by Karl Quentin
"I tell you what!" said Amy Shaw, "if I had any choice, I'd take a thrashing from Mr Waldorf over a spanking from Mr Prentice any old day!"
"You must be daft!" exclaimed Chloe Brick. "Mr Prentice has got something about him. I can't stand the man personally, but you must admit, when he's got you over those big firm thighs of his, and he's got your skirt up, and he's taking your pants down that way he has, you know, slipping them down as though he was taking off a pair of gloves, and his hand all warm on you as your pants slide off your bottom and you know you're all open now... mmm!"
"Oh Chloe! You're insatiable! I hate Prentice. But Mr Waldorf, he's kind and generous - sometimes - and he's always fair. If he's caning you he always gives you enough time to recover before he gives you the next one, and sometimes he'll praise you for taking a hard stroke well, and once he even helped me up afterwards! To tell you the truth..." (down went her voice)... "I think he rather fancies me."
"Oh pull the other one! You're nothing but a prisoner to him, a bad girl needing punishment. Anyway, he's a wimp. Thin and pasty, ugh, and always oiling around: 'How are you getting on, my dear? No complaints, I hope?' Yuck! Give me the real bastards any time, the ones who make no bones about giving you as hard a time as they can. The ones who obviously like it when we misbehave, because it gives them a chance to get our pants down and make us squeal."
Amy giggled. "God, I really wish they'd give us a very hard time! You know what I mean? Really hard!"
"Of course I know what you mean. How long have I been locked up in here? Six bloody months! Six months without a man. I used to be out on the pull, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays, and I was doing alright. Now I have to bring myself off and risk a beating if I get caught - unless there's a particularly friendly girl around - but it's not the same. So if I'm getting spanked over a man's knee, and I can feel how hard he is... Well, it's incredibly frustrating! That Martin, he's always got a hard-on, all day long. I bet he'd last a while. I'd love to have him in my mouth and make him come! Listen to him groaning for a change!" Chloe imitated a man approaching orgasm, and Amy laughed. So did several other young women who were listening.
"I hate to admit it," said Abbie Russell, "but there's something about Martin that makes me breathless. When a teacher is handing out punishments left and right, and you're sitting there helpless waiting to find out whether you're for it today, and Martin's eyes are going round the room, and he takes you in, and holds you for a long minute... And you can see the bulge in those tight black trousers! And you know he's hoping to whack your bare bottom, but what he really wants to do is screw you - oh boy! - just then I'd let him do anything he wanted! What a tight bum he's got. And I like his flat stomach." She coloured. "Problem is, I loathe him as well. And everything he stands for. I get so guilty that I feel like this, I'm glad you guys feel the same."
"Welcome to the club. Of course we feel like this. We're red-blooded women, aren't we? We're young and in our prime! And we're locked up in here together with all these forceful men..."
"I really have this thing about Mr Garmond," said little Fiona Williams quietly.
"Mr Garmond!" everyone exclaimed.
Fiona blushed, wished she hadn't spoken, and then ploughed on. "He's always so well-spoken and so well dressed. He seems so distant and unreachable! He can punish the whole class and just get his hair a bit ruffled. I love it when his hair gets ruffled!" Her eyes had a faraway look. "When he's caned half a dozen of us hard, and he's just breathing a bit heavily at the end! His tie goes all skew-whiff, and his eyes dance... I remember when he punished you for falling asleep in class, Chloe! Gosh he was so sarcastic! He really tore you to shreds!"
"Mr Garmond..." Chloe began.
"I sat there watching, and my bottom was hot and sore from something or other, and I just thought he was like a god! I loved it - I always love it - when he rolls up his sleeves for action and shows those manly forearms. I hate the rest of them, they're all such brutes, but Mr Garmond can roll up his sleeves and deal with me any time he wants!"
An argument began and went on about the respective merits and demerits of various staff members. Barbara Watson sat and listened. She had been tempted at first to scold the girls for their hopeless infatuations, and even more for having any feelings for their sadistic jailers. But something stopped her. She was tired of always being called 'granny' for one thing. And for another... she was only forty-five.
She was still lively and pretty and had been locked up in this hellhole for nine months, with another eleven to go. Barbara missed her husband so much. The idea of having sex with Mr Garmond or Martin or Mr Waldorf or - God forbid! - Mr Prentice made her feel ill. But to be touched, to be held, to be driven out of herself! To feel the comfort of a man, away from all these bloody women! And after all she knew what these girls were talking about. Sometimes, after she had had a spanking, when she was still fuming with outrage and weeping with humiliation - that's when she wanted Mark most. Their sex life had perhaps become a bit repetitive, but she would have given him a surprise if he had been available just after she had got spanked!
But he wasn't available. So she dreamed about what she would do when she got out.
The long Bleakdale day always began with the same lesson, gym. Oh how Barbara hated it! Out of bed at the crack of dawn, a cold water wash, then left! right! left! right! down those three flights of echoing stone stairs to one of the three school gyms. Each one was capable of holding two whole years, which meant that every morning there were six different classes being taken by at least six masters. The noise, ten minutes after you had woken up to another day of drudgery and strict discipline, was hideously grating. The squeak of gymshoes, the shouting of gym masters, the thwack of slippers.
Each class was expected to enter the gym on the double, and form into lines running on the spot, knees high, until all thirty were inside. Up and down they pounded, short white PE skirts flying, little white socks going forward and back. Latecomers were spanked across the knee, one smack for each second. Fortunately today nobody was late, indeed only the newest girls ever were.
Once Class 4B was assembled, their master Mr Evans addressed them. No one ever argued over Mr. Evans' fanciability! He was a short, fat irascible Welshman, built like a Christmas pudding. Whistle round his neck, strap dangling from his nonexistent waist, gym shoe in his hand, Mr Evans held the floor.
"Morning class!"
"Good morning, Mr Evans!"
"Before we start, class, I want you to meet our newest member of staff, Mr Jeffrey." He extended his hand, and a young man in a Bleakdale tracksuit bounded towards them. He stood next to Mr Evans, bouncing up and down.
"Good morning class!" he smiled as he jumped. His thick dark hair bounced in curls around him. He really was very young, thought Barbara, twenty-two at the most. She suddenly flushed with humiliation at the thought of this boy being in charge of her. He was also very good looking, which didn't help.
"Good morning Mr Jeffrey!" she chanted along with the others. She felt his eyes suddenly catch her, and then narrow. Oh God! What have I done now! Oh don't let me be spanked by this boy!
"Mr Jeffrey will be taking you for athletics, tennis, and lacrosse," said Mr Evans. "This morning he's just an observer to see how we do things here at Bleakdale. This is Class 4B, Mr Jeffrey, as lazy and unfit a group of rebels and miscreants as you'll find in the whole school! Slipperings, Mr Jeffrey, and lots of them! That's the only kind of motivation they understand, see. Bottoms up, knickers down, and whack 'em till they can't sit down! You'll soon see. And where the slipper doesn't do the trick, a good application of strap oil certainly will." Mr Jeffrey looked slightly sheepish at this speech.
"Right class! Ten-shun!" Thirty pairs of bare legs snapped together. "Let's start the day with warming up exercises!"
The morning routine was always the same. Stretching and limbering, was followed by press-ups, followed by star jumps, followed by bicycling on the floor, followed by thirty runs between and to the tops of the wall bars, followed by press-ups, followed by the vaulting horse, followed by lunge jumps, followed by abdominal crunches, followed by press-ups, followed by cooling down exercises. The class was divided into small groups. The advanced, for whom no allowances were made; the improvers, who had individual targets and to whom Barbara belonged; and the remedial, known by Mr Evans as the fat cows. For these too no allowances were made. The advanced had to exercise to the beat of a metronome, as did the remedial, only the tempi were different. The improvers had to exercise to the bawl of Mr Evans.
Monitors supervised the metronome-guided groups, the fit and the unfit, for all they had to do was to pay strict attention to the girls' uniformity. Girls who fell out of step, who couldn't keep up with the demanding timings, had their bottoms touched up with the slipper as they stretched and bent over and bicycled upside down and pressed up - all positions that put their bottoms in handy reach. If that wasn't encouragement enough, they were sent to face the wall bars and wait for Mr Evans to come and deal with them.
But the improvers had the benefit of Mr Evans' eagle eyes upon their performance. Round and round the puffing women he paced, each of their targets fixed in his memory. Barbara, lying full length on the mat as she forced her unwilling body into yet another press up, her arms screaming to her to stop, her cringing bottom equally insistent that she should carry on, heard the wallops and the gasp as Hannah received some encouragement beside her. She knew that her short skirt had long ago ridden right up to her hips, and that only the seat of her tight white panties lay between her buttocks and the slipper. Up-down-up-down-up-WHOPPP!!!
"Keep up, Watson!"
"Yes sir!"
When Barbara clambered to her feet and joined the queue for the vaulting horse, massaging her shoulders as she jogged on the spot (only girls awaiting punishment were allowed to be still during gym lessons) she saw that Mr Jeffrey the new master was still looking hard at her. Her heart sank. What was going on? Don't tell me he thinks I need special tuition! She imagined herself with him that evening, just him and her, alone in the gym... special and personal tuition under the eye of a strict disciplinarian. She had unpleasant memories of special tuition, some not that old.
Women were leaping the vaulting horse and women's bottoms were bobbing up and down as they groaned and gasped through press-ups.
Not to be reposted, reproduced or distributed, in part or whole.