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Detective Schneider pushed the Polaroid picture across the desk toward
Janet Finch. "Recognize her?" he asked, cocking his head. He watched as the
thirtyish schoolteacher picked up the photo with shaking hands. He pursed
his lips, suppressing the smile that threatened to break out. He glanced
around his tiny cluttered office, then looked back at her. Miss Finch had
lowered her face and was staring intently, but he could see she had blushed
bright red.
"I . . . yes, well . . . I . . . uh . . ." she stammered, lost for
words.
"One of yours, right?" Schneider said briskly.
"Yes," she sighed. "One of ours. I know her," she said with a sigh.
"And her name...?"
"Margaret. Margaret Wilson. Not local, ah, not southern I mean. As
you'd guess . . . Parents from Connecticut, I think. But, I'm, well,
shocked. I'd never have thought . . . well . . ." she shuddered, waving the
photo in the air. "With black men too . . ."
"I'm sure. Not very ladylike either, is it? Not the kind of thing
parents sending their daughters to your fine academy would expect . . .
but, well, girls will be girls . . ."
Rather angrily, Miss Finch said: "I can't be everywhere, all the
time." A long sigh. A head teacher is busy, that's certain. But she still
felt guilt about a wayward pupil like this. "I'm sorry. It's not your
fault. I should thank you for telling me. But, what do you propose to do?
Will you want to arrest her? She's so young! Uh, what do you want *me* to
do?"
Schneider gave a controlled smile.
"No, we won't arrest her. Not enough to go on, really. Associating
with bad people isn't a crime in itself, and what she's doing here is,
well, rather naughty, but really just a youthful indiscretion. In some
states, though . . . Look, I hate it too, but these are the 1980s. But,
there's plenty *you* could do, if you put your mind to it . . ."
Miss Finch looked at him. "You think I should confront her?
Discipline her, perhaps?"
"Exactly," Schneider said, sincerely. "And I'll give you our file
on her, just in case there's any argument on her part about what you're
talking to her about. How's that?"
Miss Finch stood up, shakily. "Accepted. Okay, I'll deal with this."
"One thing, then..." Schneider replied, reaching in his desk file
drawer for a fat manila folder, and pushing it across the desk to her.
"Yes?"
"Just tell me what the usual penalty would be for . . . this . . ."
"Ah . . . I don't know," Janet Finch said, shaking her head. "This
is . . .well . . . a quite exceptional case . . ."
"But I'd be right in thinking it would be . . . physical? . .
.Something memorable . . .?"
"Oh, yes, definitely," Miss Finch replied, blushing slightly again.
She didn't feel like telling this plump, fiftyish policeman what had just
crossed her mind. You're going to be damned sorry about this, Miss Dirty
Habits Wilson, she vowed.
He wasn't about to let go. "Are your . . . procedures . . . uh,
private? Or do you make an example of the girl in front of her classmates?"
He already knew the answer.
Miss Finch looked at him sharply. "The usual practice is for . . .
it . . . to, uh, be witnessed," she said quickly. "And sometimes, it's
quite public."
"Oh? So, would *I* be allowed to witness it?" Schneider asked,
managing not to sound teasing.
"No!! Absolutely not!" Miss Finch rejoindered, looking quite
startled at the thought. "I mean, no, I don't think that would be, well .
. . proper. If you don't mind, that is?"
"I mind, but I think I understand. I don't want to spoil things.
But might I send one of my lady deputies? Just to be sure that justice is
done?"
Outmaneuvered, she nodded. "By all means. And it will be."
His chosen deputy is Clara, his lover. A plain, almost dumpy brunette in
her late twenties. Several times a week, she's in his office on her knees
administering a blowjob, or is leaned back over this same desk, her skirt
and blouse up round her armpits, while he ploughs patiently at her, in that
'one good shot' fashion of older guys. Career opportunities are what you
make them, but the pair genuinely like each other.
And, though Miss Finch is not aware of the connection to Schneider
-- not yet -- the amusing thing is that Clara is her own Saturday night
love interest too. Clara's bisexual, reflecting that omnivorous taste that
slightly overweight women tend to acquire. They met at some anti-drug bash
sponsored by the mayor's office, and quickly recognized kindred spirits.
How many nights at the ratty Motel 69 out on the interstate cloverleaf had
Janet unknowingly tasted Schneider's semen while kissing Clara's mouth, or
dutifully licking her clitoris? He chuckled at the irony of it. And at the
way that Clara had helped him set this whole thing up. Manipulating people
was entertaining, any time. But setting up a rebellious teenage girl, an
embryonic doper, and a snotty Yankee bitch at that, for a good humiliation,
that was heaven. It was a combination of luck and cunning that had turned
up this fine heap of evidence against la Wilson. But he would make the most
of it.
His scheme, quite patient in its cunning: to get the young
troublemaker punished as shamefully as could be contrived, to have Janet
Finch use this new submissive relationship to seduce her soon, and then for
her to deliver the girl to Clara's bed. In due course, the young slut would
be his to plough, too. There was maybe even a chance of a foursome, which
had him stiffening as he thought of it. Three juicy eager cunts, at his
command . . .
Later that afternoon, Miss Finch sent a junior girl to summon Margaret
Wilson to her study. She'd quickly gotten over her initial shock at the
arrival of Clara Loudermilk. After all, how many deputy detectives could
there be in this quiet Alabama backwater? Not many. She tells herself she
ought to have guessed. They'd shaken hands politely at the school entrance,
but had kissed rather passionately when the door closed on her office.
Janet told Clara that she had decided Margaret was to be given the
choice of expulsion or a thoroughly good barebottom spanking. Not a daily
common punishment at the academy, but known to the girls as the inevitable
result of serious misbehavior, and not merely a last resort, either.
Clara had agreed this was a good starting place, but then reasoned
with her, explaining how Margaret's offence justified the greatest
severity. Miss Finch, turning a little pale with excitement, listened as
Clara suggested how this should be done, gently touching her a couple of
times as reinforcement. Of course, their own frenzied pillowtalk fantasies
had primed Clara with plenty of ideas, and she had a good sense of what
Janet could be persuaded to accept. They'd spoken about how wayward young
girls need to be taught good manners, and discussed their own childhood
memories and fantasies in prurient detail. Now, they both realized
excitedly, the chance of making some of those fantasies come true was close
to being realized. If only they stood firm. Before Margaret was summoned,
they both vowed to each other that only the utmost severity would serve to
educate her.
Margaret enters, rather shyly. She already guesses what the subject is,
because she's already been confronted by her homeroom teacher about the lie
about visiting her mother. She's told by Janet that they know where she
really was, and that she better have a good explanation. Did they really
know? She's determined to bluff them out, at first. Margaret is a small,
elfin figure, no more than five foot one, with short black pageboy -style
hair, a dancer's poise. She's pale and pretty, but her habits have given
her some fairly pronounced bags under the eyes, a puffiness that talks
loudly of late nights, smoking, boozing. And though she's soft-spoken and
quiet, there's a pent-up energy, an anger, a rebellion that's quick to
flare in her green eyes.
The interview goes quickly: In turn, they ask her to account for her
movements the previous weekend. She sticks with her story about 'visiting
her sick mother.' They snort their disbelief. Clara reads off a list of
places and times, from some stakeout cop's report. Then, Clara produces
several sheets of blurry, washed-out surveillance videocamera still
pictures of her cavorting naked at a pool party at "a notorious local
dopedealers' place." A picture of her disappearing indoors with a nude
couple, her arms dr*ped round both. All this, when she was allegedly
visiting her sick mother.
It gets worse. The photos are rather vague and blurred. Not so a
telephoto shots of her puffing on a fat spliff, or another one of her
sucking just as happily on a guy's cock. And then there's the Polaroid.
She's amazed. Hadn't Andre taken that one, and promised to keep it safe?
Had he given it away? Left it laying around to be stolen? Bastard! It's a
picture of her masturbating, squatting on a table, knees up round her
shoulders, with a group of partygoers watching in semi-interest as she
stretches her labia like chewing gum with one hand, plunges several fingers
of the other deep into her vagina.
Margaret is stunned to have been caught out. She has no excuse.
She's told flatly: "Margaret, this blatant lying of yours is bad
enough. But to have been caught in sexual activities as uncontrolled, as
promiscuous, as wife swapping . . . crazy as this, well, it's an expulsion offense, I'm
afraid . . . . Frankly, it's also something that the police have shown an
interest in. Because of your age, I mean . . ."
'Sgt. Bulldike,' as the girl thinks of her, is invited to comment,
and drones on about the deviant lifestyle of her new friends, their
criminal backgrounds, the parole status of several, the juvenile and adult
record of her boyfriend Andre, which ranges from car theft to assault.
There are even some comments on their possible HIV status, from mixing with
hookers and urban junkie types.
She's quite taken aback. She hadn't guessed how far out these
people were. They just seemed like a bunch of groovers with similar funky
tastes in this C&W whitebread town.
Margaret is not at all happy about the idea of expulsion. This
isn't the first school where she's not fitted in. She'd been sent here
because she'd been too crazy for one in New Jersey. And one in Illinois.
This vanilla-military-flavor Southern academy was the next choice, in the
hope of calming her down.
"My parents will kill me," she says, half to herself, with flat
resignation. "Ah. Maybe so. But you should have thought of that before,"
Clara intervenes.
A long pause, plenty of examination of cuticles, twiddling of
fingers, sighs.
"You can only stay here if you promise to behave properly in
future," Miss Finch finally said. "And, by that I mean impeccably. And, if
you will demonstrate your sincerity by agreeing to submit to disciplinary
procedures, now."
Margaret sees she doesn't have a choice. "Oh," she says,
disbelieving what is happening to her. "I . . . well, I suppose . . . What
are you going to do?"
"Whatever is appropriate, Miss Wilson. Is it 'Yes' or 'No'?"
"Yes, ma'am."
And that means? Margaret soon discovers the truth.
"Very well, young lady. On your feet. And get undressed."
Margaret is blushing as she stands. Should she protest? Why do they
want her to undress?
Miss Finch isn't fooling about. She snaps her fingers. "Strip! Come
on, get on with it."
Slowly, with an air of defeat, avoiding their eyes, Margaret
strips, piling her clothes on a chair. She reveals long slim legs, a flat
tummy, a nicely rounded feminine backside, despite all her exercising. And
then, taking off her bra, small perfectly rounded breasts with pink nipples
hardening in the cool air. And finally, dropping her cotton panties, a big
tuft of tightly curled black pubic hair, covering a bulging mons. The two
older women sneak glances at each other. They like what they see.
Now, she's interrogated about her sexual habits. Who has seen her
nude? Who had she sucked, had sex with? Men, boys. Women, too? It's a long,
long list. Some of the participants are quite close to home, too. Other
girls, a since-departed French instructress. She's red-faced and incoherent
by the time they're through asking. Since the list is so shocking, Miss
Finch walks over and slaps her face, twice. And hard.
"You slut! You bitch! How dare you behave like that! You knew you'd
be caught, eventually! Dragging the academy's name in the dirt!"
Margaret can't reply. She's tearful, apologetic.
She's told she'll have to get a blood test, and a full physical
from the doctor when she visits next. Janet has her own file too. It's
open, and she now comments that Margaret is a leading offender in other
areas, too. Attitude, inappropriate dress, poor hygiene. There are 47
mentions for masturbation offenses, a half-dozen complaints about her
ogling or touching other girls in the showers, several cases of being in
possession of banned magazines, in a school where women's magazines are
thought of as near-pornography. She's wriggling with embarrassment as these
two women stare at her, in what seems total disgust. She's told to hold out
her hands, palms up, and gets a few harsh strokes with the cane to punish
her for being too free with her fingers.
Clara is asked for her handcuffs, and they're put on Margaret,
locking her wrists behind her back to stop her covering herself. Clara gets
up and opens the study door. Margaret is horrified. No, surely they're not
taking her out!
Clara beckons, and Miss Finch gives her a push. "Move it. Follow
Sergeant Loudermilk, please." Margaret has turned white. She can't move.
They grab her, and set off, determined expressions on their faces.
Margaret almost pees with fright, but holds on. She's escorted,
completely nude, on a roundabout walk up and down the school corridors to
the main assembly hall. The corridors are empty because classes are in, but
a few girls on bathroom break burst into astonished laughter as they see
the naked girl being frogmarched past. They tag along. The party stops at
several doorways, and Margaret cowers back, out of view, as the classes are
interrupted by Miss Finch, who asks the pupils to follow, to witness an
exemplary punishment. She gathers up about fifty girls in all, who follow
behind, chattering in excitement. They can see Margaret's bare back, and
know she's totally nude.
A chorus of voices behind her. "Who is she? Oh, her! What did she
do? No!! Really?! What's going to happen to her? A whipping!? Oh wow!
Where?"
Some are shocked, some contemptuous, most are barely capable of
suppressing their giggles of amusement when they see who it is. She's led
up on stage, and is bent over and strapped down on the dreaded,
leather-covered spanking stool. She's whimpering with fright now, but no
one pays any attention. There's too much else of interest. Her legs are
spread so there's about 30" between her knees, and her bare backside is
facing the audience. She's giving them an excellent, uncensored view of her
genitals, her pouting vulva perfectly framed in her thick bush, the bright
pink fin of her clitoris. The pose is even opening the crease of her
buttocks a little. "Girls who are guilty of sex offenses have lost the
right to privacy or dignity," it's announced, as much for the benefit of
others as for Margaret. After all, it's too late for her.
"Miss Wilson, who you all know, has been living under the
misapprehension that the school's conduct rules don't apply to her," Miss
Finch announces. "She has been caught lying, having sexual relationships
with direputable boys, engaging in public nudity, abusing drugs . . . who
knows what else? And her record until today has been very poor. So, we have
only one choice, girls: to beat her severely."
Several canes, leather straps and wooden paddles are produced --
the favorite classroom implements of those teachers Miss Finch has invited
-- plus some similar, well-proven items taken from the locked cupboard at
the side of the stage.
Miss Finch takes up a paddle. She's going to start. But she's not
the only one. She brings the paddle down on Margaret's bare backside with a
noise like a rifle shot. Then gets down to serious business. The chosen
items are used vigorously by teachers and form prefects in turn. It's not a
mild punishment they have in mind, and no one makes any attempt to keep
score. She tries to be stoic and suffer in silence, but they're not having
that. Instead, she gets dozens, even scores of vicious strokes from each
punisher in turn, ignoring her squeals and yelps and pleas, until her
backside and upper thighs are crimson, swollen, bruised, welted, even
bloodspeckled here and there, and she is emotionally drained . . . sobbing
pitifully, almost hysterical.
All through this ordeal, Clara has had a camera out, and has been
using it busily. After a quick trip to the forensic department's excellent
photo lab, she'll have plenty to report back to Schneider tonight. His
intense interest in the secrets of Margaret's body will be quite well
satisfied, she's made sure of that. The photos and her breathless account
of Margaret's ordeal will earn her an especially good fucking, she's sure.
When Miss Finch announces it's over, there are groans of disappointment, a
few shouts for 'more' and finally a long round of appreciative applause.
Margaret is unstrapped and helped up. She can barely stand. She's
told rather gleefully by Miss Finch: "Now, Miss Wilson, we have been rather
easy on you today. But this only constitutes about half your punishment.
You must report after evening prayers on Sunday to make a public
confession, and then to submit to a caning from all the members of your own
class. After all, you have disgraced them, too. They will vote on how many
strokes you deserve, but I hope it will be a suitably large number."
Excited laughter and whispering gives a clear confirmation that this is so.
"There may be other spankings, too, after we have had the opportunity to
review the results of this one."
And then the final indignity. Miss Finch announces: "Since Miss
Wilson so much wants to cavort in the nude, her clothing privileges have
been rescinded until the end of the month."
Margaret gasps. That's three weeks away, at least!
Miss Finch continues: "And that doesn't just mean 'non schoolgirl
apparel' privileges," meaning the school's concession to older girls that
they can have stockings, proper bras, decent shoes. "No, it means ALL
privileges. She'll stay as naked as this, until then." There's more
laughter. "Indoors, outdoors, in class, in the gym, even in front of
visitors if there are any. And it's expected she'll behave impeccably,
because a series of senior girls will be assigned to watch her every second
of the day and night, each armed with a studded belt to control her and
dish out instant correction. If any of you wish to volunteer, see me at the
end of the afternoon lessons."
Turning to Margaret she warns: "The slightest defiance, rudeness,
lack of respect, and you'll earn a further week nude and another good
thrashing. And I don't want to hear any more complaints about you
masturbating or ogling other girls, you little pervert. Understand?"
Sobbing, Margaret is led back to the study, where Clara has left
her bunch of car keys, and can undo the handcuffs. The policewoman takes
the opportunity to check the girl's genitals with a friendly squeeze of her
hand. They are rather damp and fragrant, inviting, even if she's not
intensely, ready-to-come aroused. That's a learned response, Clara knows.
And she expects to be invited to closely follow progress as Margaret is
taught it. Oh yes.
After Clara leaves, kissing Janet goodbye quite shamelessly, the
teacher hugs the well-thrashed girl, staring into her teary eyes. There's a
new attitude already, she decides. Janet gives a little smile of
satisfaction as she feels Margaret push her hips against her. It's clear
now to the teacher that a few weeks hence, their relationship will be quite
different. This sluttish girl is ripe for a dike makeover, and certainly
for bottom status, if the cards are played just right. She kisses her, and
their tongues touch. Janet's fingers find Margaret's nipples. This is going
to be quite easy, but it's going to be fun, she thinks to herself.
Margaret's hands don't try to block her as she slides her fingers down from
her nipples to her belly, then between her thighs. Margaret goes to speak,
she's blushing. But instead their mouths meet again.
Like Clara, Janet gives a little squeeze. Damp hair, definite
warmth. A fingertip between the labia. Oh, wetness. And there's a delicious
scent rising. Margaret anxiously whispers: "Miss? You won't hurt me anyone,
please?"
Janet smiles warmly. "No more than you deserve, you dirty girl."
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Justice Is Done
Detective Schneider pushed the Polaroid picture across the desk toward
Janet Finch. "Recognize her?" he asked, cocking his head. He watched as the
thirtyish schoolteacher picked up the photo with shaking hands. He pursed
his lips, suppressing the smile that threatened to break out. He glanced
around his tiny cluttered office, then looked back at her. Miss Finch had
lowered her face and was staring intently, but he could see she had blushed
bright red.
"I . . . yes, well . . . I . . . uh . . ." she stammered, lost for
words.
"One of yours, right?" Schneider said briskly.
"Yes," she sighed. "One of ours. I know her," she said with a sigh.
"And her name...?"
"Margaret. Margaret Wilson. Not local, ah, not southern I mean. As
you'd guess . . . Parents from Connecticut, I think. But, I'm, well,
shocked. I'd never have thought . . . well . . ." she shuddered, waving the
photo in the air. "With black men too . . ."
"I'm sure. Not very ladylike either, is it? Not the kind of thing
parents sending their daughters to your fine academy would expect . . .
but, well, girls will be girls . . ."
Rather angrily, Miss Finch said: "I can't be everywhere, all the
time." A long sigh. A head teacher is busy, that's certain. But she still
felt guilt about a wayward pupil like this. "I'm sorry. It's not your
fault. I should thank you for telling me. But, what do you propose to do?
Will you want to arrest her? She's so young! Uh, what do you want *me* to
do?"
Schneider gave a controlled smile.
"No, we won't arrest her. Not enough to go on, really. Associating
with bad people isn't a crime in itself, and what she's doing here is,
well, rather naughty, but really just a youthful indiscretion. In some
states, though . . . Look, I hate it too, but these are the 1980s. But,
there's plenty *you* could do, if you put your mind to it . . ."
Miss Finch looked at him. "You think I should confront her?
Discipline her, perhaps?"
"Exactly," Schneider said, sincerely. "And I'll give you our file
on her, just in case there's any argument on her part about what you're
talking to her about. How's that?"
Miss Finch stood up, shakily. "Accepted. Okay, I'll deal with this."
"One thing, then..." Schneider replied, reaching in his desk file
drawer for a fat manila folder, and pushing it across the desk to her.
"Yes?"
"Just tell me what the usual penalty would be for . . . this . . ."
"Ah . . . I don't know," Janet Finch said, shaking her head. "This
is . . .well . . . a quite exceptional case . . ."
"But I'd be right in thinking it would be . . . physical? . .
.Something memorable . . .?"
"Oh, yes, definitely," Miss Finch replied, blushing slightly again.
She didn't feel like telling this plump, fiftyish policeman what had just
crossed her mind. You're going to be damned sorry about this, Miss Dirty
Habits Wilson, she vowed.
He wasn't about to let go. "Are your . . . procedures . . . uh,
private? Or do you make an example of the girl in front of her classmates?"
He already knew the answer.
Miss Finch looked at him sharply. "The usual practice is for . . .
it . . . to, uh, be witnessed," she said quickly. "And sometimes, it's
quite public."
"Oh? So, would *I* be allowed to witness it?" Schneider asked,
managing not to sound teasing.
"No!! Absolutely not!" Miss Finch rejoindered, looking quite
startled at the thought. "I mean, no, I don't think that would be, well .
. . proper. If you don't mind, that is?"
"I mind, but I think I understand. I don't want to spoil things.
But might I send one of my lady deputies? Just to be sure that justice is
done?"
Outmaneuvered, she nodded. "By all means. And it will be."
His chosen deputy is Clara, his lover. A plain, almost dumpy brunette in
her late twenties. Several times a week, she's in his office on her knees
administering a blowjob, or is leaned back over this same desk, her skirt
and blouse up round her armpits, while he ploughs patiently at her, in that
'one good shot' fashion of older guys. Career opportunities are what you
make them, but the pair genuinely like each other.
And, though Miss Finch is not aware of the connection to Schneider
-- not yet -- the amusing thing is that Clara is her own Saturday night
love interest too. Clara's bisexual, reflecting that omnivorous taste that
slightly overweight women tend to acquire. They met at some anti-drug bash
sponsored by the mayor's office, and quickly recognized kindred spirits.
How many nights at the ratty Motel 69 out on the interstate cloverleaf had
Janet unknowingly tasted Schneider's semen while kissing Clara's mouth, or
dutifully licking her clitoris? He chuckled at the irony of it. And at the
way that Clara had helped him set this whole thing up. Manipulating people
was entertaining, any time. But setting up a rebellious teenage girl, an
embryonic doper, and a snotty Yankee bitch at that, for a good humiliation,
that was heaven. It was a combination of luck and cunning that had turned
up this fine heap of evidence against la Wilson. But he would make the most
of it.
His scheme, quite patient in its cunning: to get the young
troublemaker punished as shamefully as could be contrived, to have Janet
Finch use this new submissive relationship to seduce her soon, and then for
her to deliver the girl to Clara's bed. In due course, the young slut would
be his to plough, too. There was maybe even a chance of a foursome, which
had him stiffening as he thought of it. Three juicy eager cunts, at his
command . . .
Later that afternoon, Miss Finch sent a junior girl to summon Margaret
Wilson to her study. She'd quickly gotten over her initial shock at the
arrival of Clara Loudermilk. After all, how many deputy detectives could
there be in this quiet Alabama backwater? Not many. She tells herself she
ought to have guessed. They'd shaken hands politely at the school entrance,
but had kissed rather passionately when the door closed on her office.
Janet told Clara that she had decided Margaret was to be given the
choice of expulsion or a thoroughly good barebottom spanking. Not a daily
common punishment at the academy, but known to the girls as the inevitable
result of serious misbehavior, and not merely a last resort, either.
Clara had agreed this was a good starting place, but then reasoned
with her, explaining how Margaret's offence justified the greatest
severity. Miss Finch, turning a little pale with excitement, listened as
Clara suggested how this should be done, gently touching her a couple of
times as reinforcement. Of course, their own frenzied pillowtalk fantasies
had primed Clara with plenty of ideas, and she had a good sense of what
Janet could be persuaded to accept. They'd spoken about how wayward young
girls need to be taught good manners, and discussed their own childhood
memories and fantasies in prurient detail. Now, they both realized
excitedly, the chance of making some of those fantasies come true was close
to being realized. If only they stood firm. Before Margaret was summoned,
they both vowed to each other that only the utmost severity would serve to
educate her.
Margaret enters, rather shyly. She already guesses what the subject is,
because she's already been confronted by her homeroom teacher about the lie
about visiting her mother. She's told by Janet that they know where she
really was, and that she better have a good explanation. Did they really
know? She's determined to bluff them out, at first. Margaret is a small,
elfin figure, no more than five foot one, with short black pageboy -style
hair, a dancer's poise. She's pale and pretty, but her habits have given
her some fairly pronounced bags under the eyes, a puffiness that talks
loudly of late nights, smoking, boozing. And though she's soft-spoken and
quiet, there's a pent-up energy, an anger, a rebellion that's quick to
flare in her green eyes.
The interview goes quickly: In turn, they ask her to account for her
movements the previous weekend. She sticks with her story about 'visiting
her sick mother.' They snort their disbelief. Clara reads off a list of
places and times, from some stakeout cop's report. Then, Clara produces
several sheets of blurry, washed-out surveillance videocamera still
pictures of her cavorting naked at a pool party at "a notorious local
dopedealers' place." A picture of her disappearing indoors with a nude
couple, her arms dr*ped round both. All this, when she was allegedly
visiting her sick mother.
It gets worse. The photos are rather vague and blurred. Not so a
telephoto shots of her puffing on a fat spliff, or another one of her
sucking just as happily on a guy's cock. And then there's the Polaroid.
She's amazed. Hadn't Andre taken that one, and promised to keep it safe?
Had he given it away? Left it laying around to be stolen? Bastard! It's a
picture of her masturbating, squatting on a table, knees up round her
shoulders, with a group of partygoers watching in semi-interest as she
stretches her labia like chewing gum with one hand, plunges several fingers
of the other deep into her vagina.
Margaret is stunned to have been caught out. She has no excuse.
She's told flatly: "Margaret, this blatant lying of yours is bad
enough. But to have been caught in sexual activities as uncontrolled, as
promiscuous, as wife swapping . . . crazy as this, well, it's an expulsion offense, I'm
afraid . . . . Frankly, it's also something that the police have shown an
interest in. Because of your age, I mean . . ."
'Sgt. Bulldike,' as the girl thinks of her, is invited to comment,
and drones on about the deviant lifestyle of her new friends, their
criminal backgrounds, the parole status of several, the juvenile and adult
record of her boyfriend Andre, which ranges from car theft to assault.
There are even some comments on their possible HIV status, from mixing with
hookers and urban junkie types.
She's quite taken aback. She hadn't guessed how far out these
people were. They just seemed like a bunch of groovers with similar funky
tastes in this C&W whitebread town.
Margaret is not at all happy about the idea of expulsion. This
isn't the first school where she's not fitted in. She'd been sent here
because she'd been too crazy for one in New Jersey. And one in Illinois.
This vanilla-military-flavor Southern academy was the next choice, in the
hope of calming her down.
"My parents will kill me," she says, half to herself, with flat
resignation. "Ah. Maybe so. But you should have thought of that before,"
Clara intervenes.
A long pause, plenty of examination of cuticles, twiddling of
fingers, sighs.
"You can only stay here if you promise to behave properly in
future," Miss Finch finally said. "And, by that I mean impeccably. And, if
you will demonstrate your sincerity by agreeing to submit to disciplinary
procedures, now."
Margaret sees she doesn't have a choice. "Oh," she says,
disbelieving what is happening to her. "I . . . well, I suppose . . . What
are you going to do?"
"Whatever is appropriate, Miss Wilson. Is it 'Yes' or 'No'?"
"Yes, ma'am."
And that means? Margaret soon discovers the truth.
"Very well, young lady. On your feet. And get undressed."
Margaret is blushing as she stands. Should she protest? Why do they
want her to undress?
Miss Finch isn't fooling about. She snaps her fingers. "Strip! Come
on, get on with it."
Slowly, with an air of defeat, avoiding their eyes, Margaret
strips, piling her clothes on a chair. She reveals long slim legs, a flat
tummy, a nicely rounded feminine backside, despite all her exercising. And
then, taking off her bra, small perfectly rounded breasts with pink nipples
hardening in the cool air. And finally, dropping her cotton panties, a big
tuft of tightly curled black pubic hair, covering a bulging mons. The two
older women sneak glances at each other. They like what they see.
Now, she's interrogated about her sexual habits. Who has seen her
nude? Who had she sucked, had sex with? Men, boys. Women, too? It's a long,
long list. Some of the participants are quite close to home, too. Other
girls, a since-departed French instructress. She's red-faced and incoherent
by the time they're through asking. Since the list is so shocking, Miss
Finch walks over and slaps her face, twice. And hard.
"You slut! You bitch! How dare you behave like that! You knew you'd
be caught, eventually! Dragging the academy's name in the dirt!"
Margaret can't reply. She's tearful, apologetic.
She's told she'll have to get a blood test, and a full physical
from the doctor when she visits next. Janet has her own file too. It's
open, and she now comments that Margaret is a leading offender in other
areas, too. Attitude, inappropriate dress, poor hygiene. There are 47
mentions for masturbation offenses, a half-dozen complaints about her
ogling or touching other girls in the showers, several cases of being in
possession of banned magazines, in a school where women's magazines are
thought of as near-pornography. She's wriggling with embarrassment as these
two women stare at her, in what seems total disgust. She's told to hold out
her hands, palms up, and gets a few harsh strokes with the cane to punish
her for being too free with her fingers.
Clara is asked for her handcuffs, and they're put on Margaret,
locking her wrists behind her back to stop her covering herself. Clara gets
up and opens the study door. Margaret is horrified. No, surely they're not
taking her out!
Clara beckons, and Miss Finch gives her a push. "Move it. Follow
Sergeant Loudermilk, please." Margaret has turned white. She can't move.
They grab her, and set off, determined expressions on their faces.
Margaret almost pees with fright, but holds on. She's escorted,
completely nude, on a roundabout walk up and down the school corridors to
the main assembly hall. The corridors are empty because classes are in, but
a few girls on bathroom break burst into astonished laughter as they see
the naked girl being frogmarched past. They tag along. The party stops at
several doorways, and Margaret cowers back, out of view, as the classes are
interrupted by Miss Finch, who asks the pupils to follow, to witness an
exemplary punishment. She gathers up about fifty girls in all, who follow
behind, chattering in excitement. They can see Margaret's bare back, and
know she's totally nude.
A chorus of voices behind her. "Who is she? Oh, her! What did she
do? No!! Really?! What's going to happen to her? A whipping!? Oh wow!
Where?"
Some are shocked, some contemptuous, most are barely capable of
suppressing their giggles of amusement when they see who it is. She's led
up on stage, and is bent over and strapped down on the dreaded,
leather-covered spanking stool. She's whimpering with fright now, but no
one pays any attention. There's too much else of interest. Her legs are
spread so there's about 30" between her knees, and her bare backside is
facing the audience. She's giving them an excellent, uncensored view of her
genitals, her pouting vulva perfectly framed in her thick bush, the bright
pink fin of her clitoris. The pose is even opening the crease of her
buttocks a little. "Girls who are guilty of sex offenses have lost the
right to privacy or dignity," it's announced, as much for the benefit of
others as for Margaret. After all, it's too late for her.
"Miss Wilson, who you all know, has been living under the
misapprehension that the school's conduct rules don't apply to her," Miss
Finch announces. "She has been caught lying, having sexual relationships
with direputable boys, engaging in public nudity, abusing drugs . . . who
knows what else? And her record until today has been very poor. So, we have
only one choice, girls: to beat her severely."
Several canes, leather straps and wooden paddles are produced --
the favorite classroom implements of those teachers Miss Finch has invited
-- plus some similar, well-proven items taken from the locked cupboard at
the side of the stage.
Miss Finch takes up a paddle. She's going to start. But she's not
the only one. She brings the paddle down on Margaret's bare backside with a
noise like a rifle shot. Then gets down to serious business. The chosen
items are used vigorously by teachers and form prefects in turn. It's not a
mild punishment they have in mind, and no one makes any attempt to keep
score. She tries to be stoic and suffer in silence, but they're not having
that. Instead, she gets dozens, even scores of vicious strokes from each
punisher in turn, ignoring her squeals and yelps and pleas, until her
backside and upper thighs are crimson, swollen, bruised, welted, even
bloodspeckled here and there, and she is emotionally drained . . . sobbing
pitifully, almost hysterical.
All through this ordeal, Clara has had a camera out, and has been
using it busily. After a quick trip to the forensic department's excellent
photo lab, she'll have plenty to report back to Schneider tonight. His
intense interest in the secrets of Margaret's body will be quite well
satisfied, she's made sure of that. The photos and her breathless account
of Margaret's ordeal will earn her an especially good fucking, she's sure.
When Miss Finch announces it's over, there are groans of disappointment, a
few shouts for 'more' and finally a long round of appreciative applause.
Margaret is unstrapped and helped up. She can barely stand. She's
told rather gleefully by Miss Finch: "Now, Miss Wilson, we have been rather
easy on you today. But this only constitutes about half your punishment.
You must report after evening prayers on Sunday to make a public
confession, and then to submit to a caning from all the members of your own
class. After all, you have disgraced them, too. They will vote on how many
strokes you deserve, but I hope it will be a suitably large number."
Excited laughter and whispering gives a clear confirmation that this is so.
"There may be other spankings, too, after we have had the opportunity to
review the results of this one."
And then the final indignity. Miss Finch announces: "Since Miss
Wilson so much wants to cavort in the nude, her clothing privileges have
been rescinded until the end of the month."
Margaret gasps. That's three weeks away, at least!
Miss Finch continues: "And that doesn't just mean 'non schoolgirl
apparel' privileges," meaning the school's concession to older girls that
they can have stockings, proper bras, decent shoes. "No, it means ALL
privileges. She'll stay as naked as this, until then." There's more
laughter. "Indoors, outdoors, in class, in the gym, even in front of
visitors if there are any. And it's expected she'll behave impeccably,
because a series of senior girls will be assigned to watch her every second
of the day and night, each armed with a studded belt to control her and
dish out instant correction. If any of you wish to volunteer, see me at the
end of the afternoon lessons."
Turning to Margaret she warns: "The slightest defiance, rudeness,
lack of respect, and you'll earn a further week nude and another good
thrashing. And I don't want to hear any more complaints about you
masturbating or ogling other girls, you little pervert. Understand?"
Sobbing, Margaret is led back to the study, where Clara has left
her bunch of car keys, and can undo the handcuffs. The policewoman takes
the opportunity to check the girl's genitals with a friendly squeeze of her
hand. They are rather damp and fragrant, inviting, even if she's not
intensely, ready-to-come aroused. That's a learned response, Clara knows.
And she expects to be invited to closely follow progress as Margaret is
taught it. Oh yes.
After Clara leaves, kissing Janet goodbye quite shamelessly, the
teacher hugs the well-thrashed girl, staring into her teary eyes. There's a
new attitude already, she decides. Janet gives a little smile of
satisfaction as she feels Margaret push her hips against her. It's clear
now to the teacher that a few weeks hence, their relationship will be quite
different. This sluttish girl is ripe for a dike makeover, and certainly
for bottom status, if the cards are played just right. She kisses her, and
their tongues touch. Janet's fingers find Margaret's nipples. This is going
to be quite easy, but it's going to be fun, she thinks to herself.
Margaret's hands don't try to block her as she slides her fingers down from
her nipples to her belly, then between her thighs. Margaret goes to speak,
she's blushing. But instead their mouths meet again.
Like Clara, Janet gives a little squeeze. Damp hair, definite
warmth. A fingertip between the labia. Oh, wetness. And there's a delicious
scent rising. Margaret anxiously whispers: "Miss? You won't hurt me anyone,
please?"
Janet smiles warmly. "No more than you deserve, you dirty girl."
