by Frank Martinet
It was an unfortunate day for Calista. She was a small thin thing, and had so far managed to avoid the notice of Headmaster Gus Hambleton or any of his teacher cohorts. At a private school like Chaucer's there were always people on alert for exciting new prospects.
It began with Coach Wilkins, who spotted Calista in her skintight leggings preparing for a run. He'd always thought her scrawny, but that had been a year earlier, and now, suddenly, she was developing. Her bum was tiny in absolute terms, but relative to the size of her frame it appeared to be quite plump and was definitely tight and shapely.
"You there, Bell!"
Calista looked up, alarmed at being noticed, and obediently trotted over. She came up to his chest, but even that was cheating a little, for her light brown hair was in a pony tail high on her head that made her look slightly taller.
He glared down at her critically. Her waist was not much bigger in diameter than one of his legs! "What's that you're wearing, Bell?"
She blushed, glancing down. "Leggings, sir," she mumbled.
"Awfully snug, aren't they?"
She blushed deeper still, glancing around at the other students, who were busy pretending to stretch and not paying any attention to the teacher despite his bellowing voice.
"They're my little sister's," she explained. "They still fit me, sort of. They're stretchy."
"Stretched rather thin, I'd say. That seat's practically bursting. It's threadbare, too. Your sister get her bum whacked a lot wearing those?"
He'd have thought her face couldn't get any more red, but somehow Calista managed. She was quite pretty, he decided. She still looked younger than her age of 18, with hardly any breasts to speak of, but she was now starting to shape up nicely, especially in those threadbare tights.
"I... I don't know, sir. I suppose. She's rather naughty."
"And you? You're not?"
"No, sir!" replied the angel, for she'd never been in trouble, not even once. At Chaucer they used the slipper and the cane, but she'd escaped all such corrections, too frightened of discipline to break any rule - or at least get caught. Her parents spanked and paddled, but that hadn't happened in years.
"Lying gets you the cane around here," growled the coach sternly, and Calista went from red to pale.
"Sir! I'm not lying."
"Another lie! All girls are naughty. You ought to know that. It says it right in the Bible, Romans 3:23."
Calista hung her head, realizing it was true. Her thin chest swelled and her eyes widened when she saw Coach Wilkins bring out his plimsoll. She was too frightened to disobey when he ordered her to turn around and place her hands on her knees.
He eyed the round protrusions of her buttocks. The twin chubs were as perfect as pears, jutting wide at the base and tapering gracefully upward into the dip of her back. Bent over, the cheeks thrust out, straining the worn gray fabric of her tights. The thin seam between the mounds was deeply sunk and bending caused the cheeks to spread and separate.
Coach Wilkins grinned ruthlessly as he drew back the flat leather gym shoe and struck. The rubber sole flexed as it drove into the solid flesh, giving of a report like a rifle shot. The entire class froze, everyone turning to see who was getting smacked. Mouths fell open when they saw it was Calista, the girl with perfect scores who was never impertinent and never got send to the Head for the cane.
"Oooh!" Calista called out, unable to keep quiet as the alarming sting spread across her butt. Only her right cheek had been struck, but the tingling was intense and she'd never been so much as slapped. Before she could say anything else, another explosion of fire hit her left buttock and she yelped.
The coach gave the girl no slack and no benefit for her years of perfect behavior. She was a woman now, or nearly so, according to the orbs of her bottom, and that meant regular bum-warmings with no thought of mercy. It was the Chaucer School way.
Six to each chubby cheek left Calista writhing with a few tears trickling down her pretty face. Those came mostly from the humiliation and embarrassment of all the eyes watching, than the pain, which was more discomfort than agony. She just managed to keep in position, and therefore didn't earn extras, and was so relieved when ordered to rise that she didn't even argue with the coach about what seemed like an unfair punishment.
But then he harumphed and glared at her and sent her off to the headmaster with a note. "Don't bother to change," he ordered. "Just go right as you are."
Calista was glad to escape gym class and all her giggling peers, but once she was in the corridor heading for the administration offices, she started to feel odd in her tight running leggings and sweatshirt. She normally ran in the woods near her home and never felt self-conscious as there weren't many people around, but school was different, especially wearing outdoor clothes inside.
Headmaster Hambleton was a big man like Coach Wilkins, but his was more girth and much less obvious muscle. His face was handsome with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, his hair so dark it had to be the result of product. He could be charming and had been the only time Calista had met him, with her parents when she enrolled a few years ago, but now she was in trouble and his eyes glowed with stern coldness.
He read coach's note a second time, shaking his head. "Lying is unbecoming," he said. "It must be thrashed out of naughty young ladies like yourself."
"But I didn't-" Calista started to say, stopping herself before she finished the thought. She realized the trap and after her first experience with the plimsoll, was wary. If she said she hadn't lied when the Head believed she had, she'd be guilty of lying twice, at least in his eyes. So instead she course-corrected and asked, "How did I lie, sir?"
"Coach's message does not say. But Wilkins would not send you to me undeserved, so you must have lied. That means the cane."
"But he already slippered me!"
"That must have been for something else. When you get sent to me, I use the cane."
Horror went through the girl. She was too busy shuddering to notice the way the heavyset man was eying the shape of her buttocks through the thin gray fabric of her running uniform. At least he knew why Coach Wilkins had sent him the girl. A bonus would be in his next paycheck.
Hambleton stood and made his way to a rack of canes that hung prominently on the wall. One thing Chaucer School didn't do was hide their use of corporal punishment. So many places had moved on to more humane methods of discipline than the cane, slipper, tawse, and wooden paddle that were one of the key distinctions of this elite school. Parents sent their sons and daughters to Chaucer because it was strict. It was a feature, not a bug.
The headmaster took his time selecting a rod. This wasn't because the choice was difficult - he'd made up his mind as soon as he'd seen the jut of Calista's taut little rump - but because he wanted to torment her longer with the knowledge that she was going to be beaten and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
He hoped she would try, of course. Any protests or pleading would give him excuses for extra strokes, and he so wanted to see this young thing squirm. He wasn't sure how he'd never noticed her before; he had no recollection of seeing her during the normal day to day activities of school life. Doubtless she'd come as some innocent tiny bud and was finally beginning to blossom. He couldn't wait to have her in his office regularly, touching her toes for the cane. He'd watch that fine little bum swell from now until she graduated later in the year, and by then he had no doubt she'd be an expert at suffering under the rod.
The stick he selected was a thin one. Calista's bottom was small and delicate and didn't need a heavy bruiser. A narrow cane, as whippy as an eel, would sting like mad and be just what a novice like her needed. Over time he could experiment with other weights and lengths and see how she responded. This lighter one would be sufficient for this first time. It wouldn't faze a veteran like Lucy Simms, a sixth-form fat-arsed tart that needed beating twice a week, but Calista would howl.
When he turned to face her, bending the cane menacingly between his hands, she was pale and trembling and shaking her head.
"But I didn't lie, sir. I swear I didn't!"
"Then you're accusing one of my finest teachers of lying in his report. That's worthy of an additional caning right there."
Calista's mouth dropped open and she gasped. "Oh no, sir, please! I didn't mean that. I'd never... I think he, uh, just misunderstood, that's all. It was a communication error."
"A communication error."
"Yes sir."
"On your part."
"Uh, no."
"So you're accusing a teacher of making a mistake?"
Calista was sweating profusely. Everything she said seemed to come out wrong. She was so distraught and terrified she was having trouble focusing and explaining herself correctly. She took a deep breath.
"Sir, he asked me if I was naughty and I said no. Then he accused me of lying."
"Well, obviously you're naughty. You're a girl!"
Calista flushed at that sexist characterization. "Er, perhaps, but I was meaning that I hadn't been punished. I'm a good girl. I've never been in trouble."
"So you've just never been caught."
"I've never done anything in need of being caught."
"Never. Not one broken rule in all your time at Chaucer?"
Calista made the mistake of hesitating. It made the headmaster smile a grin that made her toes crinkle. Before she could open her mouth he silenced her with his palm out.
"Don't earn yourself a second thrashing for lying a second time," he cautioned. "You're already getting extra strokes for arguing your sentence."
"But-" Calista's eyes pooled with tears. She was at a loss for words. If she admitted that perhaps she had done something wrong in the past, she'd be proving that she had lied to Coach. Then she really would deserve the cane.
Arguing that she was perfect, however, was a debate she'd never win. She was stuck. The best she could do now was to cut her loses and take the punishment, unfair as it was. So she tried a new tactic.
"Sir," she said humbly, "please don't give me extra strokes. I'll take the four or whatever it is for lying, but know that I didn't mean to lie. I misunderstood the question. I was answering, 'Have I ever been in trouble?' not 'Have I ever sinned?' Of course, I have sinned. No one is perfect. But I really do try and be good."
"Lying is six. And while I appreciate that you've come to understand and accept your guilt, your prevarication has wasted too much of my time, so you'll be getting two extras for arguing, as well as four more for saying you didn't lie when you did."
Calista gasped. "But... but that's 12 strokes!"
"It is. I'm glad to see our math department is on their game. Now, if you're done delaying, shall we get on with your punishment? If you cooperate and obey right this minute, I'll give you one concession."
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