and delightful sensation. Punishment and pleasure have been entwined in my mind ever since.”
“So, thank you for caning my bottom, Miss. I have dreamt of experiencing that sensation for many years. It was as painful as I’d hoped, but at the same time surprisingly arousing. I hadn’t expected to have to sit here and write as my panties were pulled tight, but it is an ingenious and effective means of discipline, I am opening myself and writing down secrets I never thought I’d share.”
Now that, Miss Hastings thought, was an intriguing essay! She wondered if Marian still ground herself to orgasm against her pillows, and whether the strict Queen she imagined now had the face of her own headmistress. Over the years she had managed this school, she had read countless essay confessions which revealed that many of her students did indeed fantasise about her. Some were happy to admit to rubbing themselves to bliss each night as they imagined being undressed by her, or inspected, or put over her knee.
Bedtime spankings seemed to be a particularly popular fantasy, ones where she’d enter their dormitory, and watch them as they undressed and put on their nighties. Yet, in a wonderful demonstration of the uniqueness of the erotic mind, each girl imagined a different kind of spanking. Some wanted to be told to touch their toes, and caned. Some imagined that a hairbrush or a slipper had accompanied them from home, along with a little note to the headmistress requesting it be used on her bare bottom if the girl was ever naughty. Others preferred to imagine the palm of their headmistress smacking their bottom pink, then rubbing it all better afterwards.
What all had in common was they found the thought of a spanking comforting rather than terrifying. She’d realised there was something reassuring about having a disciplinarian, someone who wanted the best for them, who would see through their nonsense, and who cared enough to discipline them, and then tuck them into bed afterwards. So in the dark, when all alone, they would imagine the delight of a sore and well-spanked bottom, and how it would throb against their soft cool bedsheets. And their fingers would begin to stray downwards, and begin to rub away the ache from between their hot wet folds.
The thought of girls masturbating about having their bottoms spanked excited Miss Hastings immensely. Her left hand was now caressing the nubs of her stiff nipples, whilst her right had strayed to her crotch, now a hot wet patch beneath her palm. How she longed to stroke away the ache between her own legs, but now her tightened panties denied her fingertips, muffling her attempts to massage her clit. The tilt of the seat was obvious now, she could feel the friction rubbing against her bottom hole, and the weight of her feet dangling beneath her. And she knew it wouldn’t be long now until her squirming gave way to the frenetic uncontrollable throes of the sit-down dance.
She turned to Alice’s essay, and began reading with fevered expectation.
“Dear Miss… a few months ago, my good friends Penny and Lola visited this very room. On their return, I encouraged them to show me their marks, so both knelt on my bed and flipped up their skirts and pulled down their panties.”
“I remember staring with morbid fascination. You had given them both such a good whacking Miss, they had clear pink lines across their cheeks. But what I really wanted to see was the line from their sit-down dance. So they both reached back and held their bottoms apart. It was an amazing sight. I got so wet immediately.”
“Afterwards, I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d seen. I felt so naughty, that I’d been so turned on by my friends’ discomfort, but it made me so horny. Later, as I lay in bed, I couldn’t help playing with myself. I imagined Penny and the other girls doing the sit-down dance. I came so hard. That was when I knew it was something I had to try myself.”
“So I began to be careless and forget a few homeworks. I got my first warning. Then my final warning. Then I forgot once more and got myself sent here. And so a few weeks ago I got to experience the cane and do the dance myself. It was amazing Miss!”
“Obviously I had to try it again. But I didn’t want to blot my academic record, so I allowed myself to be caught masturbating. I noticed Mrs Watson was clearing up one of the changing rooms, so I sneaked past her into the showers. I was fully clothed, so I didn’t turn the water on, I just tugged my panties down to my ankles and put my hand up my skirt. I came so hard Miss, Mrs Watson found me sitting in the shower, slumped against the wall with my knickers on the floor. A woozy silly grin plastered on face. She made me lift my skirt and show my puffy wet slit. My guilt was undeniable. So here I am today.”
“I’ve been looking forward to my return visit so much, Miss. Did you notice how wet I was when you inspected me? Did you notice how I’d shaved myself bare especially for you, Miss?”
“Is this essay going to get me in trouble again, Miss? Maybe next time it will just be you and me in this room.”
“What would you do to me, Miss? Would you make me take off everything so I do the sit-down dance for you naked? Would you stand behind me and lean over to kiss me, and suck and nibble my little tits as the bench sinks downward? Or would you prefer to stand in front of me and put your hand up your skirt and rub yourself as you watch my little feet kick and struggle?”
“By the time you read this, Miss, I’ll be back in my dorm room, exploring the pink stripe between my legs that you gave me. I’ll be whispering your name under my breath as I rub away the heat from my poor caned bottom. Did you know what the girls you’ve whacked call you behind your back? When they pronounce your surname, we put the emphasis on the second half, Miss Hay-STINGS. That’s what I’ll be whispering right now.”
“I know how you like to stay behind after we’ve danced Miss, I’ve lurked at the end of the corridor several times, sometimes it takes you over half an hour to leave this room. Whatever could you be doing in here, Miss?”
“Are you bare, Miss? Do you shave yourself so you can feel your panties tight against your mound?
“Are you panties getting tight yet, Miss? Do you spank yourself before you take your seat? My bum is so sore, Miss, you caned me so hard. But I know why you do it Miss, smacking our bums makes our slits wet, so it doesn’t hurt as much when we get our panties pulled tight. Isn’t that right, Miss?”
Barbara Hastings read every tease of Alice’s insolent essay with a mix of seething indignation and voracious lust.
She could feel the burning sensation between her dangling legs, just as the girls would have felt. Her own panties were so tight now, she could feel her labia throbbing on either side of the narrow band of material. The hood of her clitoris had already been tugged back, so her swollen sensitive bead rubbed against the sodden fabric, so now even the slightest movement made her quiver and tremble.
She returned to Alice’s essay, eager to see what the impertinent little minx had written next, that girl would be getting such a sore bottom, that was for sure.
“Or perhaps you’d want to sit next to me on the bench, to fix your panties and dance alongside me, our fingers caressing between each other’s legs?”
“Afterwards, when you’ve pulled down my panties, would you put me over your knee and spank my bare bottom? Or would we lie on floor, kneeling over each other’s mouths, our tongues soothing the burning ache between each other’s legs? Would you like me to lick your bottom hole better, Miss?”
Barbara almost came there and then at that comment, imagining her pupil’s hot wet tongue probing and caressing so intimately. She could feel her underwear rubbing against her anus, intruding like an insistent tongue. She tried to hold herself back, but knew she was right on the brink, one last push would send her crashing over the edge. She forced her eyes back down to the page.
“Or would you make me keep my tight panties on, and make me kneel over the little potty, Miss? Would you demand that I service your bare cunt with my tongue? Soon I’d feel the need to pee, an urgent urge joining the ache within my crotch.”
“Please Miss, I’d beg, my lips and chin sticky with your juices. I need to go, Miss.”
“Don’t you dare stop” you’d reply, “I going to enjoy watching you wet your panties like a silly little girl.”
“And you’d feel my hot breath pleading, moaning, then gasping into your cunt as I gushed into the potty…”
It was all too much. Barbara felt the muscles of her vagina squeeze the ball inside, gripping the little globe intensely tight, then throbbing, then spasming wildly. The pages she was holding slipped from her fingers, fluttering to the floor like falling leaves.
A surge of pleasure flooded through her entire body, like her boiling blood had become petrol, and her clit had been a match. Her hands flew to her breasts, cradling herself as if her chest might explode. Her dangling feet kicked uncontrollably in the air, a fiery jolt burning between her legs with every convulsion, as Headmistress Hastings jerked deliriously towards the rapturous finale of her very own sit-down dance.
And as she came, she was thinking of Alice.
Naughty, naughty Alice.
- To be continued…
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