Mr Henderson was a good teacher, genuinely, no, he was an excellent teacher. He cared about the pupils and their overall education. He would take time in Maths to go back over subjects when some slower pupils failed to grasp the detail. He would quietly and methodically explain and explain again. His maths classes always got enviably good results, and not because he got the top set. He made it quite clear that he was happy to help the lower sets. He was given a range of ability groups and always, always exceeded the initial expectations. He cared.
He cared about his form too, and, if it annoyed the French teacher when he spent time with Abigail covering irregular verbs when she should have understood them the first time, or if he would sit through a break discussing the feelings that Romeo and Juliet evoked with a couple of boys who would have dismissed the whole scenario of dying for love and give them a chance of writing an average essay rather than a rubbish one, or if he took an interest in Sharla’s family stuck in Pakistan and yet still trying to arrange a marriage for her. Well, all these things were accepted after a while. He cared.
And he didn’t ogle the girls in his class. He didn’t look at their work and stare down their blouses at the same time, seeing the curve of lace lining the white flesh of breast and the hidden flesh beneath. He didn’t look; so much that when Harriet tried to up her score by making Dykey Linda (she of the short hair and frumpy clothes and, well the hots for Harriet) sit at the back so she could sit at the front and undo not one, but two extra buttons and wear her shortest allowable skirt, AND sitting with her legs rather more open than they should be; when Harriet did all that (and showed more than just the lacy start of her bra when she leaned forward, it was visible when she was sitting upright; when she leant forward then she showed the milky white flesh right down to where it began to be reddy-brown. That the nipple stayed hidden was more accidental than delibertate), Mr Henry Henderson simply said “Too many buttons undone there Harriet, and a lady doesn’t show her knickers”
And even her reply “So you are looking ... oooo” didn’t discombobulate him. He simply smiled and said “Legs together, button up or headteacher, your choice. ‘D minus’ on the test”
He was fair, even the girls had to admit that. Though some suggested he must be gay not to be influenced by a pair of sixteen year old tits being slyly, titillatingly, offered for show, they weren’t really serious. He was fair in his marking, scrupulously fair. And he would help all who genuinely wanted help, and you were safe staying behind after school, alone, with him. He would help you and not slide a hand onto your shoulder or accidentally brush your leg. Not like Mr Callum, a lech. if ever there was one. Though at least you knew he would entice you to lean forward a little more by moving your work forward so your blouse hung open just a tad more. It was up to you if you let him have his view or not. And Mr Smythe, but then the girls often didn’t mind his hand on the knee because he was good looking smelt nice (Mr Callum smoked and always smelt like an old ashtray). There were women to watch out for too. Ms Turnbill was a member of the Sisters are Doing It For Themselves club, and was keen to recruit members. What was odd was that Miss Brown had been sacked for kissing Tony Hargreaves (a spotty seventeen year old – none of the girls could see what she saw in him, but then beauty is in the eye of the beholder); but apparently trying to persuade good, nubile, heterosexual students that having a female tongue between your legs was infinitely preferable to a male one was not a sacking offence. Still, everybody knew about Ms Turnbill, and treated her the same as the resident Communist on the school teaching board. These were people with less usual views who did no real harm.
But he had a secret. Didn’t mean he wasn’t a good teacher; just that he had other aspects to his character. If you are a brilliant sniper in the army, it doesn’t mean you aren’t a good gardener. Or if you shag your secretary in the House of Commons Library, it doesn’t mean that the new ‘Education Act 2017’ you are introducing is not worth supporting. People are more than cardboard cutouts. They have nuances and facets that make them interesting. He had a secret. He was strictly upright and professional during school time. He had other interests though.
One of these was spanking. A search through his internet history would show a distinct interest in spanking web sites. But most of them veered into torture or sado-masochism. He wasn’t into that. He liked spanking bottoms.
The first time his education job and his particular interest overlapped was with the Cobalt twins. Taylor and Hayden. One boy, one girl, no-one could ever remember which was which. So, sexual? Yes, but not some predatory, bullying, heterosexual preying on young girls.
He caught them smoking behind the bike sheds. So uninventive. So boring. They couldn’t have found somewhere less obvious? At home, their mum smoked like the Royal Scot. Dad smoked more – Drax Power Station perhaps. It would either drive them away from fags, or it would mean they were smoking by the time they could walk. Well, it tended towards the latter. When they arrived at the school at age eleven, the number of cigarettes available tripled and quadrupled. They were happy to supply to all and sundry on a non-judgemental basis. Being caught smoking was an immediate expulsion offence.
“So, Hayden, what should we do with you?”
“She’s Hayden, I’m Taylor”
“Of course you are. You know you both will be expelled? Miss Turngoose is very anti-smoking; and quite right!” Miss Turngoose was the head teacher, and was, as Henry said, very anti-smoking.
“Look, we can’t help it. We’ve both been smoking since we were nine. Can’t just give it up. And, stupid I know, we can’t get nicotine patches until we are eighteen.”
“So ... if you smoke underage, you can’t get help to stop?”
“Yeah, well, yeah. Unless you go to the doctor with your mum or dad. And they ain’t gonna help are they?”
“Aren’t Going To!”
“Yes, aren’t going to”
“Well, that’s a pity I guess”
“That’s very American Mr Henderson” responded Hayden, with a smile. She was quite precocious for an eleven year old.
“True, true. Doesn’t help you though, does it?”
“Mr Henderson, if we go to Turnberry Comprehensive, Taylor will be my pimp by the time I’m fifteen.” Turnberry Comprehensive, the other school in the town, did not have a good reputation. It came third in the country for the number of teenage pregnancies (of course the august private school St Dubritius’ School for Girls came first, but then the parents sent their girls there after they had got pregnant quite often – ask no questions and keep the press out). Did they but know it, the two schools were the subject of a lot of academic research into how two schools in the same town could result in such different results (Macademia High – average of 4 A-C grade passes for sixteen year olds, 2.5 A Levels for eighteen year olds. Turnberry Comprehensive – average of 5 community orders per class).
“That’s an exaggeration. You might just be fucking boys for free drinks” he was smiling “Look, suppose I think of another punishment? But if it got out, I’d be fired too”
“Yes, yes, anything.” they said together, then Hayden added “I mean what? You can spank me black and blue if I can stay. Honest”
Now it was true that Mr Henderson already liked spanking porno, but he wasn’t thinking of it here; until that moment. Could he? Should he? He looked at Taylor, who looked back and nodded. That settled it. “Okay, well, I promise it won’t be easy. It will hurt. Okay? Are you sure?” They both nodded. “Okay, stay behind tomorrow. I’ll bring a slipper.”
So, the following day, two eleven year old children presented themselves for a, totally illegal, slippering. They would both be punished together; Henry was determined to avoid any suggestion of sexual assault. He was, on the other hand, willing to enjoy slapping their firm little bottoms. It was a contradiction, he knew that. He wasn’t stupid. He knew he would have a sexual high from this, but it wasn’t because of Taylor’s lovely little arse with the dimples just starting to appear on either side or Hayden’s perfect round bottom. He just liked slapping bottoms, well watching it. He didn’t really go for young ones like this; he liked the twenty year old girls in videos being spanked, occasionally he would see a man being belted but these were quite rare.
“Right then. Trousers down Taylor, skirt up Hayden. Yes, come on. Let’s get on with it.” The two were taken a little by surprise, but obeyed. They hadn’t really known what to expect. Then Henry pulled down both pairs of underpants and told them both to bend over. They just did as they were told. He gave them each six hard, but not very, very hard, strokes; they were only eleven after all. That was it. They went home sore, but happy that nothing further would be heard of the crime they had committed. Henry Henderson went home very happy. He had enjoyed that; and he didn’t even needed to top it up with surfing the net. He looked at his slipper, he had actually used his own slipper, the sole of this slipper had whacked a bottom. Once again he wondered what that would be like, he knew there were ‘places’ one could go, but he was too careful, too scared. He’d even tried spanking himself; it didn’t work. He wasn’t even sure if that would be as exciting as being the spanker.
He’d tried before to work out what it was he enjoyed. It really seemed to be separated from sex itself, though there was obviously an auto-erotic element to the whole spanking fetish. He quite liked sex; until his wife had left him, he had had a normal sexual relationship with her for a thirty nine year old. Friday nights were fucking nights (nothing on TV, met up with friends on a Saturday and Sunday made it too tiring the following day); they would go to bed often as early as nine and still be having sex in various positions several hours later. She hadn’t left him because he was boring in bed, nor because he was unfaithful. She’d left him because he was a teacher and earned a low salary and she found a ‘real man’ (that comment hurt) who earned a lot more and could take her out to sea on the back of his jet ski, and could wine and dine in Claridges. When she realised that Dirk Diggler (as Henry nicknamed him, he couldn’t bear to use his real name) was spending his mother’s money it was too late, boats had been burned and she was stuck with the mummy’s boy. She had thought he was a loving son for going to see his mother every Sunday, actually he was tied to her apron strings and financially dependent upon him. Still, the holidays had been good until she got tired of the interfering old crone pulling his strings. They hadn’t bothered to get a divorce, so she was still officially Mrs Henderson, but they never saw each other or communicated.
So what was it about spanking? Well, he liked the way the bottom wobbled, kind of vibrated, when it was hit. He liked the quivering expectation of another strike. That wasn’t it. Was it the control? The fact that this person was at the mercy of the slapper was exciting, no doubt about that. The bared, very personal place. Very personal and yet not sexual place. All that was good, but he didn’t think that was the nub of it. He even read some articles on this subject, but he wasn’t convinced that the conclusions were correct. Perhaps, as one learned paper suggested (in academic tones), he was just wired up slightly wrong.
He had day-dreamed of slippering Harriet; she was sexy and hot and her bottom would, no doubt, be tight and white and delightful to whack with his slipper. That particular day-dream had rolled over, it’s true, into him fucking her hard and long. He realised that spanking a sexy girl was likely to lead to other things. Spanking Linda (no, she was quite sexy too really, just that she was a lesbian, but then forcing a lesbian to have sex was quite sexy too), or Tamara or George; these last two were large of frame and wobbly of nature. Yes, he could imagine slippering them very happily without it leading to sex.
It was a mystery. He had stopped thinking about why. Why do people enjoy a good view? Or a fast car? Or a cream cake? Some things just make you feel better. And he found actually spanking two children made him feel much better than watching it on his computer screen. He knew he had triggered something, it was only a matter of time.
As it happened, the opportunity arose in a teacher first. Mrs Quirk. Paula Quirk was not the best teacher, not the more dedicated. She was average. She taught History. A couple of people in his class were struggling with the English Civil War. They couldn’t, for some reason, get their heads around the complex arguments that arose over Divine Right of Kings, and the subsequent Oliver Cromwell approach of just sweeping it all away. Henry thought they were thinking too much. He tried to explain that, as he saw it, rule of law only takes you so far; then people just do stuff and it gets justified and explained later. How can you kill the monarch? The head of state? How can you claim that the right to remove and destroy the God and legally ordained head of the country can be executed by the people he rules? Just go with the flow. Henry wanted to say. Well, they were having problems, so he went to see Paula after classes had finished. She was packing up her files. As he walked in, she reached for a bottle of whisky and took a long swig straight from the bottle. Not a sip, not a restorative sip, a long, long swig; Maybe an eighth of the bottle in one long gulp. She turned and froze.
Neither spoke for a million years. Then she said “I only drink after class. I need it to get through the day” The first statement contradicted the second. “None of the students know” That was doubtful. “I ... please don’t tell.”
“You know alcohol is a sacking offence. We have to get special permission for the Christmas lunch glass of sherry! You can’t ... If I don’t tell and it comes out that I knew then I’m out too. I ... No ... look ... I mean”
Paula was young; about thirty. She explained that she hated teaching, she knew she wasn’t good at it. She knew she needed to get out. The drink helped her relax enough to teach competently. She needed to work, she couldn’t afford to lose the job by being sacked because she’d never get another job with children if that happened. And she wasn’t qualified to do anything else. She lived alone. She didn’t have someone else’s income to back her up (‘neither do I’ thought Henry, ‘what a very sexist attitude’), she needed her job. She was attractive, brunette hair cut to her shoulder length, large eyes made slightly larger by the glasses, straight nose supporting those glasses, and a mouth that, at the moment, wouldn’t stop talking, but was small and red with lipstick. Her body was not the small, elfin kind that some men lust for; hers was solid, busty, and would not show rows of ribs if undressed. Her hips were not prominent, and neither was her bottom, but it was visible. It swayed when she walked and the pattern on her skirts would rise and fall. She was still talking. “I’ll do anything. Honestly, I’ll stop. I won’t bring the bottle anymore. Please! Don’t tell!” It was like dealing with a student begging not to be kept in. In her defence, she wasn’t trying to bat her eyes at him. Perhaps she knew it wouldn’t work.
“I ... do ... have ... a suggestion”
“Yes, yes, anything. Please”
“Listen to it all before you agree. If you are offended and complain then I’ll deny it. And” he snatched the bottle “I have the evidence on you...
You live alone, I live alone. I have ... needs. Supposing I came round on a weekend and you ... and...”
“Yes! Yes, I’ll do it” She didn’t even stop to think. “Anything, honestly. I’ll do anything.” Could she be that desperate? Well, he’d find out. He supposed that the implication was that she could carry on drinking. He told her that she had to be very careful not to get caught. Then he switched to talking about his form students who were struggling with her history lessons. She said she would try and clarify the issues; it was going to get more complicated when they looked at Ireland, so they had better get the basics clear in their heads before that.
The end of term was that week, so they agreed to start after the Easter break. He wondered if that would mean she would have time to change her mind, but then he got distracted. ‘It never rains but it pours’ he thought ‘but in a good way’.
Jeruia was an odd name, but then she was ethnic. That was what Mr Henderson thought. He was unaware that fifteen years ago Jeruia was the hottest of hot hotties in the panoply of girl singers. She lasted all of six months, but it was long enough for Jeruia’s mother to saddle her newborn with a name which would be outdated by the time she was three. At fifteen she had the curvy body that a lot of black girls had to the envy of their white friends. She had a bust of impressive and unenhanced proportions, and a booty (as Mr Henderson called it in his head) that stuck out behind in a delightfully rounded and wibbly, way. It would wobble if she ran, but then Jeruia didn’t run often so that wasn’t a problem. She had reached the age where girls decided that sport might make them sweat and sweat would make their makeup run. She arrived at school with huge earrings.
“Jeruia! A word!” said Miss Henshaw, who was on uniform watch that day “Those earrings are way too big, even for normal wear. You know the school policy. Studs, only studs”
Jeruia just looked down at the short Miss Henshaw and sneered “Ain’t got no studs miss”
“Well, tough, because those have to be removed”
“Well, tough because I ain’t taking them out”
A stand-off. Miss Henshaw was starting to feel intimidated. Jeruia’s friends were crowding round. “You girls can go to your classes” None of them moved.
“MISS HENSHAW SAID GO TO YOUR CLASSES!” Said Mr Henderson and they moved “Good morning Miss Henshaw. Do we have a problem with one of my class? Shall I deal with it?”
“Please do Mr Henderson. Lovely day”
Jeruia gave an involuntary gulp. She actually wanted to stay at school and learn, and she was frightened of Henry Henderson. He was a big man, and didn’t take shit from his pupils. He had got Dean Ashworth expelled last term for pushing a teacher.
“Jeruia, Jeruia; what are we to do with you? You have a real attitude problem with authority. And Miss Henshaw is authority. You can’t just rebel all the time. If you get a job, no ... when you get a job” he was always positive and encouraging “you will work for idiots, dickheads, makeweights” she looked confused “look it up! But you’ll have to work with them, not ask if they’d like to have relations with themselves” again she looked confused, then she smiled ‘fuck yourself’ he meant. “So, you have to learn to accept punishment”
“Yes sir, it won’t happen again.”
“Yes, it will. You have been given lines, detentions, had your mother called. None of it has helped. We can’t have this in the school you know, it sets a bad example to the younger kids too”
“What do you suggest sir? Please don’t exclude me, I’ll try harder. I’ve got me exams coming”
“I’ve got MY exams coming. And really it should be ‘I have my exams coming up soon’”
“Yes sir. Isn’t there some punishment that could let me stay focussed on my work?”
“Well. There has been some research that suggested a short sharp shock that seared into the memory might be a better punishment than prison for some types of convict. The research suggested that the belt, tawse, birch or cane could actually be beneficial to some.”
“A rope with frayed end I believe”
“Oh ... and you’re suggesting... ?”
“Oh, no, just musing out loud. I would never propose caning a bottom such as yours Jeruia”
“Well, supposing I proposed it sir? Maybe not a cane” she was getting the measure of the man now “maybe a hand?”
“Hmm. You are proposing I spank you with my hand? It would have to be thorough. No, no, I couldn’t. What would the school, or your parents; parent, I apologise, what would she say?”
“Mum beat me when I was younger. It worked then. She wouldn’t do it now of course cos I’d beat her back. But if I agree ... well, no-one else need know do they sir?”
She was keen, she was actually keen to be slapped a bit so she could get the punishment over with. He did wonder if it would teach her a lesson she would learn. He wondered how much her mother had done it, was she immune to the punishment? Well, that would be no bad thing really, he could spank her harder.
At the end of school, when the caretaker had locked most of the classrooms, Henry Henderson was still marking books. He promised to lock his room and Guy Schmitt-Membery (the most well-bred caretaker in the county, possibly the country) waved goodbye and went to the pub. Jeruia came out of the stationery cupboard and looked at Henry, he looked at her, took a deep breath and took control. “Right then, here we go. Just so we are clear, this is not because you wore ridiculous ear rings; it is because you were rude to a teacher who was in her rights to demand you remove the ear rings. Now that’s clear, perhaps you’d like to bend over on my lap”
“Sir? Oh, I see, You want to ... right” She bent over onto his lap and, at his ‘suggestion’ pulled her school skirt the few inches further than it hadn’t already ridden up. He removed her panties. She hadn’t expected that. She had assumed that he was just going to spank her through her pants, or even through her skirt. His hand came down of her jet black buttocks and his prick rose up underneath her. She could feel it through his trousers, a rock hard rod of flesh. His hand crashed again and again on her bottom. She wondered if her mother had got a sexual thrill from beating her. That was the first hint of her enquiring mind. She started to question what was going on; not the physical side, she knew he was slapping her wobbling fleshy behind and hard! She knew he was also allowing his hand to slope off her flesh rather than simply bouncy up and down. She knew he’d not be able to see much. Her big arse hid much of what the fleshless whiteys showed between their skinny legs. No wonder a man, a real man like Mr Henderson, got a hard on slapping her boutilicious bountiful bum. She knew she was good looking. No, she was wondering what weird connections were in his brain that made slapping a well-upholstered bottom like hers into an erotic delight. Now it was starting to hurt, she knew it was supposed to, but she hoped he’d get tired first, He didn’t. By the end she was crying for mercy and from the pain. It hurt, a lot. When he stopped, she had decided to study harder and, in time, she would decide that psychology was her interest. No-one every spanked her again, but she treasured that memory; it was a lightbulb in her head. People were strange and interesting.
Easter was when he went on retreat. He went to an island in Ireland and knelt his way around the stations of the cross. He told himself he was punishing himself for his perversions and thoughts, but actually he quite enjoyed the discomfort. His knees were raw by the end; few people managed to kneel all the way round, he did and that was a source of pride. And pride is a sin too. He knew he was digging a bigger hole.
But he came back renewed, cleansed, purified. And immediately had to deal with the Paula situation. They had arranged to start after Easter, and it was after Easter, and he knew he should drop it. He would wait and see what she did. She came to him and said “When should we start? This weekend?” And he was lost. He could see she thought he was going to fuck her tight little arse, and it disappointed him in some ways that she was willing to give it away so cheaply. But would she feel relief or shock when she discovered the truth. She had said ‘anything’.
He arrived at 8pm on Monday, as arranged. She was expecting him to stay the night and leave early next day and she would lie in the bath and wash away his smell until the following week. He had told her to wear a short skirt and proper knickers. Normally she would have put on her Brazilian cut panties, but this guy was clearly a bit kinky.
He arrived, and they skirted round the reason for a while, drinking coffee. Talking about TV, school, the children ... until he said “We’d best get started. Can I tie you up? It won’t hurt”
There would be various positions, apparently. They drew the curtains and he told her to bend over. He tied her arms behind her legs and then a rope down to her feet to keep her bent tightly over. She thought ‘Oh fuck! He’s into anal’ It wouldn’t be her first time, but she wasn’t keen. Then he lifted her skirt, and pulled down her panties. WHACK! “Ow!”
“Hurt did it? Good. I won’t make love to you, that isn’t my, umm, my thing” WHACK!! “I like to spank, you see?” WHACK!!! He was using a slipper, a genuine, flippy, floppy, Paisley pattern slipper. Someone who had never been spanked before, she found it hurt a lot. There was a lot more to come. He showed her his cane, his horse whip. He slid it between her legs for effect. Apparently he liked to gently berate a woman’s ‘lala’ as he called it. And her tits. He was a spankophile. She was swallowing hard. “It’s okay to cry, but quietly. If you start to make a lot of noise, I’ll gag you and spank you harder”
He spanked her standing, then leaning over the table, then kneeling on the floor, then standing up, her arms retied and attached to the hook holding the central light in the dining room. He was tempted to suspend her but thought the hook wouldn’t take the weight. He was also tempted to leave the curtains open. There was a bush in the front garden that hid most of the view, but anybody looking in carefully would see a woman standing in the middle of the room, arms raised the heavens, with no skirt or panties on, being whipped (lightly) by a man. He left the curtains open for the fun of mortifying the subject (Paula Quirk). Lastly, she was placed across his knees and he slapped her tender and trembling bottom with his hand. She could feel the rock hard erection in his trousers; would he follow up with fucking her? Surely he would. But no, for all his occasional fantasies in that respect, he only really got off with spanking. That was his thing.
He left at 11:05pm, and she went slowly to the bathroom and tried Savlon, E45, Camomile lotion. She would sleep on her front for a week. She kept her bottle well hidden from then on.
Derek Bride was a swine, a bastard, a c-. All words that the teachers used about him, the pupils were franker in their assessment. He wasn’t stupid, in fact he was quite bright; but he would happily ruin someone’s homework with a spilled drink, or let down a tyre or two (bicycles or teacher’s cars, he wasn’t choosy about who he picked on). He would knock a child’s lunch sandwiches to the ground or nudge the canteen queue so someone’s tray crashed mashed potato and gravy all over the floor. People didn’t tell on him because he was built like a brick shithouse; and he was careful not to be seen by trusted people like teachers.
One teacher, who kept him in after school, came out to find all four tyres flat. A pupil who complained found his house had ‘paedophile’ painted on the wall. No smoke without fire, the locals said and the pupil’s father nearly had to move house.
There came a point where something had to be done. He was never guilty enough to be expelled, but everybody knew he was guilty. Everybody knew he was the one who killed the head’s pet rabbit. That was a step too far. “Henry, look, I know you had a word with Paula about her drinking. God knows, what you said, but I know she has been much more careful since, and her teaching has improved. Sorry, sorry, off the subject ... Henry, I’ll look the other way. Can you do anything? Anything short of murder, I mean.” Actually, she thought, even... ? No, probably not. Apparently Miss Turngoose was not aware of the pupils who had been ‘spoken to’.
Henry promised to think it over; he would say no more “Ask no questions, hear no lies.” was his observation. It was an approach that Miss Turngoose approved of, she could deny everything if necessary.
Concluding, rightly, that Derek Bride would have few defenders in the school fraternity, Henry decided that elaborate framing was probably not necessary. “You, boy! What are you doing?”
For a change, Derek wasn’t doing anything. He looked nonplussed.
“Don’t take that sullen tone with me! Come here! What did you say?!” Derek had said nothing, he had been silent. He was starting to realise that this charade was setting him up. He turned to head for the exit and found his arm grabbed by a steely grip. He was dragged to the gym.
Mr Henderson had established when the gym would be empty, and planned his ambush accordingly. He had an hour. The two double door entries into the changing rooms at either end were closed. The boys entrance was not locked, Henry pushed the doors open and as they swung closed again, he pushed the weights bar through the handles on either door. He kept hold of the boy with his other hand and pulled him to the wooden bars lowered to waist height in the middle of the gym. A rope, left conveniently on the floor looped over Derek’s shoulders, under the bar and round each leg.
Up to this moment, Derek had felt nothing could go wrong; now he wondered. His first thought was that he was about to be raped by a bum-bandit, a thought made stronger by having his trousers and underpants pulled down. So the first ‘thwack’ of the gym-shoe was a surprise, a very unwelcome one.
As he started to get into a rhythm, Henry was able to admire the tightness, the solidity of Derek’s bottom, it was a beauteous sight of round and solid Gluteus Maximus. In the position Derek had been placed it was tensed, and that made it all the more attractive as a target.
From the teacher’s changing rooms (single sex, a fact that had not been lost on the pupils who had happily started salacious rumours about male and female teachers getting changed together and getting up to all sorts – only half of which would have been totally without foundation), several pairs of teacher-eyes looked on through the crack between the doors. Looked on with approval. The blows on the boy’s behind rained down, each created a very satisfying “THWACK!”. Tough boy Derek felt his eyes start to water, his lip start to tremble, and his bladder start to weaken. The punishment continued, unabated. He still had no idea what he had done. It was so unfair! At stroke twenty eight, his resolve gave way and he began to cry. A pool of tears started to appear. At thirty nine, his resolve broke again, and a second pool started to build up between his legs.
By fifty, one or two of the teachers watching were wondering if they should intervene. These were the bleeding heart liberals; they were relieved when Henry stopped. “Now, if you get into trouble for anything, anything at all, you will think this minor compared to the punishment that will resolve.
And, unlike Miss Turngoose and official punishments, I don’t need proof positive; do you understand? If I even think you are guilty, you are guilty and all Hell will rain down on you. Understand?
I said DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
“Yes ... sir”
“Good.” He untied the boy “Now go and get a towel from the lost property basket and wipe that mess up.” Both hoped that that particular towel would never be claimed.
Whilst Derek was getting the towel, Henry adjusted his trousers, facing the opposite wall; aware, as he was, that the teachers were still watching. He had a magnificent hard-on from spanking those impressive buttocks. He did like spanking.
Only one teacher – John Hanson, a man with no style – ever alluded to the spanking they had observed. John Hanson made a couple of ‘funny’ comments and then even he realised that this was not a subject to be joked about. He probably never realised why. If the wider world ever got to hear about it, Henry would be sacked, as would Miss Turngoose, probably, and the rest would be censured for observing and doing nothing to prevent an illegal assault on a child – that would be the law’s attitude. The self-appointed guardians of morality would see it that way too. They would not reflect on the reduction on bullying and disruption that resulted from this merited short, sharp, shock.
That night, in bed, Henry revisited every stroke, every satisfying whack, every tremulous vibration of the boy’s bottom and had a delightful climax over the experience. He was not a classical paedophile, not a homosexual, nor indeed heterosexual in the normal meaning of the word. He liked a pretty girl the same as the next man, he was no virgin since his wife had gone; often the relationships had broken up when his desire for spanking had become more important than the sex itself. As we have just seen, it was the act of spanking that turned him on. Spanking a naked, human (not animal) bottom, of either sex. He had once, when abroad, visited a particular brothel that was willing to all manner of kinky sex. He still remembered the delight in whacking the girl’s naked form whilst he was also naked. It was the only time he had been able to ejaculate whilst actually beating someone. His penis rose and fell with each stroke and therefore the semen sprayed all over the place when he came. The girl was delightfully inured to men’s predilections and laughed with him after as they wiped themselves down.
All that being said, there was no doubt that a girl’s, well, a woman’s, bottom was more attractive. The increasingly hairy nature of a boy’s arse was a mark against it; and whilst younger boys and girls had pretty little bottoms, the more full-sized buttocks of a teenager or grown woman were definitely more interesting to assail.
Paula was dealt several more lessons before it was agreed that she had learnt not to bring alcohol to school. She had come to enjoy the sessions actually; she would have agreed to continue them; but he was aware that the longer they went on, the more violent he might become, and he had to be careful not to deal her genuine injury. After each session, the following day’s teaching was performed standing up; each movement reminded her of the delicious feeling of the stinging blows, knowing that there would be no final episode when he would invade her with his clear and obvious erection. He never even suggested that.
Harriet was a turning point. The fact that Miss Turngoose had known about Derek and turned a blind eye, meant that she was in no position to stop him; he could see that. He was interested in something he’d seen on the internet; and she was begging for it. Metaphorically, that is. She was one of those who had got away with murder for years because of her looks, she had come to the conclusion that she could always get away with stuff. She knew that Linda would do anything for her because of her crush. Harriet had an Achille’s Heel, her sister. Her sister was five years younger, and had Down’s. Harriet was very protective of the girl, in all her rough, hard, uncaring exterior, that was the one chink in the armour.
It happened like this. Harriet persuaded Linda that it would be fun to let all the frogs out. There were a bunch of frogs for the A-level students to dissect. They were kept chilled, in a semi-stasis, until Thursday; then they would be humanely dispatched (warmed up so their respiration was normal, and then gassed), and then they would be ready for dissection. On Wednesday evening, the two of them climbed in through a window deliberately left open during the day. There had to be two of them to help each other clamber in. Linda’s reward was a view up Harriet’s skirt as she boosted the girl up. She nearly wet herself with delight when she had to put her hand up as well to push that perfectly upholstered bottom through the window. The frogs were removed from the fridge and left to warm up and hop around the classroom.
Mr Henderson and Mrs Williamson were the designated security teachers for that term. It was there job to view the CCTV, it didn’t take long to identify the culprits. “Oh! Look Henry! You’ll finally be able to get rid of that silly girl from your class.” But he would also be getting rid of Linda, who was silly in having that ridiculous crush, but clever academically. He wondered.
“Since they are both in my form, shall I take it from here? Call me a softy, but I would like to see if there was a way round expulsion.” Mrs Williamson was more than happy to leave the report writing, the form filling, the after hours work, to Henry Henderson. He called them both in; both were surprised to see the tape, it hadn’t occurred to them. “You see? Expulsion I think. It took three days to catch all the frogs ... oh you can laugh Harriet! But two of them were accidentally trodden on. That wasn’t very kind was it?”
Linda was up for anything that stopped her being expelled, she knew that the other school would be the death knell for any academic aspirations. It was only when Harriet suddenly realised that her sister would arrive next school year and she would not be there to help settle her in, that she began to bewail her stupidity. “Should have thought of that, shouldn’t you? What did you think? That we’d all have a laugh and tousle your hair and say ‘go on home you naughty scamp’? GROW UP!” He could be scary when he shouted. He was already thinking of the spanking options, his cock was actually getting uncomfortably stiff, but he knew he had to be very careful.
The two girls looked at him and started to blub, Linda wanted to stay at school, she liked being surrounded by girls she could brush against, she wanted to go to university and share accommodation with girls and ... Well, she also wanted to learn. Harriet was less keen on the learning, she wanted to run a nail bar this week (last week she had wanted to be a zoo keeper after she watched “We Bought A Zoo”, then she realised that animals produce a lot of poo); but she did want to help her sister when she came to the school. One of the pleasures she got from life was being ‘big sister’.