The room was large and overlooked the playing fields. I could see my fellow sixth
former girl friends strolling in the warm lunchtime sunshine as I awaited my fate.
‘My fate!’ That was what the teacher had said when I’d been caught smoking. It
was stupid, against all the college rules and I’d even been stupid enough to deny it was
me, though my breath still stank of the stale smoke and the butt was under my black school
shoe when I was frogmarched out of the toilet block to the head’s office. Which was the
room where I was watching my friends from.
Before I continue, let me introduce myself properly. I am Gemma Cartwright, 18
years old and, as you’ll soon see, I’m often in trouble. I am five ten in height, medium
build with 36D breasts. Other stuff you probably want to know right now is I have brown
hair that comes down to my shoulders and I have steel blue eyes. I also have a pert
bottom, so my boyfriend tells me. I’m not a virgin, I’m not a prude and I like sex, lots
of it, but don’t tell the man watching me from across the desk know that. He’s called Mr
Thomas, and he’s the head master of St. Mary’s College for Young Ladies – or, as most of
us in the sixth form call it – St. Mary’s Slut Training College.
“Miss Cartwright, you know smoking is against the rules, don’t you?”
“Yes, Sir,” I replied, feeling really stupid.
“You know the punishment for breaking the serious rules of this establishment?”
“Yes, Sir,” I said, knowing that the last girl who’d broken a similar rule had
ended up not being able to sit down for three days.
“Well, girl, do you have anything to say for yourself?”
“No Sir, other than it won’t happen again.”
“Oh, it won’t happen again, not unless you are the most incredibly stupid person
ever to have had the misfortune of being born.”
“I’m not, Sir,” I said, my voice trembling with apprehension.
“No, Miss Cartwright, I don’t think you are, but your propensity for breaking
rules leaves a lot to be desired.”
“Yes, Sir,” I said, knowing Mr Thomas was now gearing himself up for the
pronouncement of my punishment.
“Well, Miss Cartwright,” he said, standing from behind his great oak desk, “the
question is what we do about your punishment.”
The question, I knew, was rhetorical, so I stayed silent, still looking in his
direction but with my sight focused out of the window behind his desk, watching my friends
as they strolled round the playing field enjoying the rest of the lunch break.
Mr Thomas came from behind his desk and walked over to his row of bookshelves as
if seeking inspiration from great tome he had once read.
“You know the proscribed punishment for smoking?” He said after a minute.
“Yes, Sir, I know what the rules state.”
“Good, then you will come over to this wall and face it,” he said sternly and I
knew my punishment was about to start.
I walked the four steps over to the wall at the far end of his study from the
door and took up my position a foot from the bare wall.
“Hands on your head and don’t move,” he said severely. In seconds, my hands were
on my head. Then I felt my blue-checked pleated skirt lifted from the hem upwards until
the back of the skirt was high above my waist. There I felt the two clothespins being
fastened so the hem was fixed to my blue cardigan round about the height of my full 36D
breasts. I realised my backside, still clothed in white regulation knickers, was exposed
but there was nothing I could do about that.
Then, embarrassment and humiliation set in as I waited a full five minutes while
I knew Mr Thomas was ogling my pert bottom. After a few minutes my hands started to ache
on top of my head as the blood drained from them.
“Right, Miss Cartwright, you are going to receive twelve strokes of the cane on
your backside. The first six will be delivered with your bottom covered and the remaining
six with it uncovered.
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