Saturday Detention: A Story by Mark Danelaw. (Part 1 here)
St Denise
School on a Saturday was one of the perks of St Denise, an 8.30 to 12.30 heads down affair for followers the formal curriculum and ad hoc classes and study time for the more eclectic and senior students. Then after lunch and promptly at 1.30 was Saturday Detention.
Each week the serious offenders, those on three demerits, and repeat offenders of Friday night straighteners were called to this detention, forfeiting their afternoon off. For some that was bad enough, but Saturday detention meant three hours of creative punitive correction. There were up to a dozen students enjoying an afternoon of pain, sweat and tears.
This Saturday it was Kathy Bakewell, the mathematics and physical education mistress who had been slated for the task. At 32 she was an energetic pretty blonde and ambitious. At a previous school and for a time at this one, she had been overwhelmed by class control and discipline issues, a state of affairs she did not wish to return. Consequently, she had a reputation for being strict.
Miss Bakewell swept into the class as if about to announce an invasion, firmly closing and locking the door to the detention hall as she did so. Latecomers would be counted as absent and those very rare and very poor wretches probably never sit down again.
“I see we have 11 ladies here today, I trust you all had a productive morning improving your grades, if that is why you are here,” she said as she took of her coat and sat at the front desk.
“Yes Miss,” eleven voices parroted.
The parrots on this occasion were all perched on stools in neat rows with their hands planted on their heads and naked below the waist so that bare bottoms were in harsh contact with the very hard wood.
Without preamble she began the register pen poised to strike in or out a name, “Abbot?”
“Here Miss,” Claire Abbot spoke up.
“Clarke?”
“Here Miss,” Penny Clarke answered through gritted teeth, her bottom was a train wreck after the previous evening and the hard stool was no friend. Not that many had it better.
“Collins?”
“Here.”
“Davidson?” and so it went on with no stragglers unaccounted for. “Good,” Miss Bakewell said as she put down the register. “For those of you who have been in this class with me… let me enlighten you,” she put a paddle and a cane on the desk, taken from somewhere underneath.
Several girls gulped.
“Any talking, fidgeting, insolence, in fact anything at all and it is 10 swats with the paddle and six of the best,” Miss Bakewell told them, “Until you are called you will remain seated. In a moment we will begin the class with 10 swats each just so warm your seats and then I will instruct you on today’s exercise. Oh I am sure you are all think that is very lenient,” her voice became casual, in a way and drill instructor might sound just before he tells someone to jump out of an aircraft, “But repeat offenders of any offence this afternoon, will get another 10 swats and 12 of the best… as will the loser of the exercise.”
“The exercise Miss?” said a profoundly cut-glass voiced Henrietta Tailor-Duff. She was a pretty blonde from one of the finest families in England, but somewhat dim, the cause of most of her troubles as at 22 she had never managed to learn anything.
“Miss Tailor-Duff,” Miss Bakewell said.
“Oh it’s Lady Henrietta actually, not that…”
“Henrietta, step out here,” Miss Bakewell was as ice, “Did anyone give you permission to ask a question?”
“Well not actually,” Henrietta answered as rather self-consciously she peeled the skin of her behind from the hardwood and tottered to her feet. She wasn’t altogether comfortable being half naked in such an arena and had been planning on asking if it was entirely necessary. Now even she was beginning to realise that a lowered profile and studious adherence to the ancient art of keeping mum was a better course.
“Come to the front of the class and bend over to touch your toes,” she was told.
“Oh golly,” Henrietta muttered.
“Lady Henrietta Tailor-Duff, did anyone give you leave to speak?”
“No Miss,” Henrietta said as she bent over, a simple order for a simple girl and obeyed to the letter.
Miss Bakewell had to admire the jutting curves of the wayward aristocrat, her round and horsey bottom framed quite a tight but generous purse of flesh well draped in proof of her natural hair colour. The bottom too was unmarred, so not a refugee of the previous night’s straighteners.
“Why are you here today Lady Henrietta?” the question asked dripping with mockery.
“Three demerits Miss Bakewell,” Henrietta was finding it hard to keep position under interrogation.
“Oh and what were they for?”
“Last Sunday I was late back with Barney,” a rather unsteady Henrietta said, as she bit her lip ever more conscious that her bare bottom and much else was exposed to the class.
“Barney?”
“The horse I ride… I got carried away… I lost track of time and…” she remembered the stable mistress’ riding crop.
“Oh, abuse of privilege… what else?”
“Talking class… Monday… Miss Carney gave me the slipper…”
“And another demerit?”
“Yes Miss… and I was late to class…”
“Yes, yes I get the picture and now you are here asking impertinent questions talking in class,” Miss Bakewell tutted, “I think you had better bend across the desk, I don’t think you will hold up to pay the bill.”
Henrietta was relieved to be standing again and started towards the desk.
“This side girl, bottom facing the class,” Miss Bakewell scolded her, and then she waited until the girl offered a sobering view to the detention class, “Bottom out, right out.”
Henrietta pressed her heels together to shade some dignity and at least no one could see her vivid facial blush. Not that anyone dared laugh. “Yes Miss,” she said, the only safe thing to say, she finally realised.
“Well you were up here for 10 swats and a sixer and you have already got it up to 20 swats and 18 cane strokes… do you want any advance on that?”
“No Miss,” Henrietta almost giggled. Nervous laughter was another habit that got her into hot water.
The paddle struck with a satisfying thwack and Henrietta gasped. Some of the girls jerked in sympathy. Kathy felt the firm yield of flesh and a virtual wave of electricity through the girl. She tingled where she shouldn’t just as Henrietta did where she should. It was hard not to hurry so she lifted the paddle up and under searing the underside of bottom curve with the same power of electricity. This was strangely fun for what should have been an unwelcome distraction from the afternoon. The next was better and even the little moan the girl made was satisfying; even more so as now her previously stark white bottom was pink going on crimson, a smooth even stain that gave a lovely definition to the girl’s curves.
Henrietta felt the sting that grew to a burn and in short order her seat was on fire. It should have badly hurt, but little puss had woken up and had started lapping up the situation. She quite forgot that little puss was supposed to stay asleep unless she was alone or with a boy.
Kathy’s paddle continued its journey, leaving a trail of bright red and a bottom that seem to roll with each swat. The teacher was just self-aware enough to glance at the class to make sure that all eyes were either horrified or at least invested in schadenfreude. Sadly some hidden professional counter, like muscle memory, told Kathy that the paddling was over.
“Does anyone else want to ask any questions or have a little chit-chat in class?” she asked the distinctly uncomfortable audience. The rhetoric done for form’s sake she took up the cane. Eighteen was a tough gig for an opener. Luckily that was Lady Henrietta Tailor-Duff’s problem.
Kathy tapped the aristocrat’s polished red spheres thrice with the cane and then struck full force.
That got Henrietta’s attention and her face danced in search of an appropriate visage. But it didn’t hurt so much, not quite, but it was interesting it was… oh… oh God… “Hmmmmm-shsssssh,” she explained to the class, which was Ouchy for it started off fine but it is starting to hurt more and oh fuck it really hurts.
Kathy loved the stark white line across Henrietta’s shiny red globes and the way in which the colours slowly matched before becoming even darker as it swelled into a ridge.
Kathy caned again with much the same reaction. However, with 16 strokes to go and the rest of the class to deal with she had no luxury of a slow delicious caning. Delicious, where did that come from? She caned hard and then again. Come on Kathy; get your head in the game and out of the girl’s arse… focussed and concentrating she caned steadily over the next minute to get it done.
Henrietta’ facial dancing gave way to operatic singing and her quite interesting hurting evermore bottom gave way to fucking-Jesus-Christ-God-and-all-his angels. It hurt even more once it stopped and it took a reserve tank of stiff upper lip for her not to cry.
Kathy considered making Henrietta sit back on the stool, but not only would that be cruel it would definitely fail and force her to cane the girl again which would have been… bad as there were other bottoms needing her services.
“Go and face the wall next to the blackboard so everyone can see your contribution so far,” Kathy told the girl, “Consider yourself lucky that includes your warm up.
“Yes Miss,” Henrietta was panting.
“Now class thanks to this foolish girl we are a bit behind so in fours bend over the desk bottoms out for your 10, this row first…” Kathy regained her composure.
***
It took half an hour to get the detention back on track after giving the 10 remaining girls their warm up strapping, but Kathy managed it as she always did. Henrietta was still facing the wall next to the blackboard, but four of her fellows were writing out punishment lines in chalk, a red stain on each of their bottoms, while the remain six girl sat back on their stools squirming at the point where spanked bottoms met hard seat.
“Remember write clearly and legibly, but not too large, so Georgia please write a little smaller,” Kathy said, “Come on girls, others are waiting to write their own lines. What are we writing? Georgia?”
Georgia Porter, known to all as Georgy Porgy, which was a play on her name as well as a small reference to her slight rotundness and very generous bottom, flushed as she stood back to read. She noted that none of the others even paused in their frantic race to finish. Teach me to write big, she cursed herself. “Young Ladies at St Denise are privilege to get their bare bottoms spanked for their failures.”
“An excellent maxim, you may continue,” Kathy said.
Fingers flew as the need for speed challenged accuracy in the race to the finish.
“I am finished Miss,” Heather Collins announced gleefully. There were collective groans.
“Stand back,” Kathy checked her work, “Very good, back to your place.”
A very smug Heather grinned as she went to sit on her stool with the others, wincing as she did so but seemingly heedless of her lower nudity.
One by one the girls finished until it was only Georgy who was scribbling away. Realising she had lost she sagged against the blackboard.
“Finish up now girl,” Kathy told her. While the girl did so the teacher took up the cane and instructed the two other losers to wipe their part of the board and then bend over braced against the desk.
Once two bottoms were side by side Kathy moved in behind and tapped them with the cane. Six each took them hard and knees buckled as the little birds sang.
“Alright back to your places, you too Henrietta,” Kathy told them, “Georgy, you know what to do.”
“Yes Miss,” both Henrietta and Georgy spoke at once.
Henrietta obeyed by taking a stool, Georgy, who looked as it was miserable as it was possible to look got a chair and stood on it so that she could reach the upper writing with her face. Where upon she began to lick the chalk words from the black wood with a grimace.
“That’s the way,” Kathy encouraged her, “And do hurry up, you have to have your dozen before the others take their turn.”
The class exchanged smirks as Georgy gyrated on the chair with her bottom sticking out as she tried to reach all those awkward places with her tongue.
***
By the end of the afternoon every girl had taken a turn at lines and three of them had had intimate lingual contact with the chalk, including the oldest girl in this class, Lady Henrietta Tailor-Duff, who had also been the most thrashed.
“Alright girls off to tea, and don’t let me catch you here again,” Kathy dismissed the class. Then like a shepherdess she watched them collect their clothes, some stooping to pull on knickers, to leave.
Only Henrietta stayed behind. “That was an awfully tight thrashing you gave me,” she said, “Several thrashings I suppose, jolly well hurt too, I shan’t be sitting down in a hurry I can tell you,” and then added hastily, “Totally deserved of course,” she gushed.
Kathy noticed the girl still had chalk dust on her upper lip and down one cheek. “How can I help you Henrietta?”
Henrietta took a deep breath and swallowed, “Well… as you probably have realised… I… I am a bit of a dim-wit, everybody says so and although my grades are… acceptable, well mostly, I-I… really need to move on now… I am 22 you know and… and although I don’t want to go to university, well my family don’t want me at home so if I get my grades… I can go and… well not be here.”
Kathy nodded sympathetically, “What brought you here in the first place?”
Henrietta was fearful that what she said would make Kathy think less of her but she was a brave girl. “I… failed my A Levels and the resits, laziness really. I got sent to another school for crammers for another go when I… I was caught smoking a spliff with another girl after lights out… we were naked… We were expelled of course, I was all but disowned and a brief career as a petty dealer ended in court. They made a deal with my parents and gave me a choice of prison or an ‘indefinite legal guardian conservatorship,’ under the care of my family. Hence…” she gestured to their surroundings.
It was not unheard of at St Denise; perhaps a quarter of the girls had formal or at least informal arrangements of this sort. From what she was saying Henrietta was no less deserving. “So how can I… help?”
“Frankly I need a kick up the backside; my maths is awful by the way, every week I am barely above the floor… I mean it is a wonder I ever escape a thrashing for that… I know I am still lazy and I need motivation.
“Come and see my after class on Monday, now run along,” Kathy said.
Henrietta was smiling and almost forgot to get dress, until Kathy coughed.
Kathy had seen crushes before, but this one was perhaps to a purpose. Time would tell.
The next part, Sunday Conversations can be found here.
Leave a Reply