by Leland Mays
Nothing embodies wholesome feminine charm so much as the English schoolgirl. The girl who walked down Abbott Close in Merseyside that autumn day was a perfect example. She was wearing a navy blue school blazer over her white school blouse. Her short skirt was grey and red tartan. She wore black Mary Jane shoes; her slim calves were covered with thick white stockings.
Her face was a picture of youth and innocence, from the rosy glow on her cheeks to her deep blue eyes that peered out through oversized tortoiseshell glasses. A beret, whose colour matched the school blazer, sat atop her head. From it spilled her chestnut hair, trimmed in short bangs on her forehead; she had woven part of her hair into two shoulder-length braids.
Carrying her canvas book bag by a strap across her shoulder, the girl mounted the steps of a semi-detached and rang the doorbell. The door opened to reveal a middle-aged man, with thinning dark hair that was grey along the sides.
He was well-dressed, wearing a white shirt beneath a sleeveless cardigan sweater. His trousers were dark wool, his shoes brown, of wing-tip design. The man had about him an air of authority; a man who was fair-minded yet stern, with no tolerance for misbehaviour.
"Well now. Hello, Pamela," he said in an even voice.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Bishop," the girl replied. The mere sight of the man brought a faint blush to her cheeks, a slight tremor to her voice.
"Come in, young lady."
Pamela did so, removing her beret and placing it, along with her bag, on the divan when Mr. Bishop instructed her to do so. "You're five minutes late," he remarked.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Bishop."
"Ah well, it's the way of young people these days. I've laid out some tea and biscuits on the dining table. Shall we have some as we talk?"
"Yes sir."
Mr. Bishop poured Typhoo tea for them both. Pamela nibbled on a Bakewell tart as the man took a sip of tea and began to speak.
"Pamela, I called you here today to discuss your problems. I can't begin to say what a disappointment you've been to all of us at Charters Academy."
"I'm sorry, sir," she murmured.
His grey eyes now cold, Mr. Bishop went on, "You neglect your studies; you're insolent to the other teachers. And I've heard shocking, scandalous rumours about you. I pray they aren't true."
The girl's blue eyes were now wide with anxiety. "What rumours, sir?"
"If you must know, one involves Lesley Collier. I'm told that you and she ... well, I can hardly say it. That you and Lesley were caught kissing each other in the art class storage room. Kissing rather passionately, I'm told."
The young girl, now blushing intensely, bowed her head but said nothing.
"Well," said Mr. Bishop, "is there any truth to this?"
The girl heaved a sigh. "Yes sir, it's true."
Crossing his legs, Mr. Bishop went on, "Pamela, I fancy myself a counsellor as well as your headmaster. Now, if I'm going to help you, you must tell me everything. Why on earth did you want to kiss another girl?"
Her face red with shame, she looked at the man and spoke in a quiet voice. "Because it felt nice, sir. Lesley has the most darling perfume; I just love its aroma. I so wanted to put my arms around her and hold her. Her lips were soft. I ... I kissed her cheeks, her lips. She tasted so sweet, Mr. Bishop."
"Oh, Pamela, Pamela," the man said, shaking his head in disapproval. "Whatever shall we do with you? You are such a lovely girl, and from one of the best families in Lancashire. Yet your are utterly immoral. You have no decency, no sense of shame; you are entirely a slave to your lustful feelings. I'm right, aren't I?"
"Yes sir," the girl said dejectedly, "I suppose it's true."
"We cannot permit you to harbour lewd, erotic desires for other girls. I have no choice but to punish you, young lady."
"Yes, I know," the girl said in a near whisper.
Mr. Bishop rose and pointed to an overstuffed chair near the fireplace. "I'll need you to bend over the arm of that chair, Pamela. But first, of course, lower your knickers."
Trembling with apprehension, Pamela got up and went to the chair, her back now to Mr. Bishop. She hesitated, then pulled up her skirt and grasped the top of her knickers. She slid them down to her knees; then, looked over her shoulder to the man as she awaited her just punishment.
Mr. Bishop saw that she was wearing plain white cotton knickers, the proper sort for schoolgirls. He came to her and gently forced her to bend over and place her elbows on the arm of the chair. Then he pushed her pleated skirt up above her waist, so that her girlish bum was entirely exposed. She had rather wide hips and full buttocks for a girl her age. Her nether cheeks were as smooth as cream, and of the same colour.
"Pamela," said Mr. Bishop, "I want you to picture in your mind Lesley Collier's face. Are you doing so?"
He heard the girl quietly reply, "Yes sir, I am."
"Good." Without another word he came down on Pamela's bottom with his bare hand, a loud whack that echoed off the walls of the room.
"Oh!" the girl cried. "Oh, that hurt!"
"It was meant to, young lady," said Mr. Bishop. "Now, think of Miss Lesley again." He waited a second, then came down on Pamela's bum with another hard smack.
"Aah!" she cried.
The man saw that the girl's soft bum now had a rosy imprint where his hand had administered justice. "Pamela, close your eyes, and imagine the taste of that slutty Lesley's kisses. Do it."
"Oh must I, sir?" the girl cried.
"Yes indeed!"
Once again the headmaster's hand came down hard on Pamela's bum, twice in quick succession. Each whack brought a gasp of surprise; each left a pink outline on her pale flesh.
For several moments the ritual continued. Mr. Bishop would order the girl to think of Lesley's face, her lips. In turn he would spank Pamela's bum, showing no mercy, resolute in his determination to punish her misdeed.
Finally he stopped and began to lightly caress Pamela's bright pink bum with his hand. By now his manhood was fully stiff in his trousers, yet he paid no mind to this distraction. Mr. Bishop was a man who could stay entirely focused on his duty as headmaster. He would never let his own emotions interfere with the task at hand.
"Now, young lady," he murmured. "Perhaps the next time you see Lesley, you'll recall the punishment your bum took because of your shameful behaviour. Will it help you resist those sordid temptations that all girls face?"
Pamela was now breathing hard, her buttocks aflame from the man's harsh discipline. She looked back at him, saying, "Oh, I hope so, Mr. Bishop!"
"Straighten up, Pamela. Look at me."
The girl did so. His hands on his hips, Mr. Bishop gazed sternly at her and spoke again. "I suspect you've misbehaved in other ways, young lady. Would you care to tell me?"
The girl paused for a few seconds, then, her head bowed, said, "I ... I spread my legs in literature class. I let Timothy Walton see my knickers."
"And you did this deliberately?"
"Yes sir. Oh, I can't help it. These naughty feelings come over me and I cannot resist!"
"That's because of your wild, licentious nature, young lady. And Timothy, a poor twit barely possessed of any social skills. You mustn't tease the lad, Pamela."
"I know, sir."
"Should you be punished for it?"
In a despondent voice the girl said, "Yes sir." She then turned her back on Mr. Bishop, raised her skirt, and bent over. Her pink bum once again on display, she awaited more punishment.
It was not long in coming. Mr. Bishop began to paddle her young derriere, mixing hard smacks with lighter ones that he knew would sting like fire. Soon the girl's buttocks were cherry red as she gasped and shuddered each time his firm hand struck her soft flesh.
After a while he paused. The girl rose up and turned to face him, gasping for breath, even as a sheen of perspiration covered her forehead.
The headmaster spoke. "Pamela, are there any other offences for which you should be properly chastised? You must tell me."
The girl took a deep breath. "I ... I failed my last maths exam. Oh, I tried to study for it, Mr. Bishop, but the most awful thoughts kept coming into my head! I ... I had such sexual yearnings that I couldn't concentrate on algebra!"
"Right. And how did you relieve these obscene, shameful yearnings?"
"I touched myself, down there, Mr. Bishop. I became all warm and wet; it felt so good I just couldn't stop. Each time I tried to study, I would get those same urges again."
"Ah Pamela," the man sighed. "This is such a difficult time in a girl's life. Your hormones raging, disgraceful sexual thoughts filling your head when you should be thinking of algebra; of our great works of English literature."
The girl took a deep breath, saying, "Yes, sir. I know I'm a failure, a great disappointment to you and my parents, to everyone around me. I truly deserve the harshest treatment."
Pamela looked at him. His grey eyes seemed to pierce her as she blinked back the tears in her own limpid blue eyes. Without a word the girl raised up her skirt, offering a brief glimpse of her clean-shaven pussy before she turned and bent over to accept the discipline that she needed and deserved.
Mr. Bishop once more carried out his duty as headmaster. Many hard smacks rained down on the young girl's cheeks, again bringing them to a bright crimson colour. When he sensed that Pamela could scarcely bear the pain now coursing through her, he would pause for a moment. Without thinking, his hands would glide over her throbbing red cheeks as he bent forward and spoke to her.
"Dear girl, I know you feel agony, but you must endure it. You realize it's for your own good, do you not?"
Between ragged breaths Pamela said, "Yes sir. You're right of course. I'm only getting what I deserve."
Mr. Bishop prided himself on meting out the exact amount of punishment that a girl needed. Many years of disciplining students had taught him just how many smacks on their bottom would teach them a lesson, without being unduly harsh. The last thing he wanted was to spank this young girl for no good reason.
He finished with a brief volley of stinging whacks, now feeling the heat emanating from Pamela's cherry red buttocks. Then he said, "Very well, that's enough for now."
Still blinking back tears from the intense burning in her derriere, the girl rose and turned. She took a deep breath, saying, "May I please pull up my knickers, Mr. Bishop?"
"Yes, of course."
The girl bent down and slowly drew her knickers up into place; then, she let the skirt fall over her hips. Mr. Bishop watched her, his arms folded in front of him.
"Now, young lady, what do you say?"
"Thank you sir, for spanking me. I know I needed it. I appreciate that you want to help me become a better student and a better person. Thank you."
"You're quite welcome. It is my duty as headmaster to mould young girls into ladies who can fulfil their role in society."
He paused, his eyes the colour of steel as he spoke. "But remember, Pamela, if you step out of line again, you'll receive another hard spanking. I will not allow you to remain the slutty little tart you are now. No sir, I will not rest until you've become the girl that your parents and I expect you to be."
"Yes sir. Thank you sir. May I go now?"
"You may." He watched as Pamela, her buttocks still throbbing with pain, took slow, careful steps to the divan. She donned her beret and placed her book bag over her shoulder.
Then she turned to the man. "Good afternoon, Mr. Bishop."
Mustering a fatherly smile, he replied, "Good afternoon, Pamela. Take care on the way home."
The schoolgirl left Mr. Bishop's house and walked, with increasing speed, out of Abbott Close into Aigburth Lane, then Wilton Street. After about five blocks she came to the Hanover Hotel and entered. She walked briskly to the front desk. The middle-aged woman who was managing the desk came to attention when she saw Pamela.
"Good afternoon, Miss Smith," she said.
"Hello Gail," Pamela replied in a crisp voice. "My key, please."
"Yes mum." The woman handed Pamela her key. The girl took the elevator and soon was entering Room 411.
Twenty minutes later, a young woman emerged from Room 411. She was smartly clad in a well-tailored wool and cashmere outer coat, beneath which was a pinstriped woman's trouser suit. Her shoes were mid-heel leather loafers. She was no longer wearing tortoiseshell glasses, but rather contact lenses.
As she waited for the elevator, she glanced into the hallway mirror and noticed that her chestnut hair, now parted off centre and flowing over her shoulders, still showed faint kinks where it had been braided. She quickly withdrew a hairbrush from her book-satchel and ran it through her hair until she was satisfied.
Once in the lobby, she laid the book bag on the front desk. It now contained a beret, white stockings, and all the other garments of a proper schoolgirl's uniform. Looking at Gail, she said, "Hold this bag until I call again."
"Yes mum," the woman replied.
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