A spanking story

Headmaster Thaddeus Winklethorpe bustled down the corridor, his rubicund face set in a mask of fixated fury, unstoppable as an avenging angel.

Doors seemed to throw themselves open before him without so much as a touch of his hand. As his ominous shadow sped across the windows of nearby classrooms, eyes widened and mouths gawped. A fearsome cane swung in his right hand, like some ancient sword of justice. Would-be miscreants squirmed in their seats, the sight of the rampaging headmaster meant school rules had been broken – and soon, certainly, the perpetrator would receive their comeuppance. There would be no escape.

The tip-off had been anonymous, but quite specific. Mischief was planned in classroom 18A, the elegant handwriting confessed. 2.30pm – the last lesson of the afternoon. Bring the cane.

He could hear the ongoing kerfuffle well before he saw it. The unmistakable shrill shrieks of unsupervised schoolgirls, a sound rarely ever seen, so quickly silenced were they by disapproving adult scowls. If they wanted to screech and squeal, Headmaster Winklethorpe would happily oblige, they could howl all they liked with their panties around their ankles and hot pink stripes across their behinds.

The corridor’s final set of double-doors flung themselves apart, as the Headmaster seared towards classroom 18A with the incandescent inevitably of a harbinger comet. Through the window he could see it was Miss Bernadine’s Sixth Form class, but their teacher was nowhere to be seen. Instead, there was a rowdy ruckus that called into question the right of those involved to call themselves young ladies. Little girls would have been shamefaced had they behaved as badly.

In that moment before the classroom door thundered open, he saw everything. Every one of the students was gabbling excitedly, some sitting in little cliques upon their desks, others absent-mindedly exchanging messages, tossing scrunched-up pages across the room in long parabolic arcs. And at the front of them all, Prefect Polly Alton sat daydreaming in her teacher’s chair, her shoulders thrown back as if she hadn’t a care in the world, her feet impudently resting on the grand wooden desk…

The headmaster burst into the room to the sound of panicking squeals, as if he were a predatory beast pouncing into a scattering herd. In an instant, the unruly commotion gave way to the scraping of furniture and the clamorous thunder of footsteps, as the students scurried back to their seats. Within eight seconds, everyone was standing respectfully in silence, their faces pictures of cherubic innocence. Everyone in their proper place, as if the disgraceful disorder Mr Winklethorpe had just glimpsed had been a figment of an overactive imagination, and had never really happened.

But then there was the detritus on the classroom floor, the obscene doodles on the blackboard, the dishevelled uniforms and developing blushes. The evidence of the class’s shenanigans was clear to see. He surveyed the shameful scene, and his verdict was succinct and unequivocal…

“Disgraceful!” he castigated, in a deep gravelly voice that caused the tummies of those listening to flutter and tremble.

When discipline became necessary, Thaddeus Winklethorpe was a man of few words. No speech was ever necessary, if one of his pupils deserved punishment, they already knew what they’d done wrong  – and its consequences. The school’s policy of Collective Responsibility was quite clear: those who misbehaved together would be spanked together.

The Headmaster turned to Polly, who shirked from his penetrating scowl like one dodging a gorgon’s gaze. As one of the school prefects, she had been left in charge, a responsibility she had happily neglected. He informed her she could watch what was going to happen next, because she’d be getting her own whacking in his study afterwards. Polly just gasped.

He addressed the whole class next, pronouncing their sentence. Six of the best on the bare bottom. The twelve girls present knew the painful price of dissent, and nodded agreeably at their penalty.

“Pair up. Panties off. And bend over your desks!”

These were familiar instructions, the standard disciplinary procedure when a whole group had misbehaved. It meant that each girl should pair up with her neighbour, then lift her skirt and tuck it into her waist, and pull her panties right down to her ankles and off. Once removed the white school knickers would be quickly rolled up, its owner would open her mouth and have her underwear placed between her front teeth.

Winklethorpe expected punishments to be conducted in silence, and had found numerous benefits in using a miscreant’s panties as her own gag. For one, it helped prevent pointless pleading and snivelling beforehand. It also helped muffle the cries that might otherwise occur as bottoms were whacked. And the gags certainly helped preserve the solemnity of the occasion afterwards, when those punished would be expected to remain in position with their sore bottoms on display.

The Headmaster watched as the girls hurried to their task, tapping the tip of his cane rhythmically on the front desk, whispering the countdown.

10 … 9 … 8 …

Once the first girl had her panties placed in her mouth, she would repay the compliment, baring her neighbour’s bottom and gagging her with her own knickers. Then both girls would hurry back to bend over the front of their own desks, compliantly placing their hands on the tops of their heads. Before the Winklethorpe had concluded his countdown, twelve pairs of quivering buttocks were presented for his inspection.

Polly did not escape this ignominy, but she had to pull down her own panties, roll them up and put them in her own mouth.

The Headmaster stepped forward to the first row of desks, tapping his cane against the first girl’s bottom, before delivering six quick hard whacks. The recipient gasped and moaned into her impromptu gag, but took her punishment in good grace, keeping her legs apart and her feet planted on the floor.

He moved to the neighbouring girl, administering her six strokes in less than twenty seconds. The sting he imparted, however, would linger much longer.

There were two more girls in the front row, he chastised them both without speaking, the only sounds in the classroom the nervous breathing of its occupants, the occasional creaking of desks, and the regular swoosh-swick-smacking of the disciplinarian’s cane.

Those in the third row at the back of the class had the dubious privilege of waiting in dread anticipation the longest, listening intently to the little moans as their classmates were caned, as the whacking noises grew closer. The glistening sheen between their legs suggested some found the experience rather exciting indeed.

The final stroke stung the bottom of the twelfth member of class, and silence resumed. Headmaster Winklethorpe returned to the front of the room to survey his handiwork. A dozen striped bottoms, pink blushes already beginning to radiate outwards, like heat from the bars of a filament fire.

The Headmaster told them all they would stay in position until the final school bell rang. That meant forty more excruciating minutes, to be spent bent over their desks with their sore bottoms on display. In absolute silence, naturally. Hands would remain on their heads, and there would definitely be no rubbing! He reminded them that they could be seen from the corridor, and passers-by would be all too happy to report them if they were seen or heard violating the post-spanking rules. Remember girls: collective responsibility still applied, so if one broke the silence or rubbed her bottom, they would all be caned again.

Polly looked over the pink bums of her classmates with quiet satisfaction, the panties in her mouth masking the slightest of smirks. Then she felt the crook of the Mr Winklethorpe’s cane hook around her upper right arm, and a tug towards the door. It was Polly’s turn now, she’d be taken to the Headmaster’s study in the manner reserved for the very naughtiest girls, dragged through the school corridors by the crook of the cane, with her white knickers visible for all to see between her lips. And once there, she’d be touching her toes for much more than just six of the best…

At least, that’s how Polly had imagined it, as she’d been daydreaming at the front of the class, her feet resting insouciantly upon the desk, as her peers noisily entertained themselves around her.

Polly had written the note inviting Mr Winklethorpe to stumble across her classmates’ anarchic rowdiness. She’d written it a couple of hours ago, just after Miss Bernadine had told her that she’d been called away for a late-notice meeting, and so would have to miss the last lesson of the afternoon. As a senior prefect, Polly had been put in charge, providing an opportunity that seemed far too good to miss.

Polly looked up at the classroom clock. 2.30pm. He’d be here soon, she smiled. She might even hear the approach of his thundering footsteps. He always took reports of mischief very seriously indeed.

Headmaster Thaddeus Winklethorpe shambled down the corridor, his rubicund face made even pinker by these unaccustomed exertions. The tatty trailing edges of his long academic gown contributed to his eccentric appearance, more a shuffling black cloud than an avenging embodiment of justice. As he approached, would-be miscreants knew they had little to fear, and as he receded, they chuckled at his impotence.

The tip-off had been anonymous, but quite specific. Mischief was planned in classroom 18A. 2.30pm. Bring the cane.

Winklethorpe could hear the ongoing kerfuffle well before he saw it. The unmistakable shrill shrieks of unsupervised schoolgirls, this was all very disappointing. He resolved to have a quiet word with Miss Bernadine later.

He peered through the glass of the door at the unruly Sixth Form class. Their teacher was nowhere to be seen, just a prefect sitting in her place, seemingly oblivious to the rowdy ruckus all around her. He cleared his throat, spluttering slightly,  and gripped the door handle, striding into the classroom with as much gravitas as he could muster.

“Now… now… girls!!!” he stammered, trying to make himself heard over the continuing racket.

The heads of those in the classroom turned slowly to see who’d entered, shoulders shrugging on recognition. One by one, they ceased their own excited conversations and reluctantly returned to their seats. The anarchic hubbub dying away to the murmur of sniggering whispers.  

“W… who’s in charge here?” the headmaster mumbled.

Good question, Polly found herself thinking, before standing up authoritatively.

When she’d been first been admitted to this school, Polly had found the Headmaster quite intimidating. But time, it seemed, had worn down and wearied poor Mr Winklethorpe. The man who’d once been the imperious head of the school, a bustling, inspiring, terrifying presence, was now bumbling and innocuous. In the seven years she had known him, he had dwindled as she had flourished.

Mr Winklethorpe eyed Polly with evident dismay. A look Polly returned when she noticed he hadn’t even brought his cane.

“It was rather raucous in here, Polly. Please try to keep your classmates under control. I’m sure you all have plenty of work to be getting on with.”

Polly tried her best not to scowl. This wasn’t at all how she had imagined his arrival. In front of her, she could already see her classmates exchanging little grins. But by now they should really have been bent over their desks with their panties between their teeth. What was this school coming to? Somebody should do something.

“I have to admit, I’m very disappointed. Please see me in my office after school, Polly.”

Polly’s jaw dropped, and Mr Winklethorpe shuffled out of the classroom without saying another word. After he’d closed the door behind him, a ripple of giggles spread throughout the room, they could almost have been mocking her.

Polly eventually encouraged her classmates back to work, and as they scribbled, Polly began her scheming. Snitching on the class had clearly failed miserably, she’d clearly overestimated his authority. But perhaps, that opened new possibilities. Exciting ones. Potentially very exciting, in fact.

So when the school bell rang, Polly sauntered to the Headmaster’s office with a spring in her step. Drawing a deep breath she composed herself, and knocked. His weary voice bade her enter.

Polly opened the door timidly, closing it gingerly behind her. Yet she spoke up first, having already determined to steer the direction of their conversation.

“Am I in trouble, Sir?” she asked coquettishly, her hands crossed at her waist, her eyes fixated on her own feet.

“Er…” mumbled Mr Winklethorpe, trying to remember the opening words of the little speech on authority and responsibility he tended to recite when prefects fell short of expectations.

“Oh Sir! My whole class got into trouble because of me. I’m so sorry! Do I have to get my bad little bottom smacked?”

She raised her eyes, risking a glance at her Headmaster to assess the impact of her words. On top of the jumble of papers on his desk, she could see the note she’d written. At the time, being put in charge had seemed too good an opportunity to miss. Now it was becoming clear that what was really needed was a bit of nudging in a more intriguing direction.

“Um… well…”

Mr Winklethorpe found himself lost for words.

“I’m so, so sorry Sir! I know I should have kept the class under control. I know discipline is so important…”

In the absence of appropriate words, her Headmaster found himself just nodding along in agreement.

“Oh Sir, won’t you put me over your knee? And give me the spanking I deserve with your big strong hand. On my bare bottom?”

There are three possible responses to such an audacious question. Yes. No. And stunned silence.

Mr Winklethorpe didn’t say no. In fact, his gawping mouth didn’t say anything at all.

Polly took that as permission to proceed, reaching under her skirt to tug down her panties to her thighs. She paused for effect, then wiggled her hips provocatively until her underwear had slipped to the floor.

“Ooops…” she said coyly.

Stepping out of her underwear, which she left conspicuously discarded where it had fallen, Polly fetched one of the high-backed chairs used by visitors and placed it in the middle of the room.

She beckoned him to stand, and then escorted him by the arm, taking him from behind his desk to sit on the seat she’d chosen.

“I’ve been such a naughty girl, Sir.” Polly said, with the earnest conviction of one who really meant it.

“Well, er… yes, you have…” confirmed her Headmaster with growing certainty.

Polly lurched forward before he could change his mind, bending over his lap, effectively pinning him in place, right where she wanted him.

“Lift my skirt, Sir. I know what has to happen to naughty girls.”

He did as he was told, hesitantly pinching the hem with his fingers, then lifting it higher and higher at Polly’s insistence until her whole bottom was bared.

“Oh Sir!” she exclaimed dramatically when she was fully exposed, helpfully spreading her legs slightly to allow a tantalising glimpse of her most intimate places.

“Naughty girls must be spanked hard on their bare bottoms. Isn’t that right, Sir?”

Admiring Polly’s smooth pert cheeks, Mr Winklethorpe found it impossible to disagree with her assessment. That she had indeed been very naughty. And she did indeed deserve a good hard spanking.

“Spank me now, Sir! Please!” Polly implored.

Thaddeus Winklethorpe might almost have been mesmerised. He found himself raising his hand above Polly’s pale cheeks as if under the control of some mysterious presence. He struggled to remember the last time he had spanked one of his pupils. Times and customs had changed during his tenure here. What it a coincidence that classes seemed be more unruly now? That the girls seemed less respectful, less focussed and poorly behaved. Perhaps this prefect was right, perhaps it was time to bring back some old-fashioned discipline. This could be an experiment, he reasoned. Yes. He would give this girl the spanking she deserved, and evaluate the effectiveness of his discipline afterwards.

On his lap, Polly held her breath, waiting for the first stinging slap to land across her cheeks…

Then the Headmaster’s palm fell, landing on Polly’s bottom as a good-natured pat.

Polly gasped in surprise at the timidness of the blow, she barely felt its impact at all. So she quickly encouraged her Headmaster to deliver another spank. But the next effort was barely any harder, more an innocuous tap than disciplinary smack.

“Harder, Sir!” she encouraged, “I’ve been so very naughty.”

Polly tolerated a dozen more ineffectual pats before her patience became exhausted. Then she dropped the coy little girl act, and decided to talk more candidly, adult to adult.

“Look, Sir. This isn’t working. It’s not hurting enough. It’s supposed to be a punishment. You’re supposed to be giving me a sore bottom.”

“Oh um, goodness, I am sorry! I will try harder…” Winklethorpe replied apologetically, feeling more than a little foolish.

But the next dozen spanks were barely any harder. Now Polly was growing increasingly exasperated by his ineptitude. It felt like this was the second time today her Headmaster had foiled her meticulous plans with his incompetence.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” she said at last, “This is just embarrassing.”

Polly stood up and purposefully marched towards the wall where a few canes were dangling. She could see little ridges of dust on the top of each crook, clearly these implements didn’t get used much. They were probably only here as antique decorations, more hipster coffee shop than kinky dungeon. She picked up a cane and whipped it through the air experimentally, it made an incredibly satisfying swish.

“Here Sir, take this – and hold it like this…”

Polly could barely believe that she was giving her own Headmaster a lesson on how to wield a cane. Once she was satisfied with his basic technique, she adjusted his stance, so he was standing just the right distance away from her, and then bent over in front of him, lifting her own skirt to the small of her back. Then Polly shuffled backwards until she could feel the cane resting flat against the lower half of her bare buttocks.

“That’s it, Sir. Now – pull your arm back, keep the cane parallel to the floor – and deliver the first whack.”

There was a swish, then Polly felt the sting of the rod’s impact. Not bad.

“Again Sir, harder this time!”

The next strike was indeed louder and stingier, that was a good sign. So Polly decided to mix some goading into her encouragement.

“And again Sir. When you discovered us this afternoon, I thought you’d spank us all there and then! Could you imagine that? Thirteen bare bottoms, all with pink stripes from your cane…”

The subsequent whack was the best yet, it almost took her breath away.

“Oh Sir! Do you find it exciting to smack the poor little bottoms of naughty young girls?”

That comment seemed to provoke a particularly sizzling stroke. Polly could feel a burning sensation spreading across her bottom.

“Oh Sir. Is this making you hard, Sir?” she goaded, parting her legs slightly to reveal her own glistening excitement.

That prompted another intensely satisfying whack. Polly looked across at Mr Winklethorpe, her eyes immediately drawn to the conspicuous bulge at the front of his trousers. She reached back, momentarily pulling her buttocks apart, flashing the crinkled pink ring of her bottom hole and the shiny folds beneath.

“Make the last one hard Sir! I’m such a naughty girl!”

His sixth stroke didn’t disappoint her, Polly felt its echoes tingling in her clitoris.

And that was six of the best, Polly concluded. She reached between her legs, stroking herself to collect some of her arousal, before standing to her full height and brazenly dabbing a little patch of her musky goo on his septum, right between his nostrils.

“Oh Sir…” she teased coyly as she straightened his tie, “Just smell what you’ve done to me…”

Now she could see his eyes blazing, with a coruscating intensity that had been quite absent when he’d shambled into her classroom earlier this afternoon. I think I might just have his full attention now, thought Polly. It was time for her manifesto.

“I think there just isn’t enough discipline imposed in this school any more. Things are getting out of control. We need to take back control, don’t we Sir?”

Mr Winklethorpe nodded vigorously in agreement. His prefect was just articulating what he’d long been thinking. Too many of the senior girls had indeed lost their respect for authority. Almost every day his staff reported impudent high-jinks, of gangs of silly young ladies running amok. Strict discipline was clearly required, wrongdoers needed to learn that misbehaviour had a price, and that price was a sore bottom.

“Do you know, Sir, all the outrageously naughty things that go on at this school behind your back?”

He was forced to admit he did not.

Polly recited a few provocative examples with relish. Like the unnamed Sixth Former whose boyfriend had given her a butt plug, and who had spent today wearing the plug under her uniform. Her feat of daring had already been approvingly whispered half-way round the common room.

Then, there was the elusive and secretive Drink Club, (first rule of Drink Club: do not talk about Drink Club), with their hidden stash of beers and spirits. Or the so-called Homework Factory, a cadre of the cleverest with an entrepreneurial spirit, they’d complete any assignment, to any deadline – price on application.

“Perhaps, we might come to some kind of arrangement, Sir?”

The Headmaster nodded encouragingly, intrigued to hear the prefect’s suggestion.

“I propose bringing instances of rule-breaking to your attention, Sir. Those identified will, of course, need to be punished, so all such individuals will be summoned here to your office.”

He nodded his agreement; what Polly was proposing was eminently sensible. School rules were worthless without the ability to enforce them, and what his prefect seemed to be offering was the covert intelligence needed to uncover the mischief, and bring those who thought themselves untouchable to justice. Some might call her a tattle-tale, or a snitch, or an informer – but they were such pejorative terms! She was merely helping to ensure the good name of the school was respected. And what could possibly be wrong with that?

“I further propose all rule-breakers be spanked on their bare bottoms. Minor offences by a hand-spanking over the knee. Moderate offences by the wooden ruler whilst touching their toes. And serious offences by caning whilst bending over your desk.”

Again, her Headmaster concurred, that sounded like a perfectly appropriate menu of punishments.

“I also propose that I be present to witness all spankings. As I’m sure you’ll agree, a female presence will help make intimate discipline less awkward. Likewise I suggest I be made solely responsible for the pulling down of panties and the placement of said garment in the mouths of those to be punished.”

Her Headmaster nodded once more, a female presence was an entirely reasonable suggestion. Placing panties in the mouth was a fascinating proposition, after all, those being spanked should endure their punishment in silence. Clearly his prefect had thought all this through, she did seem to be very knowledgeable when it came to matters of discipline. He wondered where she’d learnt it all.

Polly took a deep breath as subtly as she could manage, and hoped her poker face would hold for the final and most extravagant term of her proposal.

“And I also propose that the administering of spankings is shared between us, fifty-fifty. That is, every other girl who finds herself in your office will be disciplined by me.”

Thaddeus Winklethorpe had to smile at her bravado. The girl was certainly bold, and she pushed a hard bargain. But as he considered the details of her proposal he realised the strength of her negotiating position. Put bluntly, without her information, no miscreants would ever be caught. Fifty percent of some spanked bottoms was a much more alluring prospect than one hundred percent of no spanked bottoms. Besides, he quite liked the idea of watching this headstrong young lady spanking her classmates, he could watch it all sitting behind his desk. It would certainly help conceal his inevitable intumescence.

Polly watched him ponder her proposal, and held her breath.

After what seemed like an age, he extended his hand.

“Agreed, young lady.”

Polly accepted his handshake with a grin and a resolute grip of her own. He did have lovely strong hands, she’d see he put them to good use.

“Excellent, Sir! Then we shall take back control of this school together! I think you’ll find I can be very imaginative…”

And as if to emphasise her point, she ran her fingertip down the unseemly bulge at the front of his trousers. It was at that very moment Polly realised just how much power she now wielded. The Headmaster, and by implication the whole school, was now – quite literally –  under her thumb.

The prospect of her new power was thrillingly intoxicating. With it, Polly knew she could now denounce anyone in the school, and guilty or not, they would end up here, whimpering as she pulled down their panties, their eyes pleading silently as their own knickers were placed in their mouths. And if any of the silly little girls cried, she’d dab away their tears with their own underwear afterwards.

Perhaps she should insist on inspections too. Bend over and touch your toes, girl. Legs apart. Oh… what’s this? You’re soaking wet! Filthy girl! Well, if the prospect of a spanking excites you that much, you may have double.

Oh yes, she liked that idea. How the offender would moan plaintively against her gag when she heard her sentence had been doubled, begging for a chance to explain herself, but knowing deep down the shameful evidence was be incontrovertible.

Polly could already imagine putting the naughty over her knee, or making them do the bend-over dance to the beat of her ruler. She could almost hear their snivelling as she spanked their bare bottoms. And how exciting it would be to wield the cane, and paint rows of hot pink stripes onto trembling cheeks. To luxuriate in the pleas of the peasants as they prostrated themselves before their new queen.

Yes, telling tales was rather treacherous, but weren’t rules a good thing? Surely restoring order to the school was a noble endeavour. Didn’t that make her one of the good guys now?

As for those lingering traces of guilt – well, thought Polly, there’s no better cure for a guilty conscience than a well-smacked bottom.

“Now Sir…” she said teasingly, shepherding him back to sit on the high-backed chair.

“Your hand-spanking technique is quite atrocious. I think we’d both benefit from some practice…”  




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