Professeur Dubois was in no hurry. He cleaned the board fastidiously, returning to go over every tiny smudge. He was smiling. Not visibly so, of course: his thin grey lips were set in their usual thin grey line. But inside he was beaming at the thought of what he was about to do to these two miserable girls. Not that he was a sadist, or that he got any sensual pleasure out of beating girls - or boys, for that matter. Far from it - sex was not something that remotely impinged on his life. Rather it was a question of empowerment. These girls would bare their bottoms because he told them to do so; they would bend over in the manner he prescribed; he would decide how many lashes they received and he would determine how hard those were administered; he would tell them when they could get up. He would be in total control. There would be no glazed eyes now, no fidgeting while he tried to explain some astute mathematical point, no bored or smirking faces.
He walked over and closed the classroom door. Then he took a bunch of keys out of his pocket, carefully separated the one for the cupboard, and walked deliberately over to it. The scared eyes of the two girls followed his every move. He bent down, unlocked the wooden door, and slowly opened it. From the dark interior, he withdrew what the girls had been dreading - the classroom martinet. The wooden handle displayed the patina of age and use; the dozen leather thongs dangling from it, like black and brown bootlaces, swayed seductively as he carried the implement back towards them.
“I warned you to stop talking in class. What a pity you didn’t listen because now you are going to learn the consequences of indiscipline. Which of you wants to go first?”
Nicole and Amélie glanced at each other. Amélie stepped forward.
“Very well. Go to that form there, put your legs under the seat and bend over the desk.”
Amélie did as she was told, gripping the wooden crossbar that ran along the front of the desk. Her long, fair hair fell down in front of her face and she could see the end of her striped school tie swinging loosely. The Professeur moved round behind her, gently slipped her knickers down to the top of her thighs and tugged her skirt up until it lay bunched across the small of her back. She had to stand on tiptoe to stay in position. She felt the thin wooden seat pressing into the back of her legs, just above the knees, while the edge of the desk dug into the top of her thighs. Her bottom felt very exposed, which - she assumed - was the whole idea.
The teacher laid the leather cords across her buttocks, inching them towards him until he had placed them where he wanted them to land. He raised the wooden handle until it was level with his ear, and then brought it sharply down. The braids wrapped themselves around Amélie’s bottom with a loud crack. She jerked and let out a very French ‘Pouf!’ of exclamation. Prof Dubois left the martinet’s strands to linger on her cheeks for a few moments and then lifted the whip again. Nicole, watching from in front of the backboard, felt her stomach knot.
Ten times the martinet flayed down, each stroke leaving Amélie’s bottom decorated with more pink stripes. As the flogging progressed and the later lashes criss-crossed earlier lines, streaks of magenta and purple appeared. Amélie wept and uttered small cries as each blow landed.
“You can get up now,” the teacher grunted. “I hope you’ve learned a lesson. Nicole, your turn. Take Amélie’s place.” The two girls passed without catching each other’s eyes. Nicole stuck her legs under the seat, but pulled her own panties down and lifted her skirt before bending over the desk. She held on tightly to the wooden crossbar, noting how warm it was from Amélie’s grip.
Professeur Dubois, still expressionless, laid the thongs of the martinet across Nicole’s cheeks in the same way that he had done with Amélie. Nicole winced and moaned. He raised the wooden stock, paused, lashed it down. Nicole yelled with pain. Amélie put her hand to her mouth and bit on her thumb, shocked at her friend’s reaction. Amélie had managed to stay more or less still throughout her ordeal, but Nicole reared and bucked and squirmed, squealing and howling as each stroke landed. At last Prof Dubois whipped down the tenth and last blow. Nicole was blubbering, tears running down her cheeks and splashing softly on to the floor.
“Get up, Nicole. Let that be a lesson to you, too.”
Nicole extracted herself painfully from the desk, carefully pulled up her pants and smoothed down her skirt. She felt in her pocket, took out a handkerchief and blew her nose.
“You may go. Goodnight, girls. I trust your behaviour will be better when we next meet.”
“Yes, Professeur. Goodnight, sir.” The girls let themselves out of the classroom. The old cleaner was mopping the corridor. He must have heard what was going on. He stopped working as the girls approached, clutching their backsides. As they passed him, he mumbled, almost as much to himself as to them: “Touch of the old martinet never did anyone no ‘arm.” The girls gave him a hard look.
As they left the school gate, Amélie put her arm around Nicole’s shoulder.
“Ooooh lala lala lalaaa! It’s the first time I’ve had it from ‘Deadly’ Dubois. I didn’t think he had such strength in him.”
Nicole’s sobs were now under control. “I’m sorry I was such a baby. I’m really embarrassed at how I behaved. You were much braver.”
“It was worse for you: you could see how awful it was going to be. I’d have hated to have had to wait while you got your thrashing. That’s why I volunteered to go first.”
“Let’s go to my house and see what our derrières look like.”
Ten minutes later they were in Nicole’s bedroom, pants around their ankles, skirts held aloft, examining their bottoms in her mirror. They both sported an impressive display of thin pink, red, purple and blue stripes.
“Have you got any of that cream for bruises?” asked Amélie, tenderly fingering the most vivid marks.
“Yes, I think so.” Nicole rummaged in a drawer. “Here we are. ‘Bruise relief, external use only’. Why do they say that: do they think we’re going to swallow it? Shall I put some on for you?”
“Yes please, but be really gentle.”
The girls took turns lying face down on Nicole’s bed while the other massaged the cream into their friend’s glowing buttocks. They started to feel better.
Amélie wiped her fingers clean. Nicole sat up.
“Wow!” she looked at Amélie and smiled. “Where were we? Oh yes, Bexhill. Do you think they have the martinet in English schools?”
“No, I don’t think so. I heard they use a cane. Apparently they love it.”
“What, you mean the teachers enjoy caning the pupils?”
“No. The English enjoy being caned! Haven’t you heard? It’s called the vice anglais.”
“How can they like being caned? Are you sure about that?”
“Well, we’re going to find out.”
They were both silent for a moment.
Amélie glanced at Nicole: “I wonder if it’s worse than the martinet?”
“I don’t know, I should think so. Maybe it’s one of those things which we can try out - you know, like fish and chips and lumpy custard?”
“They have custard with their fish and chips?”
“No, of course not! But you know what I mean: we have to experience all these English customs for ourselves. So maybe even the cane.”
“Well, perhaps, but I think I’ll leave that until last...”
At the thought of the adventure that awaited them across the Channel, the two girls quickly cheered up. Nicole switched into English.
“Would you laike a naice cup of tea, Miss Amélie?”
“Sank you, zat would be delaightful!”
They giggled and hugged each other, and then made their way down to the kitchen. There was no tea in the house, so they drank coffee instead.
Afterword
So, there they are, their destinies - and those of others we’ve not yet met - all converging on the Bexhill School for Girls. How will they make out? Will Debbie lose her attitude? Can Catharine avoid getting in to trouble? Can Sally and Linda stay out of mischief? (Sur
ely not!) Can Anna and Miss Holloway overcome their dark longings? Do English schools have martinets? Will ‘Three Taps’ be a busy man?
To find out the answers to these and other questions, immerse yourself in the life of the school by reading Bexhill School for Girls, The First Year.
BEXHILL SCHOOL FOR GIRLS, Assembly Page 9
