Paint Not Appreciated

A prank at school gets four girls into trouble.

By Kenny Walters

I’d been sitting on tenterhooks all through the first two lessons of the day. Mid-morning break was a very nervous affair, but when the bell sounded for the next lessons to commence and we’d still heard nothing, a faint glimmer of hope began to emerge. That was dispelled in the third lesson, when one of the school secretaries entered the classroom during an English lesson with Mrs Peterson. They had a whispered conversation which I certainly couldn’t hear, but then I felt I knew only too well what was being said. The secretary, Mrs Daniels, then stood back a pace for Mrs Peterson to make an announcement.

“Would Becky Davies, Mandy Potterton, Alison Raghlegh and Susie Carter attend Mr Wilson’s office immediately, please?”

There. The news I guess we’d all been expecting. We quickly packed our books away and got ready to leave.

“Alison, did you hand in your homework to me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I answered as I passed her desk.

Out in the corridor, we were hustled along at a brisk pace towards the administrative area. We all knew Mrs Daniels, a woman in her early forties with short blond hair, but none of us enquired of her why we were being summoned. There really was no need; we knew only too well.

As soon as we reached the door to Mr Wilson’s office we halted and waited outside while Mrs Daniels knocked, opened the door and announced: “The four girls are here, Mr Wilson.”

“Show them in, please.”

And then we were there, standing in a line in front of the large pale wood desk.

“Okay, ladies, let me tell you what I have. I have you four entering the staff room during the ‘end of exams’ party carrying paint pots and brushes. That’s clear from the CCTVC footage. Okay? I have you four emerging from the staff room fifteen minutes later with paint over your hands, paint on the brushes, and the paint cans looking like they’re empty. I have witnesses who say the staff room was clean minutes before you four entered. I have a witness who found the mess you caused within ten minutes of your leaving. The CCTV shows no one else entering or leaving who could have caused the damage. It doesn’t leave much room for doubt, does it?”

I could understand why he thought that. The one bit he missed was that most of the paint we brought was water based and would wash off relatively easily. That’s why we used it. Only one of us made a simple mistake and brought oil based paint, which of course did not wash off easily and meant the maintenance guys had to completely re-decorate the whole staff room. Should one of us point that out, I wondered.

“Incidentally,” he continued. “Some of the comments you wrote were inappropriate, in my view, and particularly hurtful to the members of staff mentioned.”

That was probably fair too. I recalled his near bald head had been the subject of a couple of comments, although thankfully written in the paint that did wash off easily. And there we were looking at his near bald head as he lectured us.

“I can’t for the life of me see how any of you can say anything in mitigation, but if you can now would be a good time to speak.”

Should I point out that the permanent damage was the result of a simple error, just one of us buying the wrong sort of paint? Then again, if I did speak out would he assume it was me that bought it and caused the damage? Perhaps it would be better if the person at fault spoke up. But Becky Davies was keeping quiet.

“I do appreciate it’s traditional to let off steam at these ‘end of exams’ parties,” he continued. “And we do expect a certain amount of, shall we say, tidying up afterwards, but you just went too far, ladies. Why did at least one of you use oil paint? Was that deliberate, or was that an accident? Does anyone want to speak?”

Mr Wilson looked along the line of us standing there before him. He clearly wanted an answer, but he didn’t seem to be getting it. He tried again.

“You know what, ladies, there’re some schools who would expel you on the spot. We’ve never liked to expel anyone, and anyway you don’t have that long before you all go away to your colleges. Would you want that on your records at this time? I think not.”

Mr Wilson stopped there and looked at us each in turn. I found it hard to meet his gaze, so kind of found something interesting on the floor that attracted my attention.

“And I’m sure you don’t want to spend the next month going around the campus picking up litter and doing any and every menial task we can find for you. Do you?”

A couple of us murmured in the negative, which he seemed to accept. Anyway, he carried on.

“So, here’s the deal. If the person or persons responsible for spreading the oil paint around care to own up, they’ll get eight whacks with a paddle. The others will get four whacks for being there at the time and not intervening. Okay? But if that person or persons don’t come forward then you will all get six whacks each. Okay?”

None of us said anything. I think we all looked at him in some state of shock. We were all eighteen and, we no doubt thought, a little old for paddling, at least a school paddling. And another thing, we were all studious types; like, we never get in trouble at school. Except now we were in trouble, big trouble.

“Now, I’m sure you ladies would like to discuss things amongst yourselves. Go find yourselves an empty classroom or somewhere like that and come back in, let’s say, thirty minutes when I shall expect an answer. You have a free choice; six whacks each, or the person who used the oil paint owns up and gets eight whacks, and the rest four whacks. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” we muttered and left his office. It was a warm day, so we headed for the grass slope that led down to the sports area out front of the school.

“I have to own up, don’t I?” Becky Davies said as we all sat on the grass. “I’ve never been paddled before. Eight sounds one hell of a spanking. I’m telling you, that really frightens me.”

The rest of us were ominously silent. I guess, like me, they were all thinking Becky should already have owned up.

“I’m sorry, but I’m really scared!” Becky reiterated with moist eyes, and I don’t think she was putting it on.

The thing is, you don’t like to see your friends upset, do you? And it wasn’t as though it was difficult to put ourselves in Beck’s shoes. She was having fun being a bit rebellious, just like the rest of us, and made an honest mistake. And she didn’t want to be spanked, but then neither did any of us. Mandy, Susie and I all gave each other looks, the kind of looks that said: “Shouldn’t we help our friend out?”

Mandy Potterton was the first to break. “What say we each take six whacks?” We were all there; none of us is completely innocent.”

Now, Mandy’s a robust girl. She’s tall and just a little on the heavy side. Her folks run a small farm and she helps out, so she’s a strong girl too.

“Maybe there’s room for negotiation.” Susie Carter suggested. “Maybe we offer to take three whacks each?” She didn’t sound at all optimistic Mr Wilson would accept, and nor do I think anyone else did either.

Susie is a small girl, even shorter than Becky. Petite is what most people would call her. She wears her blond hair long, like half way down her back and she’s pretty in a, well, petite kind of way.

“Why don’t we tell Mr Wilson we’re going to share the punishment equally,” I heard myself say. “We can suggest that six each is a bit too much and ask him to maybe think again?” I didn’t sound any more hopeful than Susie.

Everyone, including a still tearful Becky, looked at me. I thought they were going to round on me for daring to suggest such a thing but, hell, I was only summing up what had already been mentioned.

“I’d go for that,” Mandy said, nodding her head thoughtfully.

“Look, I’m grateful for anything,” Becky added. “Six has got to be better than eight. Besides, I don’t want the school thinking I’m the sort of girl who likes to make trouble, like maybe they start thinking I deliberately used oil paint.”

Susie Carter managed to sigh and speak at the same time. “Okay, let’s give it a try.”

“Okay, let’s face the music.” Mandy was the first to stand and brush some loose grass off her jeans.

The eighty yards or so back to the school building seemed to take only seconds, and there we were leaning over the counter and speaking to Mrs Daniels.

“Okay, girls, have you decided which option you want to take?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Becky answered. “Do we tell you or wait to talk to Mr Wilson?”

“Let’s do both. Follow me, girls.”

The secretary, Mrs Daniels, went straight along to Mr Wilson’s office, knocked and led us straight in. The head teacher was sitting at his desk.

“So, what’s it to be, girls?”

We stood in a line in front of the desk, like before. My mouth felt dry, and it seemed my compatriots were finding much the same, because no one spoke.”

“Come along, ladies. We’re using up daylight here.” Mr Wilson said by way of encouragement. It was ironic because the sun was shining through the window and it seemed to make his high forehead glow. I wasn’t in the mood for smiling, though.

“Sir,” Mandy spoke. “Sir, we feel we’d like to share the blame while pointing out again the serious damage was caused by an honest mistake about the type of paint.”

“Okay, so it’s six swats each. Your choice.” Mr Wilson answered brusquely. “Let’s get on and get it done.”

“We were wondering actually, sir,” Becky began. “Six whacks each seems a bit severe? Could we discuss that?”

“No.” He was getting brusquer by the second. That didn’t bode well. “You four all go out in the hallway and wait while Mrs Daniels and I get things ready, then we’ll call you in one at a time. Go.”

We went. Mrs Daniels’ office comprised a counter behind which sat six desks and chairs for herself and her two assistants. No, I don’t know why they have more desks than secretaries, but the two assistants, both in their late twenties, looked up and gave us curious glances. They clearly knew what we were about. We looked around.

Four chairs were positioned in the corridor just along from the door to Mr Wilson’s office. They were kind of like the ‘naughty chairs’ where anyone and everyone passing would know you were about to get paddled. We decided to lean against the wall, even though passers-by would likely still assume we were in trouble and about to experience severe discomfort to our posteriors.

As the minutes seemed to tick by, I couldn’t work out what was needed to get ready to spank four eighteen year old girls. I mean, was it that complicated?

When the door to Mr Wilson’s office did finally open, it was the head teacher himself who looked out and found us just a few yards along the corridor. He came a little closer and appeared to be assessing each of us to determine who should be his first victim.

“Miss Potterton, please.”

Mandy frowned as she heard her name called, and the other three of us breathed a sigh of relief. We watched as Mr Wilson led her through and into his office, and left the door open. We could hear him saying a lot, and Mandy not saying very much, although we couldn’t really make out the words. Then Mrs Daniels found something to say, briefly.

Now, don’t you all find an open door a little bit tempting, especially in those circumstances? I mean, no one had said not to go closer and maybe peek around the corner. We were all looking at each other, daring one of us to go and have a look. No one, so far, made an actual move. Why? What would happen if we did and were caught peeping? I really believed; nothing. I suppose there would be the risk of extra whacks, but surely not after at least one warning.

Pop! A menacingly loud bang heralded the beginning of Mandy’s spanking. Pop! Pop! The sounds came every few seconds; just enough time to aim the next stroke, then lash the paddle down. This wasn’t taking long at all, and we soon all realised our time was pretty imminent. I quickly looked at the others and I think we all had looks that combined surprise, horror and fear in equal proportions.

The six whacks of the paddle soon concluded. There were more faint murmurings and then Mandy emerged from Mr Wilson’s office. She turned the other way without even a glance in our direction and walked slowly down the corridor, while giving her bottom a gentle rub through her blue jeans as she went. I think I saw a little moisture on her face, like the odd tear trickling down. My heart started pounding.

Then Mr Wilson came out of his office again and approached us, eyeing each of us up like a kid in a candy store.

“Okay, Susie, you’re up next.”

I think I breathed another sigh of relief, although another part of me slightly envied Susie for being able to get her ordeal over and done with. Susie was wearing leggings like me, although hers were black which went well with her thin knitted white top and her long blond hair. She hesitated until Mr Wilson smiled benevolently and beckoned her with a crooked finger.

Finally, Susie moved forward. I mean, what choice did she really have? She certainly would not have wanted the two of us remaining to witness her being dragged forcibly towards the place of execution, would she? Becky and I watched as she ambled slowly towards the office, her cute little bottom wiggling provocatively.

I looked at Becky and we exchanged grim smiles. I wanted to say something, anything, to break the cold icy atmosphere, but nothing came to mind. We could hear more mumbling from within Mr Wilson’s office, but still couldn’t make out what was being said. I began thinking to myself whether I wanted to go next, or whether it would be better to see Becky being led away. It was a tough choice, and I never came to any sort of conclusion.

Pop! That awful noise started up again, this time flowed immediately by a shrill little scream. Quickly, all too quickly for me, this was followed by another five pops, each followed by increasingly shrill short screams. Mr Wilson’s brand of justice certainly didn’t hang around! In next to no time, the six pops were done and little Susie came out of the office and went straight down the corridor away from us. She was in floods of tears, and she too rubbed her bottom as she went. Trust me, that was a sight that did nothing to calm your nerves!

Now there was just a fifty/fifty chance of me being next. It seemed to take an age for Mr Wilson to come back out of his office, and the tension increased with every second. Then, there he was, walking towards us. I caught his eye as he looked first at me, and then at Becky Davies. I felt that meant he would be selecting me next. He seemed indecisive. That also did not calm my nerves.

“Becky, please.”

I felt Becky glare at me. Perhaps she was hoping I’d leap forward and beg Mr Wilson to let me go next. If so, she was disappointed. After a few agonising seconds, she had to start walking and I watched her jean clad bottom bobbling down the corridor. The pockets at the back of the jeans somehow caught my attention. My own thin leggings, grey in colour, didn’t have pockets at the back. How much of a disadvantage would that be? If they gave us a day’s warning we were going to be paddled, maybe we could dress appropriately. Then, I suppose, that would defeat the object of spanking us.

Standing there on my own, listening to the inaudible conversation from within the office, biting my nails, that was not a happy experience. It was even worse when the pops started. Mercifully, Becky took her punishment stoically and didn’t find the need to cry out. Since we’d all taken two extra whacks to save her from getting eight, maybe she felt she owed me that. More worryingly for me, Mr Wilson was getting through the six she was getting, and my turn was now just a minute or two away.

When Becky did emerge, she looked briefly in my direction, shrugged, smiled weakly and then went the other way along the corridor. Then the worst thing ever happened. Jenny Hemmings, also from the twelfth grade, came from behind me. I’d been so engrossed with the goings-on down the corridor I hadn’t heard her approaching. She looked at the open door of the office, then at me.

“Are you here for a paddling, Alison?”

I glared at her. What could I say?

“Really, Jenny? What do you think?”

“Oh dear! Been a naughty girl, I guess. Oh well, good luck.”

Jenny went off down the corridor, glancing into the office as she went. Inside ten minutes, the whole school would know I was getting spanked and that meant a whole load of teasing for the rest of the week. Just as I was worrying about that, Mr Wilson came out of the office and came towards me.

I started walking cautiously towards him and the open office door. There was no point waiting for him to come right up to me. It was my time to suffer and a few seconds here or there were going to make no difference.

“It’ll only take a few moments, Alison,” Mr Wilson said as I passed him by and he followed me.

I’m not sure that was much comfort.

As I went into the office, I looked around. There to the right was Mr Wilson’s large light oak desk. Everything, papers, telephone, laptop computer, had been moved to either end of the desk, leaving a clear space in the middle. I looked around for the paddle, but didn’t see it anywhere.

“If you’d like to step up to the desk, please, Alison?”

I moved towards the desk and came to a halt about a foot to eighteen inches from the leading edge. The secretary, Mrs Daniels, came up to me. She tucked my white T-shirt up at the back and asked: “You don’t have pockets at the back of those leggings, do you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Good.” Just to be sure, she passed a hand across my bottom and I felt her fingers checking for any sign I might have been lying. I wasn’t, and she found nothing. She stepped away, and then Mr Wilson came and stood by my left side.

“Okay, Alison, bend over the desk. Get right down and place your forearms flat on the desk. Stick your bottom out. Keep very still and this will be all over and you can get on with your school day. Okay?”

“Okay, sir,” I answered, meaning I understood the instructions. Somehow, that wasn’t enough for me to get my brain into sending my body the right signals.

“When you’re ready, Alison,” Mr Wilson offered me a hint. That still wasn’t enough for me to move.

“Sir?” I queried.

“Bend over and stick your bottom out!”

Now I got it! I felt myself shaking as I leaned over the desk and planted my elbows and then my forearms onto the nicely polished desktop. What else was there? Oh yes, stick my bottom out. My thin, very thin, leggings moulded themselves around my backside and felt more than a little snug, because I’m what they call pear-shaped and my bottom is nicely ample and certainly more rounded than my top half. Mr Wilson must have an attractive target back there!

“That’s good, Alison, now just you hold very still and this won’t take a moment.”

I tensed. I’d like to say I braced myself, but it was more a case of nerves locking me rigid, my mind a total blur. Something hard patted my bottom several times, then it happened. That something hard slammed across the seat of my leggings with considerable force and a loud bang that seemed to echo round the room. My bottom was suddenly in severe pain such that it made my eyes water. My god, that really hurt!

I felt another couple of brief pats on my bottom, then another stroke crashed into both bottom cheeks with similar strength. The level of pain that I thought couldn’t get worse, got worse. I was confused. My brain wanted to make sense of what was happening but a mix of sheer agony and turmoil meant I had very little logical thought.

Another stroke cracked across my poor bottom and another dose of pain stung my bottom like it had never been stung before. I was just conscious of a tear trickling down the side of my face.

“Uuhh!” I cried out involuntarily when the fourth stroke stung my bottom with that awful bang that reverberated round the room. It seemed much louder than the pops we’d listened to out in the corridor.

Within moments, another bang and another flood of pain met with my leggings clad bottom. Finally, not that I was in any condition to consciously count, the sixth stroke whacked across my now very sore bottom. I may have grunted at that last one, but otherwise I’d managed not to cry out except for once and although the odd tear still ran down my face, I’d avoided bursting into a fit of uncontrollable sobbing.

It was the lack of further contact between the paddle and my bottom that suggested my punishment was over, then confirmed by Mr Wilson saying: “Okay, Alison, you’re done. You may return to your classes.”

I took the hint and pushed myself up and off the desk. It was tempting to clasp my bottom in both hands and rub vigorously, but somehow that felt a bit unseemly.

“Thank you, sir,” I mumbled as I turned and headed for the still open door. I glanced at Mrs Daniels as I passed her. She was smiling sympathetically, although somehow there was a lack of genuineness about her; like she enjoyed watching me get spanked and thought I deserved every moment of it.

“Your parents will be informed of your punishment, Alison,” she said. I really didn’t want to hear that.

Out in the corridor, I walked slowly along the corridor, following the route my three friends had travelled. How did I feel? Sore! I felt humiliation, very much the same humiliation I’d felt when being in detention a couple of years previously. I washed my face and generally tidied myself up in one of the lower girls’ rest rooms, then headed back to my lessons.

My worry now was my parents. I’d hope to keep all this from them. I didn’t for a moment think they’d have a punishment of their own for me to endure and even if they did I doubted they’d want to spank me. But it would be incredibly humiliatiing walking through the front door and meeting my mother. My father, later, would probably find my being spanked quite amusing and he’d laugh and ask a few silly questions. My younger sister? She would take great pleasure in tormenting me.

And, yes, the other girls all greatly enjoyed teasing us too.

I never did get to see the paddle that had spanked me. Becky said it was just three inches wide and fifteen inches long. She’d expected it to be bigger. Whatever, it was still enough to cause a lot of bruising and soreness to my bottom, the marks lasting several days although the pain subsided within a few hours.

The End

© Kenny Walters 2019

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