Well, here we are back again with another story; it's not quite as intense as the last one, having a first person narrative from a rather unrepentant school girl.
I hope you like it; once again pictures come from various Institute of Discipline videos, all of which feature splendid school girl slipperings (try saying that ten times, fast!). Why not check them out?
And now, today's story.
The
Benefits of Hindsight
Faced with
Miss Bishop and that bloody big plimsoll, it did occur to me that
calling Miss Cannell a bitch might have been a mistake. Just one of
those things that you wouldn't do a second time, given the chance.
Miss
Bishop was huge; not fat, but six feet or so tall, and solid; she was
a PE teacher, and by God she looked like one. She wore her hair
short, and her skirt down to just above her chunky knees, and her
legs looked like they could have held three of her.
To be
honest, Miss Bishop scared the Hell out of me. Her arms were of
similar proportions to her legs, and she was the weapon of choice for
most of the teachers when they felt offended by our behaviour.
I knew
those legs were strong because I had found myself lying across them,
on more than one occasion, and her beefy arms certainly propelled her
large unfeminine hands with some force when she spanked them across
your bottom.
She prided
herself on being able to deliver a thorough and very sound spanking
with either hand; she was a very balanced spanker, I suppose.
The sole
of the plimsoll looked harder than her hand did. And certainly
heavier.
Oh come
one! It's not my fault that
Miss Cannell is a bitch. I thought teachers liked it when their girls
told the truth. That's all I was doing.
I
didn't think that Miss Bishop would be very much moved by that
explanation though.
At
least we were in her office, in the gym block. She could have chosen
to bend me over a horse in the middle of the gym itself, where any
passing busybody could see her do her work. And see the seat of my
knickers as she beat every trace of dust off of them.
I
found the vague smile of satisfaction she pointed at me to be a
little bit disconcerting. The solid thud that the plimsoll made
against the palm of her hand as she tapped it was altogether scarier.
My
besty has been spanked, and slippered, and even caned, by pretty much
every teacher who cares to use corporal punishment, and I've never
seen her much moved by the experience, until a few weeks ago when she
accidentally tripped the class shit up, and she fell against, and
broke, a large window.
When
I say she accidentally tripped her, that really isn't true. She meant
to leave her sprawled on the floor, but the daft cow was off balance,
and fell sideways, and, well, you know, crash. And smash.
She
wasn't hurt, but of course she sat there blubbing, and the first
teacher along was Miss Bishop. She listened to both sides of the
story, just barely, and then whisked Ann away to her office.
I
followed along, at a safe distance, and was outside the office when
the interview became heated. Actually it wasn't the interview that
got heated so much as Ann's bottom.
The
thump of the plimsoll against her knickers could be heard very
clearly, and so could her squeals. Miss Bishop gave her 12 very meaty
whacks, and Ann emerged, hands clutching her bottom as though it
might fall off, and tears dribbling down her face.
God,
I'm an idiot. Fancy setting myself up for a visit to Miss Bishop,
just for a few fleeting moments of satisfaction. The look on Miss
Cannell's face was worth it at the time. Not so much now.
Miss
Bishop sort of resembled a savage beast; a lion about to pounce
maybe. Although her features reminded me much more of a jackal; sharp
and mouth slightly open in a silly grin. I think that suited her
personality more too.
Her
gaze made me uncomfortable. I really wanted to be somewhere else,
even if it meant that I had to hurry her through the next few
minutes.
My
hands crept around behind me, and gave my bottom a rub. I snatched
them away; time enough for that once there was a sting that needed to
be rubbed away.
Miss
Bishop had caught the movement, and gave a nasty triumphant smile.
Surely she realised how the girls all feared her? Surely she revelled
in it?
She
took a deep breath and pointed the plimsoll at me; I've never been
held at gunpoint, but I'm sure the sensation is similar.
“Well,
young lady, you've really dropped yourself in it this time.” Yeah,
no escaping it; she was much too bloody pleased to see me here.
“Come
on Linda. You always have something to say for yourself. Cat got your
tongue, has it? Bit too late to hold shtum now, don't you think?”
I
really couldn't think of a single thing to say. Well, I could scream
out “Die you bloody bitch!” and launch, hands first, at her
throat, but, well, I'd just bounce off anyway. There should be a law
against breeding teachers like her.
“I
mean, I assume you're happy for me to deal with you? If you like I
could ask for the Head's input, although I rather think that would
involve expulsion. Would you like to explain calling Miss Cannell a,
well, what was it?”
I
kept quiet. She was right really; it was much too late.
“What
did you call her?” Miss Bishop snapped. Oops. Not a rhetorical
question then. I mumbled an answer.
“Ah,
not so proud if it now, are you? Speak up girl. What did you call
Miss Cannell?”
Sigh.
Nothing for it. You can't ignore Miss Bishop when she wants
something.
“I
called her a bitch, Miss.”
“Yes,
you did, didn't you. How spectacularly stupid. Did you imagine that
you'd somehow get away with that? Perhaps Miss Cannell has hearing
issues? Or her ears are full of cotton wool? Any other theories?”
I
fucking hate sarcastic bloody teachers.
“I
thought she was too bloody meek to do anything about it!” Oh shit.
Oops again. Really didn't mean to say that. Too late to change it now
though.
Looks
like I picked the wrong week to give up time travel.
Miss
Bishop chuckled. It sounded like a lizard coughing. My skin crawled.
Wow. Genuinely creepy.
She
waited a moment before speaking again; milking the moment I suppose.
“Yes,
she is quite quiet. A little bit shy. But it is her first year as a
fully fledged teacher. And unpleasant brats like you do not help her
to settle in, do you? You are nothing but a bully.”
I
gave that a little thought. It was kind of bullying, I suppose. Like
picking on a kitten. Well, if kittens weren't cute.
Oh,
but to Hell with that. I didn't feel guilty. Teachers were supposed
to be able to stand up for themselves; they'd get eaten alive
otherwise. I'd only called the blubbing little bitch a bitch because
she was one.
I
think I stood a little straighter. I'm sure that there was a defiant
glint in my eye. For a moment I forgot what the future held, proud of
my commitment to the cause.
Miss
Bishop stood up straighter too. She towered over me, and that damn
plimsoll was patting her hand more urgently.
“I
can see that you do not feel even the slightest bit of remorse, do
you girl? Perhaps my little friend here and I can make you
reconsider.”
I
was puzzled for a second. Little friend? Then, of course, I realised
that she meant the plimsoll. Little friend, my arse. A bloody size 12
at least, if I was any judge.
I
tried to shrink back; Miss Bishop was invading my personal space as
surely as her slipper would invade my backside's comfort zone. The
wall got in my way.
She
came closer, and I could smell her breath; minty fresh, with a hint
of coffee. Her skin smelt of soap; clean and slightly sickening.
“I
think 12 would be a good start. As I'm not allowed to give you more.
But don't you worry; after six or so your bottom will sting so much
that you'll lose count. I think you'll take tea standing up this
evening, young lady.”
Well,
that was about what I expected. I couldn't find it within me to be
pleased at getting it right though.
Mr
Bishop grasped my ear lobe, and pulled me across the room. Oh God,
she pinched! Surely that was unnecessary? It wasn't like I could get
away from the mad cow!
I
walked in a kind of hunched over crab scuttle as she led me to her
desk, and guided me down across it. The desk was fairly low and not
too wide, so in effect I lay on it, my bottom presented to her.
“You
might want to grab the other side of the desk.” she said, in a
voice that oozed menace. “If you reach back and block my aim I'll
take that swing again.”
I
was wearing the standard school uniform, having been ejected from
Miss Cannell's class after my indiscretion, and Miss Bishop wasted no
time in flipping the knee length skirt up, leaving my panties exposed
to her glare.
Miss
Bishop moved to one side, and I felt her place the weighty weapon
against my bottom. God, it really was huge! Lying there it covered
the entire width of my bottom, and I imagined it burning against my
flesh.
Maybe
she was a witch! It was a demonic plimsoll, burning with hellfire!
Surely she wasn't allowed to spank me with a slipper that actually
was on fire?
The
plimsoll lifted away from my bottom; squinting sideways I could see
Miss Bishop's arm rising, and she was concentrating her vision on her
target. Oh shit, that was me!
The
noise as it fell was odd; canes make a distinctive swish, but
slippers don't cut through the air. They batter it out of the way,
and as it thumped across my bum cheeks there was a mighty thwack!
My
first thought, as the plimsoll bounced back into the air, was that,
hey, that wasn't too bad. The impact had jolted me forward but it
didn't hurt much.
As
Miss Bishop shifted her aim, and raised the slipper once more, the
numbness abated, and every nerve in both buttocks screamed in
protest. I gasped. Oh my God! This was what fire on your bottom
really felt like!
The
plimsoll pummelled my poor bottom again, this time just against the
left hand side. Of course this meant that it walloped against some
flesh that had already been abused, and the pain was instant.
I
know that I cried out, but I have no idea what I said, or even if
words were involved.
THWACK!
Smack number three, to the other side of my bottom, with similar
effects.
I
knew that I had only been bent over the desk for a minute or so, but
it seemed like my bottom had hurt forever; it was a new part of me
that bore a grudge against the rest, and took it's revenge by just
bloody hurting so much!
Miss
Bishop wielded the plimsoll with power and purpose; she returned to
the scene of her first crime, and thumped the rubber sole back across
the centre of my bottom again.
With
what seemed like barely a second's pause the plimsoll feel twice
more, repeating it's hellish pattern.
I'm
not ashamed to say that I was sobbing by this time; my cheeks dripped
with burning tears.
My
other cheeks just burned. And throbbed. And pulsated. I was a little
surprised that my pants were still able to hold in my expanding
bottom; ah, the miracles of modern elastic.
Miss
Bishop took a step back, and folded her arms, the plimsoll lying
across one heaving breast. She looked like she'd been running a cross
country course; I was a little bit pleased that she had needed to use
so much energy to punish me.
“How
are you feeling now, eh? Any smart arse comments you'd like to make?”
I
just shook my head.
“I'm
talking to you, girl! I expect a proper answer.”
Bloody
teachers.
“No,
Miss.”
I
could hear her pacing about behind me, like a hungry tiger about to
pounce on it's prey. Well, I certainly wished that she'd piss off
back to the jungle, and leave me alone.
She
bent down, so that her face, slightly grimy with sweat, was level
with mine, and, as though telling me a great secret she whispered
into my ear.
“Only
half way through, you know.”
Her
usually pale cheeks were flushed; I think that the malicious bitch
was excited by my punishment. So nice to see someone happy in her
work. Not.
Miss
Bishop stood, and tapped the plimsoll against my bottom. She lifted
it and moved away. I tensed for a smack that didn't come. Glancing to
my side I saw her leaning against the wall, watching me.
She
approached me again, and there were another couple of taps, before
the slipper lifted. Then nothing again.
Bloody
hell! Now she was a tiger playing with it's food!
I
relaxed against the desk a little, my right cheek resting on it's
cool surface, as the tears that had come so readily began to dry.
God, I must have looked a sight.
With
no warning the plimsoll thumped across my bottom again. I yelped, a
mixture of surprise and reawakened pain.
She
rested the implement there for a moment, and then, in one flowing
moment, threw it into the air, to fall, jet propelled, against one
side of my bottom, and then the other.
It
seemed like each blow echoed throughout my entire body; I was a giant
cave, waves of sound bouncing against my walls. It just didn't seem
right that smacks sounding so loud didn't bring the whole school
running.
I
started to lift my right arm, to reach back and check that my bottom
hadn't been replaced by a huge cavern, spanked into my flesh by the
unfeasibly heavy plimsoll.
“No,
no. Hand back on the table.” Miss Bishop was watching keenly.
For
a moment I left my hand dangling in the air; a brief act of defiance.
Then I returned it to it's place; there was no need to get my fingers
crushed as well as my bum.
Miss
Bishop had gone back to her pacing; ratcheting up the tension
probably. To be honest I was past caring. She'd get around to me
again, I was pretty damn sure.
She
did. This time I howled. Well, it seemed loud to me, but my ears were
still ringing from the sound of rubber on flesh. My flesh. Ah, crap.
Perhaps
Miss Bishop was getting bored. The last two whacks rocked my body,
but came quickly. I bet I was quivering like a plate of rubbery
jelly.
I
lay there. Moving seemed too much trouble, although the idea of
rubbing my inflamed rear end was quite appealing.
“Well,
get up girl! Or were you planning on staying there all day? I could
give you a few more whacks, if you like?”
Sighing,
I hauled myself upright. The tears had started again, and I left a
puddle on the desk where my head had rested. I felt unsteady, a bit
light headed, and very heavy bottomed. I think my rump would have
dragged me backwards onto the floor if I hadn't been so scared of the
idea of sitting on it.
“Are
you waiting for applause?” Miss Bishop continued the ominous drum
beat of plimsoll on hand. Jesus, you'd think she'd had enough by now.
She
gestured to the door with her empty hand; a contemptuous flick of her
wrist.
“Go
on, back to class. And I expect to hear that you delivered a very
sincere apology to Miss Cannell.”
I
shuffled towards the door. Reluctantly I removed one of the hands
that had involuntarily grasped my bottom, in order to open the door.
As
I exited I had a moment of temporary insanity, considering slamming
the door shut behind me. The huge throbbing in my behind
convinced me not to.
Despite
the pain in my bottom, and the thought of 2 more hours of classes
sitting on it, the worst thing was the idea of apologising to that
whining bitch.
Sincerely.
THE
END.
I hope that you enjoyed that.
All the best
Tim
