Note: This is a genre exercise. Stories about little pleated skirts (the little black cocktail dress of spanko circles) and spankings tend to be sexy. The potential for The Sexy is, of course, one of the reasons why real corporal punishment in schools in inherently abusive. It should be outlawed, from Saudi Arabia to Alabama. The fantasy, in which adults play with power, is a different thing.
Last time I discussed this genre and its diction, I mentioned that the schoolgirl is the star, and the story is generally told from her point of view. The headmaster is merely a sex object, who does things that turn the schoolgirl on, but doesn’t have thoughts or an inner life. I’ve been challenged to write this from the headmaster’s POV. So, since I’m an obliging sort of dom, here it is.
Jennifer’s pleats and pleas
I first noticed Jennifer Perch in the second week of school. There’d been some rowdiness going on outside my office window, but it was nothing unusual for the rush before the first class begins, and at first I ignored it.
But then I heard an unmistakeable voice. It was Ross Grainer, a lump of a boy who would have been a bully in the days when intelligence counted for less. Despite his size his voice was high-pitched, probably because the fool was swallowing steroids like candy. And he was shouting words that were about to earn him a touch of the paddle. “Genitals! Genitalia Pouch!”
I walked to the window and barked at him, in best Headmaster’s Voice, the kind that can reach and terrify any boy or girl within three playing fields. While he pantomimed innocence, and then slowly walked to my window, I wrote a quick note to his class teacher, Miss Lacroix.
She, bless her upright and old-fashioned soul, had been one of the few teachers to support the changes I’d brought in on my appointment, particularly the re-introduction of school uniforms and corporal punishment. So I could address this note to her, knowing the sentence would be carried out properly.
“Mr Beecham?” Ross had managed to compose his face into something close to saintliness, on his walk. The other boys had abandoned him. He wasn’t brave on his own.
I said, “I won’t have obscene language in my school. And I won’t have bullying.”
“Me, Mr Beecham?”
“Don’t waste my time, Grainer. Take this note to Miss Lacroix.” I gave him the folded piece of paper that specified his sentence.
“Sir, I never – ”
“I told you not to waste my time, boy. I heard you, and I saw you. Take this note to Miss Lacroix now, and she’ll deal with you. You may be late for your first class. And you may have trouble sitting. But you should have thought of that before.”
“But I – “
“You say, ‘Yes Sir, thank you, sir.’ Anything else and you’ll get double.”
His face was scarlet. I smiled briefly. That wouldn’t be the only place he was scarlet when Miss :Lacroix had finished with him. I wondered if she’d enjoy herself. He swallowed. “Yes sir. Thank you, sir.” His voice was tiny.
“Go straight to Miss Lacroix. Now, boy. I’ll be checking with her at lunchtime. Get out of my sight!”
It took him thirty steps before he thought it might be safe to open the note. It said, “Please give bearer, R. G., 8 with paddle, hardest. Obscene language, bullying.” He hesitated, but dared not turn around. He hurried on to Miss Lacroix and his fate, head down.
But I had another matter to think about. Jennifer Perch. It was her second week at this school, and it seemed she’d already managed to acquire a troubling nickname. And, when I’d come to the window to see what that stupid boy was shouting about, she’d been bending over, straight-legged, to tie her shoes.
The hem-line of her pleated uniform skirt had risen past the bottom of her panties. Genitalia indeed, though snugly held in white cotton, quite deliberately displayed with her bottom pointing straight at the crowd of boys.
The nick-name said that it wasn’t the first time she’d done it. I frowned. I’d thought Jennifer was one of the good girls, hard-working, intelligent: an over-achiever. Something wasn’t right.
I pulled out her file. Ah. There were irregularities, in particular a persistent pattern of lateness. She was experimenting with being a bad girl. I sympathized, a little, but she needed to be brought back to earth, quickly and firmly.
I buzzed Maddie, my secretary, and asked her to call Jennifer Perch to my office, immediately. Maddie was surprised; Jennifer did have a reputation as a Good Girl. She asked, “Is she to be -?”
“Yes. Spanked. But not too severely if she behaves. And she should have privacy. You might want to do any photocopying you need to do.”
I could imagine her shaking her head. Then, with surprise still in her voice, she said, “Yes, Mr Beecham.”
I waited. I should be working, but I found myself thinking about that display of pouting pussy Jennifer had offered the boys. I was certainly going to give her a spanking. That was only right and proper. But should I remove her panties? Ahhh…
I realised I’d thought too much and too long about that question when the reception door opened. Shortly afterwards I heard Maddie making herself busy in the photocopier room. Jennifer must be waiting.
She had a lot to think about. I let her wait, and think. I cleared a Jennifer-sized space on my desk, in case she talked her way into a paddling. Or perhaps a caning. I could consider those choices more calmly than she could, out in Maddie’s office.
She’d be thinking about why she’d been called here. She knew she’d been skipping classes. She knew that I’d meant it when I said corporal punishment was back. I’d paddled two girls from her class for fighting, on Monday of that week. The older girl had sworn at me after the fifth stroke, so both girls had had to take their panties down and stay in place for another six. I didn’t expect to see either of them for a while.
I was sure the story had gotten around. Jennifer would have been shown the bruises by now. Girls will be girls.