A girl thinks nothing of it when a teacher asks to speak to her after school
By Carla A Williams
The empty corridors felt strangely eerie as I climbed the stairs and headed towards Miss Clark’s room on the south side of the building. It was already ten past four and the school was all but empty. My shoes clip-clopped on the hard tiled floor as I idly peered into each vacant classroom I passed through the two windows separating corridor and classroom and then the glass in each door.
Finally I hesitated at the window through which I could see Miss Clark sitting at her desk, engrossed in marking a pile of exercise books. I moved to the door and tapped gently.
Miss Clark looked up. “Come in,” she called in her usually friendly way.
I liked Miss Clark. She was one of the youngest teachers on the staff, no more then twenty-two or twenty-three, and on her first year as a fully qualified teacher.
“Hello, Susan,” she smiled as I entered the room.
“Good evening, Miss Clark.”
“Pull that chair up, Susan.”
A spare chair sat at the front of the room and I lifted it over close to her chair, almost behind her desk with her, because that’s where her hand seemed to be pointing. It felt close, almost too close, for a pupil to teacher conversation.
“Susan, do you know why I’ve asked you if we could have a little chat?” Miss Clark leaned back in her chair, rested her elbows on its arms and cupped her hands under her chin. She looked a little nervous, and that was odd.
“Not really, Miss Clark,” I answered; it seemed helpful to shake my head as I looked into her eyes. She had lovely soft green, shining eyes.
“You don’t?” She tilted her head, enquiringly, as though she didn’t believe me but was far too caring to come right out with it.
That was truthful, on my part. I was a quiet studious girl, almost never in any kind of trouble, so thoughts of a disciplinary nature didn’t enter my mind. A career in the Royal Air Force beckoned, although I hadn’t finally made my mind up. If not, then it would be university. Was that what she wanted to talk about?
“If I mention your mother came to see me, does that give you a hint?” Miss Clark seemed to be treading very carefully, and that in itself was a little unnerving.
I thought hard. “No, Miss Clark,” I shook my head, still unable to fathom what this was all about.
“You work in a newsagents and tobacconists shop on Saturdays. Is that correct?”
“Yes, in Morrison’s. Why?”
“Do you ever find yourself alone in the shop, Susan? Perhaps it’s just for a few moments?”
“Well, yes, occasionally Mr Morrison will go upstairs to put the kettle on, and sometimes his wife goes out shopping if it isn’t too busy. But I’ve never, ever stolen anything, not one single penny.” I sounded hurt, and I was.
“No, no, Susan, nothing like that.” Miss Clark quickly tried to pacify me.
“What then?” I asked.
Miss Clark leaned forward on her desk. I could see she wasn’t entirely happy with her role of interrogator, much as I wasn’t too happy being on the receiving end.
“In those times when you were alone in the shop, did you ever think about buying some cigarettes for yourself?”
I smoothed my hands down my thighs as I tried to calculate just how much she knew and how much she was guessing. The material of my tight, dark blue trousers felt warm to the touch.
“Buying cigarettes, Miss Clark?” I frowned.
“Perhaps if you were to empty your blazer pockets out on my desk? Perhaps the contents of your bag too?”
“I’m sorry, but…”
The calm, knowing expression on Miss Clark’s face left me feeling trapped. I could have refused, I suppose, but a refusal would have been tantamount to an admission of guilt. Emptying my pockets and bag on her desk would simply provide the evidence.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated, and took the packet of cigarettes and a cheap lighter from my pocket and placed them between us.
“Is that all you have?”
“The thing is, Susan, tobacco smoke is such a strong pervading odour. It clings to your breath, your hands, your clothes. Your mother smelt it several times when you were home and I smelt it as soon as you walked through the door.”
I bit my lip. I wondered why mother hadn’t said anything. Then, there had been the odd hint about strange burning smells. Was that what she meant?
“Smoking is such an awful habit, Susan. It’s very hard to give up once you’ve become addicted; that’s why the school makes such a big thing of it. You do realise you could be caned, don’t you?”
“I, er, I thought caning wasn’t used for sixth formers.”
“Not entirely true, Susan. Be in no doubt I could take you along to Mr Coates’ office right now, with that packet of cigarettes as evidence, and you would be caned. How does that make you feel?”
“Um, nervous? Scared, a little.”
“Why on earth did you take the risk, Susan? You’re really not that stupid.”
“I don’t know. I kept seeing them on the shelves and people kept coming in and buying them. I just wanted to see what they were like.”
“This isn’t the first packet you’ve bought, though, is it Susan?”
I shook my head. “Perhaps my fourth?”
“This needs to be nipped in the bud, Susan. That’s all your mother wants too. None of us want this to develop into a habit you can’t control.”
I nodded. I felt a tear forming in my eye, not quite sure why. Perhaps it was the kindness Miss Clark was showing me when we both knew I could be in serious trouble. Why were the cigarettes in my pocket? Because I wanted to be a little more like the cool girls, and they never got into trouble.
“Your mother finds it difficult to punish you, doesn’t she?”
I nodded, rather faintly. She noticed.
“What your mother has asked, Susan, is for me to punish you.” Miss Clark fiddled with her fingers. “Her feeling is that, as I’m just a few years older than you, it might somehow be more agreeable to you if I were to do it. What are your thoughts about that?”
Her gentle tone was clear counsellor speak and it came across as badly as that sort of thing always does.
I shrugged. What was I suppose to do? She mentioned the word ‘punish’; surely I wasn’t expected to latch on to that idea with all the enthusiasm I could muster?
“No feelings?” She asked.
I shrugged again.
“I suppose, if we want to be formally correct, you have the right to be dealt with by the headmaster.” Miss Clark looked at me with penetrating eyes. “I assumed you wouldn’t fancy the likely outcome.”
I shook my head vigorously. No, that didn’t appeal one little bit.
“That seems, then, to leave it in my court, as your mother wishes.”
A little part of me was curious to find out what she had in mind; the major part, though, was hoping she’d bring this conversation to an end and that we would go our separate ways.
“Don’t look so worried, Susan. I’m not going to ask to borrow one of Mr Coates’ canes.”
My eyes sprang wide open. Was I looking worried?
“I think a spanking would fit the bill just nicely, don’t you?”
“I’m sorry?” I’d heard well enough. It was just that I didn’t fully believe what I’d heard.
“It seems to be what your mother wishes she’d felt able to do herself.” Miss Clark cocked her head to one side; an attempt to convey some kind of sympathy for my predicament, perhaps.
“You…” Something stuck in my throat and I coughed.
“I mean, I could slipper you, Susan.” Miss Clark took over while I got my voice back. “But it seems just a bit, well, formal somehow. I’m really simply trying to assist your mother. What do you say?”
The gently smiling, warm, sympathetic eyes bore into me. I liked and admired Miss Clark, for her patience and kindness, and because she was one of the best teachers I’ve ever had.
I shrugged. I nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Come on then.” Miss Clark pushed her chair back away from her desk and sat upright. Her lap beckoned, a lap covered neatly and smoothly by dark green heavy tweed-like material.
“What…” This time my voice was fine, I just couldn’t find the words. I stood up, because that seemed the thing to do, and stood close to her left side.
“Give me your hand.”
I held out my right hand, but Miss Clark didn’t take it. She gripped my wrist and pulled me forward so that I practically lurched across her lap. My immediate concern was things falling out of my blazer pockets, especially when I felt the tail of my blazer being folded up my back.
“Probably best if you take your blazer off,” Miss Clark suggested.
She released me from across her lap and I managed to awkwardly get to my feet. As I dutifully peeled the blazer off, I asked: “Um, why exactly are you spanking me? I mean, I am eighteen and haven’t actually done anything illegal.”
“Well, you brought smoking materials onto the school premises, and that’s against the rules, as you well know.” I noticed Miss Clark looking down at my trousers. “Then, you disobeyed your mother by smoking, and clearly you knew the shopkeeper wouldn’t be too happy about you buying cigarettes, otherwise you wouldn’t have bought them when his back was turned.”
“So, you’re spanking me rather than taking me along to be caned, is that it?”
“You could look at it that way, and I’m helping your mother out with a little parental discipline too.”
I nodded thoughtfully, not sure how best, or indeed whether, I should object. I wasn’t looking forward to the highly charged silence my mother reserved for when I was out of favour, nor the look of disappointment on Mr Morrison’s face when I returned to the shop next Saturday, and I certainly wasn’t at all keen to experience a caning at the headmaster’s hands.
“Okay.” I finally murmured.
Miss Clark patted her thighs and waited for me to bend over. I bent, and she guided me back down across her lap. The wooden floor was an easy reach and seemed a good method of keeping my hands out of the way. My toes also rested on the ground with my knees bent and, after a little shuffling around, I felt myself poised on Miss Clark’s warm, tweed-covered thighs with my bottom elevated.
The spanking didn’t start then, though. Miss Clark had clearly been observant, because she immediately reached over my bottom to the zip running down the left side of my trousers. It, and the little clip at the top, were soon undone and my trousers felt oddly loose. I’m still not sure why, but I raised myself up on one hip and then the other to facilitate Miss Clark pulling my trousers down to my knees.
That done, I settled back down onto Miss Clark’s thighs to await my spanking. She wasn’t finished, though. Gently thumbs inserted into the waistband of my white, lace-edged knickers soon had them joining my trousers at my knees, without the need for cooperation on my part.
“Ready?” She asked.
“I seem to be,” I answered with some sarcasm.
Miss Clark giggled, and slapped me across my left buttock.
With her right hand pressing down on my back, she started spanking me in earnest. Left buttock, right buttock, plumb dead centre, seemed to be her method of working. Each spank felt sharp and stinging rather than outright painful. The air in the room had felt a little cool when my knickers had been taken down, but now my bottom felt increasingly warm.
After more than twenty spanks had slapped noisily against my bottom, it began to feel sore and noticeably more painful. When I’d had more than thirty spanks, it began to feel a little too much and I put my left hand back to shield my bottom.
“Don’t do that!” Miss Clark cautioned.
“It hurts!” I explained.
Miss Clark took my wrist and folded my left arm behind my back, pinning me down across her lap. “It’s meant to!”
I had to take at least another forty spanks before everything came to a halt and Miss Clark released her hold on my wrist. By that time, my bottom was incredibly sore and I could sense tears trickling down the side of my face.
“Okay, you’re done.”
I breathed deeply and gasped several times before it occurred to me to start easing myself off Miss Clark’s lap. Even my legs felt unsteady as I tried to stand. Somehow, it seemed more important to wipe the tears off my face with the back of my hand.
“Here.” Miss Clark opened the top drawer of her desk and brought out a box of tissues. I took several.
“Thank you,” I sniffed and sobbed.
“I’ll give you a lift home,” she said.
“It’s alright, I can walk.” I sniffled.
“It’s not optional.”
After much blowing of my nose, a few deep breaths and some dabbing at my eyes, I felt much better. My bottom was still sore, though, and then I realised I was standing in this classroom with my pants and trousers down right in front of the teacher.
I quickly pulled my knickers up, which caused Miss Clark to chuckle. My trousers were tight fitting anyway, and I suspect my bottom was a little swollen, because zipping then up and securing the clip proved quite tricky. By the time I’d managed it, Miss Clark was ready with my blazer.
“You okay?” She asked as we walked along the corridor together.
“Yes,” I squeaked, trying to reply brightly. Somehow, I wanted to convey the impression I could handle a spanking any old day of the week. I probably wasn’t successful.
Miss Clark’s car, a bright red MBG, was one of the last cars in the staff car park. She sank into the low driver’s seat and opened the passenger door for me. I should have sat down a little more slowly.
“Shall we have the roof down?” She asked.
Miss Clark wasn’t a lady who liked to dawdle, and we arrived back at my house in rather less time than my mother would have taken.
“This is a lovely car,” I commented as we prepared to get out.
“It’s certainly quite nippy,” she confirmed.
“Good job there were no traffic cops about,” I said. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be the only one with a smacked bottom.” It was a poor joke, and got only the wry smile it deserved.
Mother, of course, invited Miss Clark in for tea. Mother then sat in her armchair and listened while Miss Clark, with me sitting beside her on the sofa, explained in some detail how she’d given me the good spanking they both thought I needed. I think the colour of my face could well have matched the hue of my bottom.
© Carla A Williams 2015