A Spanking in Time (Bexhill School) (10 page)

“Believe me: I’ll deal with them when I get them home. They know what to expect when they get up to pranks like this.”

“Oh, so it’s not the first time.”

“Regrettably, no. They’re good girls but they
are
a handful. I try to keep them on a tight rein, but you know how it is with teenagers.”

“I do indeed, though thankfully mine have now grown up.”

“Well, my apologies again. Now, where are the wretches?”

“They’re in the kitchen, washing up. I’ll fetch them.”

As Sally and Linda set eyes on Sally’s mother, they could see that she was furious.

“Sorry, M
um,” Sally muttered. “So’s Linda.”

“You’ll be sorry all right when we get home. Now apologise properly to
the manageress.”

“We’re very sorry, ma’am. We’ll never do anything like that again.”

“I should hope not. Now, I never want to see you in my café again.”

“Get into the car, sit in the back and not a sound from either of you.”

The drive back was conducted in tense silence. Linda and Sally occasionally exchanged nervous glances. They twisted and untwisted their fingers. They knew that the immediate future didn’t look too bright.

Sally’s mother parked the car in the drive and led them into the house.

“Go into the sitting room and wait for me there.”

The girls did as they were told, shuffling unhappily on the carpet.

“What do you think she’s going to do?” Linda whispered.

“Thrash us, of course.”

“Oh crikey! What with?”

“
She normally uses a strap, but Dad’s got hold of a cane from somewhere. He beat my brother with it the other day and he still can’t sit down. I hope she’s not going to try it out on us.”

They could hear her mother’s footsteps approaching. When she entered the room, she was holding a heavy, brown leather strap. It was at least two inches wide and split down the centre
rather like a tawse.

“Right, stand here,” she indicated the sofa, “take your jeans and panties down, right down to your ankles. Then bend over the back of the sofa and put your hands on the seat cushions.”

The girls unzipped their jeans and pulled them down. In passing, Linda noted that Sally did, in fact, wear knickers: fairly skimpy blue ones. When the girls had got into position, Sally’s mother ran the strap across gently across both their bottoms in turn. Linda flinched at the touch of the thick leather.

“Linda, you’re to stay completely still. I spoke to your mother before I came to fetch you and told her what had happened and what I was going to do with Sally. She told me to treat you in exactly the same way and then take you home.”

She tightened her grip on the strap.

“I’m appalled, simply
appalled
, at what you got up to in that café. It was the height of stupid, juvenile behaviour and you’re both very lucky not to be down at the police station at this very moment. You’re extremely fortunate to be getting off with a thrashing rather than a police record. Now brace yourselves and don’t move until I tell you to get up.”

Sally was on the left and Linda beside her on the right.
They gripped the cushions and clenched their teeth. Sally’s mother laid the strap across her daughter’s pale bottom, raised it high above her head and brought it arcing down to land with a loud crack across the width of her cheeks. Sally gasped. A stripe immediately began to redden where the strap had bitten into the taut muscle. A short pause and the strap whacked down again. A purple band appeared where the second stripe overlaid the first. Sally uttered a shrill cry.

Her mother moved a little to
the right, placed the strap on the centre of Linda’s backside and a moment later a report like a starting pistol announced the arrival of the first stroke. Linda’s right leg kicked in involuntary response. A second later, the next lash arrived. Linda threw her head back and wailed “Ooooww!” Sally’s mother returned to her position beside her daughter and administered another two swats to yelps from the squirming girl. Then it was Linda’s turn again.

Linda was used to corporal punishment. For as long as she could re
call, misbehaviour by either her or her sister had resulted in them being put across their mother’s knee and spanked with a hairbrush or slipper. Their father dealt with more serious offences, removing his belt as they bent fearfully over their beds. Then she’d gone to Bexhill and had soon experienced the whole gamut of implements there: ‘Stinger’ the awesome hairbrush, the paddle, the tawse, and – by no means least – a variety of canes. But Sally’s mother’s strap was right up there with the worst of them. The woman was only of medium build, but that belied the ferocity with which she delivered each lash.

Soon, both girls were squealing with pain as their backsides changed from pink to red to mauve to dark blue. Linda wasn’t counting but later Sally said she thought they’d each received thirty strokes. Whatever, by the time Sally’s mother told them they could get up, they were both howling
. They rubbed their blazing posteriors, but nothing seemed to relieve the scorching sting. They eased their jeans back up as gently as they could.

“Sally, go to your room. I don’t want to see you for the rest of the day. Linda, get in the car. I’m taking you home.”

The journey to Linda’s house was completed in silence. Linda sat in the back and pressed down on the seat with both hands to relieve the pressure on her aching behind. Her mother had heard the car approach and was waiting at the door.

“What
have
you been up to?” she scowled furiously at her daughter. “Go to your room immediately and stay there until I come to see you.”

She turned to Sally’s mother. “I’m so sorry about the trouble she’s caused. I hope you dealt with her severely?”

“Well, I don’t think she’ll forget our little meeting and she certainly won’t be sitting comfortably for a few days!”

They smiled at each other. “Thank you,” said Linda’s mother. “Teenagers – who would have them?”

“I’m told they grow up – but I’m not sure I believe it. Must go, bye.” She got into the car and drove off.

***

Much later, when parental fury had slightly abated, Linda crept downstairs and rang Sally’s house. Luckily it was Sally, not her mother or father, who answered.

“How are you doing?”

“Sore. You?”

“I think my bum’s still smoking. Wow! Your Mum can really dish it out!”

“I know. Next time, let’s get your Mum to pick us up.”

“She’s almost as bad, and Dad’s even worse when he uses his paddle,” she pau
sed, “but it was fun beforehand, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. It certainly cured my boredom. We must do it again soon.”

“Well, perhaps not
all
of it! Goodnight, Sally”

“Goodnight, Linda. You’re a real pal.”

Chapter
7

The French Connection

Amélie ran down the corridor of the school, scattering pupils out of her way.

“Nicole! Nicole! Where are you? Quick – amazing news!” She was, of course, speaking in French (or what passes for French in Corsica) because the school was located in the sunny port city of Ajaccio.

She swung into one of the classrooms.

“Nicole – there you are! Guess what! We got it!”

“Got what?”

“The exchange! To the English school! You and me! It’s on the notice-board.”

“
Magnifique!
Oh, we’ll have such fun!” They threw their arms around each other and hugged.

“When do we go? And where is this school?”

“The term starts next September and it’s in a place called Bexhill. Let’s look it up on a map.”

They rushed to the
glass-fronted cupboard where the classroom’s books were kept and pulled out an atlas.

“I think it’s on the south coast somewhere.”

They traced their finger along the map.

“Weymouth, Bournemouth, Portsmouth. How many ‘mouths’ do they have?
They must spend the whole time eating.”

“But English food is supposed to be
revolting. They don’t use garlic.”

“Keep going. Bognor Regis – what a weird name. Brighton: I’ve heard of that
one. Eastbourne, Hastings. Oh – that’s where we won a battle, isn’t it?”

“Look, you missed it. Here it is in small letters, next to Hastings. Bexhill. I can just imagine it. There must be cliffs and everything. I bet they have
tea-shops. Do you like tea?”

“No, it’s disgusting. Maybe they serve coffee as well.”

“I shouldn’t think so, the English like tea. We’ll have to learn their customs. Oh, isn’t it exciting!”

The bell rang to mark the end of the break, but the girls were still poring over the atlas when the teacher walked in. Professeur Dubois taught maths.
He wore an ill-fitting grey jacket and baggy grey trousers. His thinning hair was grey and so was his droopy moustache. He lacked any sense of humour. His whole being was grey.

“Am
élie, Nicole, what are you doing?”

“Oh, sorry sir. We were looking at a map. We’re going on exchange to England. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“I don’t suppose so. Why would you want to leave a French school? Anyway, this is a maths lesson, so put that atlas away and go to your places.”

Nicole took the book back to the cupboard and then she and Amélie went to the desk they shared at the back of the class. The lesson began.

“Algebra,” intoned Prof Dubois. “A very interesting subject.” Twenty pairs of eyes began to glaze over. Eighteen pairs, to be more precise. Four eyes still glittered with excitement.

Amélie picked up her pencil and doodled a double-decker bus.

“Do you think they have those in Bexhill?” she whispered to Nicole. Prof Dubois turned round from the blackboard and frowned at the class. After a moment, he returned to face the board and continued to copy out an equation.

“No, only in London, I think”.

“I hope we see London, too.”

“Yes. We must. It has palaces and everything. I want to see the Tower of London. It’s where they keep people before they cut their heads off.”

“Do they still do that?”

“I’m not sure.”

Dubois turned round again.

“I can hear whispering. Now settle down. If I catch anyone talking, they’ll be in trouble.”
The chalk squeaked as he added some brackets to the formula on the board.

Nicole took Amélie’s pencil and drew a strange picture. It looked a bit like the sun rising over a curved horizon. She passed it to Amélie, raising her eyebrows. Amélie studied it.

“What’s that supposed to be?”

“It’s a
chapeau melon
. I think they call it a ‘bowling hat’. It’s what Englishmen wear. They also carry their umbrellas all rolled up.”

“What if it rains?”

“They don’t unroll their umbrellas. The bowling hat keeps them dry, I suppose.”

“How strange.”

Prof Dubois swung round, scowling.

“I can
still
hear whispering! Who was it?”

Silence.

“Nicole, Amélie, if it was you, this is your last warning. Keep quiet and pay attention. Now, how do we reduce this equation?” he pointed to the formula on the board. As the teacher looked around the class, hoping for an answer, Nicole put her hand in front of her mouth and muttered “Put it on a diet!” Amélie disguised her snort of laughter by pretending to sneeze. Prof Dubois glared at her.

“Very well. Open your text books at Chapter 10. It explains how we simplify formulae. You were supposed to learn it for your homework last night.”

For a few minutes there was silence as the class read the impenetrably boring text, most of them for the first time.

Prof Dubois cleared his throat.

“So, ladies and gentlemen,” it was a mixed school, “suppose we amalgamate these two brackets, this is what we get.” He struck a line through one side of the equation. “Therefore ‘a’ plus ‘b’ squared now equals...”

Amélie took the pencil and sketched a stick man holding what looked like a plank. A bl
ob was flying towards him.

“What on Earth’s
that
?” whispered Nicole, looking amused.

“It’s a man playing ‘croket’.”

“What’s ‘croket’? Do you mean croquet?”

“No, ‘croket’. It’s their favourite game in the summer. Lots of them take part, but they mostly just stand around. It lasts all day
, sometimes five days. My cousin went there on holiday last year and told me all about it.”

“
Five days?
For a single game?”

“It’s called a ‘Test Match’. I suppose that’s because it tests the spectators’ patience.”

“How weird. Don’t they play tennis like we do?”

“
Amélie! Nicole!
I warned you. Stay behind after class, both of you.” Prof Dubois glowered at them; there was a flinty edge to his voice. “Now, Amélie, you change places with Pierre. I don’t want you sitting next to Nicole again for the rest of the day.

Amélie and Nicole had paled. They had an intimation of what was coming. Amélie slid out of her seat, gave Nicole a nervous look, and changed places with Pierre. The boy
who now sat beside her at Pierre’s desk put the back of his hand across his mouth and, looking straight ahead, murmured “Swish! Thwack!” It was his interpretation of the sound of a
martinet
. Nicole shuddered.

The lesson dragged on interminably. Neither Amélie nor Nicole could really concentrate. Their eyes kept turning to the locked wooden cupboard below the glass bookcase. They knew what it contained.

At last the school bell rang, announcing the end of the day’s classes.

“Very well, you can go. But do your homework diligently this evening.”
The teacher started wiping the blackboard clean, little puffs of chalk emerging from the felt face of the board-cleaner. “Amélie and Nicole, you wait here please, in front of my desk.” The girls made their hesitant way to the front of the class.

Professeur Dubois was in no hurry. He cleaned the board fastidiously, returning to go over every tiny smudge. He was smili
ng. Not visibly so, of course: his thin grey lips were set in their usual thin grey line. But inside he was beaming at the thought of what he was about to do to these two miserable girls. Not that he was a sadist, or that he got any sensual pleasure out of beating girls – or boys, for that matter. Far from it – sex was not something that remotely impinged on his life. Rather it was a question of
empowerment
. These girls would bare their bottoms because
he
told them to do so; they would bend over in the manner
he
prescribed;
he
would decide how many lashes they received and
he
would determine how hard those were administered;
he
would tell them when they could get up. He would be in total control. There would be no glazed eyes now, no fidgeting while he tried to explain some astute mathematical point, no bored or smirking faces.

He walked
unhurriedly over and closed the classroom door. Then he took a bunch of keys out of his pocket, carefully separated the one, and walked slowly and deliberately over to the cupboard. The scared eyes of the two girls followed his every move. He bent down, unlocked the wooden door, and opened it. From the dark interior, he withdrew what the girls had been dreading – the classroom martinet. The wooden handle displayed the patina of age and use; the dozen leather thongs dangling from it, like black and brown bootlaces, swayed seductively as he carried the implement back towards them.

“I warned you
two to stop talking. What a pity you didn’t listen because now you are going to learn what happens to those who can’t resist chattering. Which of you wants to go first?”

Nicole and Amélie glanced at each other. Amélie stepped forward.

“Very well. Go to that form there, put your legs under the seat and bend over the desk.”

Am
élie did as she was told, gripping the wooden crossbar that ran along the front of the desk. Her long, fair hair fell down in front of her face; she could see the end of her striped school tie swinging loosely below her. The Professeur moved round behind her, slipped her knickers down to the top of her thighs and tugged her skirt up until it lay bunched across the small of her back. She had to stand on tiptoe to stay in position. She felt the thin wooden seat pressing into the back of her legs, just above the knees, while the edge of the desk dug into the top of her thighs. Her bottom felt very exposed, which – she assumed – was the whole idea.

The teacher laid the leather cords across her buttocks, inching them towards him until he had placed them where he wanted them to land
. He raised the wooden handle until it was level with his ear, and then brought it sharply down. The braids wrapped themselves around Amélie’s bottom with a loud crack. She jerked and let out a very French ‘
Pouf!’
of exclamation. Prof Dubois left the martinet’s strands to linger on her cheeks for a few moments and then lifted the whip again. Nicole, watching from in front of the backboard, felt her stomach knot.

Ten times the martinet
flayed down, each stroke leaving Amélie’s backside decorated with yet more pink stripes. As the flogging progressed and the later lashes criss-crossed earlier lines, streaks of magenta and purple appeared. Amélie uttered small cries as each blow landed, sniffing as she wept.

“You can get up now,” the teacher grunted. “I hope you’ve learned a lesson.
Nicole, your turn. Take Amélie’s place.” The two girls passed without catching each other’s eyes. Nicole stuck her legs under the seat, but pulled her own panties down and lifted her skirt before bending over the desk. She held on tightly to the wooden crossbar, noticing how warm it was from Amélie’s grip.

Professeur Dubois, still expressionless,
laid the thongs of the martinet across Nicole’s cheeks in the same way that he had done with Amélie. Nicole winced. He raised the wooden stock, paused, lashed it down. Nicole yelled with pain. Amélie put her hand to her mouth and bit on her thumb, shocked at her friend’s reaction. Amélie had managed to stay more or less still throughout her ordeal, but Nicole reared and bucked and squirmed, squealing and howling as each stroke landed. At last Prof Dubois whipped down the tenth and last blow. Nicole was blubbering, tears running down her cheeks and splashing softly on to the floor.

“Get up, Nicole. Let that be a lesson to you, too.”

Nicole extracted herself painfully from the desk, carefully pulled up her pants and smoothed down her skirt. She felt in her pocket, took out a handkerchief and blew her nose.

“You may go. Goodnight, girls. I trust your behaviour will be better when we next meet.”

“Yes, Professeur. Goodnight, sir.” The girls let themselves out of the classroom. The old cleaner was mopping the corridor. He must have heard what was going on. He stopped working as the girls approached, clutching their backsides. As they passed him, he mumbled, almost as much to himself as to them: “Touch of the old martinet never did anyone no ‘arm.” The girls gave him a hard look.

As they left the school gate, Amélie put her arm around Nicole’s shoulder.

“Ooooh lala lala lalaaa! It’s the first time I’ve had it from ‘Deadly’ Dubois. I didn’t think he had such strength in him.”

Nicole’s sobs were now under control. “I’m sorry I was such a baby. I’m really embarrassed at how I behaved. You were much braver.”

“It was worse for you: you could see how awful it was going to be. I’d have hated to have had to wait while you got your thrashing. That’s why I volunteered to go first.”

“Let’s go to my house and
see what our
derrières
look like.”