For the benefit of readers unfamiliar with
the school, St. Margaret’s is a very special girls’ school which celebrates its
100th anniversary this year. Founded by the great Victorian thinker and
educationalist, Dr. E. L. Zurriago, it has from the outset pursued a unique
educational policy. There are, also,
some very unusual customs and traditions in regard to the every-day running of
‘Roberta Manners?’ enquired Susan Long
off-handedly as she slipped the school blazer from shapely shoulders. ‘Yes, I
know her. Very tall girl, Lower Sixth,
in Nightingale. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason,’ said Mr. Murt, flexing his
swishiest cane absently, lovingly, between his hands as he watched the Head of
‘Take your time, my dear,’ he added, with
emphatic patience as Susan carefully rolled her tie and placed it on a nearby
chair. ‘Oh, come, now! You must have a
reason!’ Susan could take liberties with
the Headmaster that no other girl at St. Margaret’s would have dared. She stretched lithely, running her hands
through the long silky strands of her honey blonde hair. She knew well the picture she made, and she
shuddered delicately, the nipples of her small breasts perking at the thought
of the risk she was running in talking thus to the Head; but she loved to live
dangerously, and even the knowledge that her bottom would shortly be paying a painful
penalty for her pertness could not prevent her goading him. However, all things in proportion. She
quickly slipped out of blouse and skirt, and was reaching behind her to unclip
her bra when, struck by an idea, she straightened to stare at the Head.
‘She’s going to be my replacement!’ she
exclaimed. Murt made a small gesture
with the cane.
‘I do not have all afternoon, you know,’ he
said with deceptive mildness, his twinkling blue eyes drinking in the emerging
figure of his Head Girl; who tossed her head with an affected primness.
‘Nor I! I’ve lots to do; and after all, when
I came to see you about the end-of-year ceremony I knew I’d be getting the
‘Didn’t you, though?’ A small, grim smile tugged at the corners of
the Headmasters mouth as he stared at the girl, thinking regretfully that there
were only three more weeks left to enjoy her before she left St. Margaret’s for
Susan flushed sweetly at his tone. With an
attempt at defiance she tossed her head back again. Almost, she dared to put her hands on her
hips, challengingly. Almost, but not quite, for she was aware that the Head was
noting her attitude, and a tiny shiver of apprehension rippled her spine at the
knowledge that he would exact a stiff penalty.
‘I’m right, though, aren’t I?’
‘Perhaps.’ Enigmatically. ‘She hasn’t slaved to anyone, has she? Surely you don’t need to fold knickers!’ he
added plaintively, as Susan carefully and slowly arranged a silky scrap of
material that by no stretch of the imagination could be described as official
‘Will you please just let me do things my
way?’ Susan Long loved these moments of
dread and anticipation, preparing to have her bare bottom thoroughly caned,
drawing out the preliminaries while the excitement and apprehension built
within her. She quite enjoyed the
after-effects, too, and the knowledge that she was one of a small, elite and
privileged group who alone were subject to corporal discipline at St.
Margaret’s; although she was perhaps slightly less enthusiastic about the
actual event. ‘No, she hasn’t,’ she
continued, her small breasts drooping enticingly as she bent to lay the
knickers carefully atop the neat pile of garments.
Mr. Murt nodded in satisfaction, enjoying
meanwhile the sight of Susan’s long satin flanks.
‘What’s she like, generally?’ Pretty sound from what I can gather.’
Susan smiled triumphantly. ‘There! I knew it! Yes,’ hurriedly, seeing the storm clouds
gathering on the Headmaster’s brow.
‘She’s perfectly O.K. Popular,
good at sports ... captain of Hockey in Nightingales, good scholastically, very
pretty and a good figure...’
Murt smiled reflectively, remembering the
tall leggy beauty whose blouses filled out so enticingly, and whose skirts
rounded so exquisitely at the rear.
‘And, um, no entanglements with junior
masters?’ he enquired delicately. Susan pouted, her expression hinting the
disdain of someone with real power and influence in the school for such
inconsequential figures as junior masters.
‘Not even with Housemasters. No, she’s played her cards pretty well, I
should say. There’s nothing to prevent
her taking over from me. What’s more,
she would do the job well.
‘...In all departments....’ she added,
glancing significantly at the bulging front of the Headmaster’s trousers.
You think so?’
Susan was now completely and gloriously naked, standing proudly,
provocatively before the Head, smoothing her hands down over amenable hips,
revelling in the admiration reflected in his eyes. She was going to miss St. Margaret’s... Almost involuntarily she turned to offer the
Head a side view of her buttocks.
‘Inexperienced, of course,’ she added, as the excitement threatened to
burst within her. ‘She will have to be
‘As you were.’
‘Yes.’ They eyed each other smilingly until,
with a start, they came back to the present, and the reason for their presence
in that sunlit study.
‘However,’ continued Mr. Murt. ‘Just at the moment.’ He tapped the top of the desk with his cane.
Susan licked her lips, eyeing the bamboo, for
now that the moment was upon her she was rather less eager to be caned than she
had been. Nevertheless, with a small shrug she clambered fluidly onto the desk
and disposed herself neatly on parted knees and elbows, head resting on her
hands so that her bare bottom was held up conveniently and enticingly, well
spread for the burning kiss of the cane.
The Headmaster stared avidly at the upturned,
vulnerable buttocks, and at the pouting lips of Susan’s vagina, which peeped so
provocatively between the smooth thighs. This was, perhaps, the moment he loved
best of all, the last seconds when the bare, but as yet unmarked, cheeks
awaited the descent of the rod, and the naked girl flinched nervously at every
tiny sound, anticipating with tremulous eagerness the streaking fire as the
cane bit rigorously into the fullness of her proffered bum.
This was a typical moment, for there was no
doubt that while she had been undressing, Susan Long had been urgent for the
stick. Now that she was in position and
about to feel the agony, however she was as nervous as any snivelling Third
Former used to be in the good old days when corporal punishment was not only
permitted, but encouraged.
Smilingly, the Headmaster reached out to
fondle the cool, goose-fleshed skin, savouring the nervous flinch at his
touch. It was salutary, this final flick
of humiliation, this having to hold still in penitential position while her
mentor rudely fondled her most intimate parts, while his knowing finger slipped
between those coy lips, to explore the lubricated depths of her ready cunt; but
at last he could hold back no longer. A
final gentle slap on the firm, curved flesh and he stood back to her right
rear. He flexed the cane thoughtfully, staring musingly at the full, bare
cheeks which already betrayed the nervous flutter of muscle under the silky
flesh; and if, in his mind’s eye he saw another bottom held up to him, saw
another girl, tall and raven haired this time, staring rigidly down at the
carpet between the hands which clenched so fiercely at the edge of the desk,
who can blame him? These hindquarters were passing out of his control; but
there were others eager and willing to replace them. With a sense of almost
infinite supremacy, the Headmaster laid the cane teasingly across the span of the
waiting, cringing buttocks, tap-tapping gently over the tensile globes,
carefully measuring distance in order to avoid too great an overlap. He raised the cane...
The heavy, meaty sound of rattan meeting
forcefully with bare flesh sounded in the study, as the Headmaster brought the
stick swooping like an eager hawk onto defenceless prey, biting into the
roundest part of her bottom. There was a sharp, agonised hiss of indrawn breath
from the young Head Girl, and her bottom surged painfully, cheeks clenching
busily as they absorbed the pain.
‘Aaaaghhh!’ A soft, complaining, breathy sigh
and Susan rolled her bottom, now embellished with a double red stripe of agony,
from side to side.
‘Hold it still now!’ admonished Murt, mildly;
and obediently the naked girl held her upraised backside motionless, ready for
the next stroke.
The cane rose and fell, whipping down for the
third time into the cringing flesh.
Susan cried out, almost yelping, while a third streak blossomed across
her buttocks, as neatly ruled as the others.
The three stripes bloomed on the creamy flesh with the precision,
almost, of lines in an exercise book.
Susan screwed up her face, her eyes blinking rapidly in a way that, had
she known, almost matched the rapid clenching and relaxing of her behind. She
moaned long and low, like the sighing of a prairie wind, conscious that she was
losing it, that another couple of strokes would break her control, to send the
silent tears coursing down her cheeks. The Headmaster waited patiently for the
lovely buttocks to cease their reflexive squirming. The Head Girl was trying to be co-operative,
he knew; and he wondered how, with hips so active after only three strokes, she
would hold herself for the twelfth and last ... In the fullness of time he got
his answer; with great difficulty. Not
for the first time he congratulated himself on the impulse which had led his
predecessors to have the study soundproofed, for Susan’s voice had echoed and shrieked
piercingly during the last half dozen.
He had offered her a rest at the half way point, but was not surprised
when the girl declined. He pondered
complacently on his sure instinct in selecting his Head Girls, and patted
soothingly at the very well striped nether curves of the sobbing girl.
‘Here,’ he said, as Susan clambered stiffly
down from the desk, tears running down her beautiful face. She took the proffered handkerchief and
jiggled restlessly, one hand attempting to soothe her well-whipped bottom, the
other dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief. Mr. Murt leaned back against
the desk, watching the pantomime with cool, amused eyes in which more than a
spark of arousal glinted. His gaze drank
in the vibrant nudity, and regretted that it was still only early afternoon;
but why, after all, wait? He looked
significantly at Susan, who had by now regained control. She took the hint, sinking to her knees,
fumbling at the zipper of his trousers... As she extracted his rapidly
stiffening penis from its underpanted confines, Susan was startled, as she
invariably was, by the length and thickness of the throbbing muscle, and her
lips stretched uncomfortably as she took the reddish-purple tip of the Head’s
cock into her mouth. The Head stared reflectively up at the ceiling, revelling
in the busy, moist warmth; and again a newer image superimposed itself upon his
‘Of course,’ he said, thoughtfully, to no one
in particular. ‘The Manners’ girl’s mother was Head Girl here, in her time; her
aunt, too: and I have heard, as well that her grandmother was also Head of
School, in her time; although that was before my day, of course...’
St. Margaret’s is very strong on manners, and
Susan was a supreme example of its teaching, her table manners being
particularly good. Thus, she did not answer,
merely nodding carefully, with stimulating results. ‘Yes!’ continued the
Head. ‘Tradition! That’s the
ticket! Very important, tradition ...’
His voice trailed away meaninglessly as he abandoned himself to sensation, and
Susan gagged a little as he thrust deeply into the back of her mouth to spurt
his semen down her waiting throat...