‘That’s too hard’, Joan Mason said instinctively.
Then added, as the senior stared at her, ‘I mean …
you see, she does have short sight.’
‘How interesting.’
‘I’m sorry I said that, but …’
‘What’s your name?’ said the senior.
‘Joan Mason.’
‘Who’s your Dorm Sis?’
‘Miss Congreve.’
‘I see. One might have hoped that Ave would have knocked the sass out of you by now. When I want your advice, worm, I’ll ask for it. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
The senior was still smiling. Tapping the paddle on a palm she said, ‘Report to the house after classes this morning and put yourself down for a Demerit. Insolence. I think you’ll appreciate the birch. Oh, and Joan?’
‘Yes, Miss?’
‘Just in case you might forget the last Friday in the month, I’ll cane you for that comment myself.
At noon. It’ll be ten strokes.’
The five girls trooped disconsolately into History One.
*
*
*
Promptly as the campus clock chimed twelve, Joan Mason reported to the sorority house. House Matron Sandra McIllick greeted her with a nod and led her into a bare side room in which the most conspicuous objects, to Joanie’s gaze, were a hard upright chair and a cane on its seat.
‘Janet’s going to give you ten. You can put down your Commission after. Bend over.’
With her lean legs straight behind the chair Joan bent over and grasped a rung of it, in front. Her skirt was raised and in a trice her underthings were sarcastic wrinkles at her ankles. She was left to contemplate the pattern of the carpet. And occasionally the lank cane lying in the inverted V
of her body.
Her senses swam. Her blood pounded like the sun behind her lids. For this, she knew, was something that had to happen. And it had to happen to her, Joan Mason, once Mrs. Rafferty, divorced principally because her husband did not share her craving – ‘ mental cruelty’ indeed!
She began to heave, and gasp. Apprehension, intense anticipation, had always done it for her.
She could feel the fatty cushion of her quim pushed back between her elegant thighs, as part of another person – ‘a random accident in the universe’. She shifted her stance, then froze stiff. The slightest movement in this state could make her come. In fact, she was coming! Christ, it would be pouring down her legs in a … if the Prae saw that …
The door opened. Janet Richey strode in whistling, and picked up the cane. Three other senior girls followed her, and stationed themselves, to watch.
God, she was going to explode at the suspense.
She could feel her vulva licking its lips …
‘Ten strokes’, said the girl in a not too interested tone. ‘Brace your knees and tuck in your cunt.’
Easier said than …
Whhhrupp!
The fleshy thump made Joan grunt. The searing pain drove down her spasm.
‘One’, said one of the girls.
‘Lower, Jan’, said another.
There was a long pause. Muscly ripplings ran down Joan Mason’s thighs. She began to shudder deeply. Unless …
Whhhhrupp!
‘Two.’
C-c-c-
‘Three.’
‘ Much better, Jan.’
‘That really is an upper-class cunt.’
WHHHHRRRUPPPP!
‘Ow!’
‘Did he bother you much from the back, worm?’
‘Yer-y-yeeess.’
‘I don’t blame him altogether.’
WHHHHHRRR-RUPPPP!
‘Miss Richey!’
‘Yes?’
‘I do have a Credit. Might I …’
‘That’s right, Jan, she does.’
‘Okay. Two more only.’
WHHHHHRRRRRRPPPPPPPP!
WWWW-RRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPTTTTTT!
‘Now your wormy behind looks very much better, Pledge. Perhaps you’ll think twice about talking out of turn in future.’
The girls trooped out. Joan’s consummation was upon her. She stretched as if strangled. As the pain subsided it streamed through her, in gusts – ‘Oh oh oh oh!!’ Her being quaked and it was only trembling like a leaf that she could enter her error into the Demerit Book at all.
‘Nice and warm behind?’ said Sandra McIllick with a smile.
Joan Mason nodded. And in front, she would have liked to add. But didn’t.
Back in her Swedish-modern bedroom Avery Congreve smiled reflectively.
‘You look as if you’d had a beating, Joanie. It always shows. Did you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You lucky so-and-so. Well, I don’t see why you should have all the goodies. Let’s see if you can send me skipping up the wall with that little stretch of rope again, shall we … oh darling, you really are sopping, aren’t you …’
CHAPTER FIVE
In a cheerful room on the other side of the campus a strange scene was taking place.
As President of Beta Beta Rho, Aramilla Ponsonby enjoyed the luxury of one of the finest suites at Brierton. Everything about it, from its rich leather chairs to its marbled fireplace, became the leader of one of the most exclusive societies in the world.
Of medium height, plump, and with a Dutch-doll complexion, Aramilla had rather thin blonde hair tied back, and dark dewy eyes. This tender countenance did not bespeak a tender disposition, however, as the figure standing in front of her well knew.
This was the Physical Education mistress, Nancy Kale, a brunette, handsome in a mannish way, with rather thick glasses but a stunning physique. Her head was set on a strong, upright neck, round arms emerged from the light brown sweater which was caught with a chain at her waist, and the navy slacks she wore, complete with turn-ups, hugged the broad hips of this singularly rumpy specimen of American womanhood like a sausage casing. She was twenty-eight and had been a high-diving champ in her day. Aramilla looked at her affectionately.
‘Hello, Miss Kale’, she purred eventually. She had on simply an ultra-short grey jersey dress, cut like a Grecian tunic and falling in soft folds from a belt of gold braid. She was barefoot and reeked of elegance.
‘Come on, let’s get it over with, Aramilla.’
‘You’re right on time, aren’t you?’
‘Look. I have a half hour.’
‘That ought to be enough.’ With a lazy smile, the lovely President gave a yawn, stretched and flexed the biceps of her right arm thoughtfully.
‘You have come … ready?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nothing on under those slacks?’
‘No.’
‘I think I’ll just check.’
‘It isn’t necessary, Aramilla.’
But with the same cat-like smile the girl went forward and felt the sullen cheeks, in their skin-tight fabric. This was a thin wool gabardine, well worn and even, at the base, where Aramilla’s prying fingers stroked now, close on threadbare.
‘Um. I still think you can do some more work with that pumice stone I gave you.’
‘I rubbed the material where you told me’, came the angry retort. ‘You can see perfectly well it won’t give any protection at all. And certainly not where you like to hit.’
‘Gee, I believe I can feel last week’s weals. Down there?’
But the erect woman said nothing, her chest thrust out beneath the sweater. Aramilla’s dark eyes flashed. She enjoyed the challenge. It was part of her revenge, paying off the score of being totally humiliated before Gamma Gamma Phi. At this moment every second was infinitely sweet.
‘So you still won’t take them down for me?’
‘No.’ The proud woman’s rather square jaw came up. ‘You won’t see me naked, Aramilla, and you needn’t think you will.’
‘Pity. If only you were willing to bare that big butt of yours, Miss Kale, I’d only give you six. And it wouldn’t hurt
nearly so much. Though of course. I’d see the marks, and be able to place them there.
However’, she yawned again, ‘I can do almost as well with the chalk. And anyway I always hit you in the same place, don’t I?’
The stern jaw before her trembled fractionally, if only so. ‘You might at least have the decency to place your strokes across the … seat. About half those you gave me last week landed on the legs, and I couldn’t wear my usual costume taking Pool.’
Aramilla chuckled. She had heard about this. A girl in a swimming class had reported seeing the end of an angry weal on Miss K.’s muscular right thigh. This was Aramilla’s brand, and Nancy’s shame. The sororities knew who was winning this bitter duel, all right.
Still speaking in the same formal tone the girl went on: ‘I’m afraid the price of vanity’s gone up, Miss Kale. In future, over clothing, it’s going to be nine.’
‘Nine!’ A scared look crossed the grey eyes behind the spectacles. ‘But that’s not fair. I never
…’
‘The contract was for six, right. But that was on the skin. I can’t hurt you properly through material.’
There was silence. The mistress’s chin fell yet another inch. Finally she said, ‘You’re a fiend Aramilla. I should never have agreed to this.’
‘You didn’t have much alternative, did you?’
‘You know perfectly well, that after three or four with one of those House canes – the way you give it
– it’s sheer hell. Nine’s too much.’
‘All the same’, said Aramilla sweetly, ‘it’s what you’re going to get. Unless you want to drop those tight trews of yours and take it on the altogether.’
The other shook her head. ‘I won’t give you that satisfaction, at least.’
‘Then it’s nine of the juiciest for that bold backside of yours. We have plenty of time and I’ll do my best to make this a memorable experience.’
‘You won’t get a cry out of me, either.’
‘No? Pride comes before a fall, Miss Kale. I have a feeling that you’ll be thinking differently after a couple of good cuts with that cane. I also have an inkling things are getting kind of tenderized back there by now. It’s going to be less pleasant each time.’
The mistress said nothing.
‘Go and get it. And put the chalk on.’
Behind the narrow glance from Aramilla’s icy eyes, as the other turned to obey, lay an unusual campus story.
In the first week of term Aramilla had entered the hallowed precincts of Miss Kale’s empire insouciantly tardy. In short, she had come late, very late, for a swimming class. Nancy Kale had judged it to be insultingly so, and had decided to establish her authority at once. Aramilla had been bidden to join the class in her clothes. Yes, in hat, gloves, heels and a billowy late summer dress of figured silk. She had been made to plunge in fully-clad, and do several exhausting lengths. Later, there’d been a session of water polo, much of which, since she was not an expert swimmer, she had spent submerged, pinched and pummelled by rival Gamma Phi girls, who exulted in her discomfiture.
The Beta Rho kids present had put up a bit of furore, but Miss Kale held the class firmly in line and when the water polo was over, Aramilla had crawled out and panted on all fours, hair streaming, her best dress torn and sopping, as it adhered to her proud body like a skin. One big breast hung quite visible.
But even this humiliation had not been enough for the refulgent gym mistress. Miss Kale had ordered her, still in dripping clothes, up to the highest board. Aramilla disliked heights and could not dive well. To the titters of Gamma Phi girls, notably of Davia Skill, their President, she had been made to perform three appalling belly-flops, each of which had knocked the breath from her body and acted like a watery spank! She went back into the changing-room with icy face and set teeth, resolved on revenge.
This had come much sooner than expected, and more easily. A campus spy in the stables had informed her that Nancy Kale received the head groom, sinewy Mr. Jorrocks, in her rooms each Saturday night. Janet Richey, the fotog expert of the house, had strobed the enthusiastic couple in action that very week, through a transom. The result had been a picture that would not simply put
‘Paid’ to Miss Kale at Brierton, but would ruin her career for good in any college in America. Stretched on her back across the bed, her face in ecstatic bliss, she had been preserved for posterity with about nine inches of muscular Derbyshire gristle up her guts. So Aramilla had very sweetly put it to her, promising to act upon it and show it to the college President himself, unless the mistress agreed instantly to her terms. Which were?
As a punishment for her foolishly degrading treatment of the President of the most exclusive girls’ club in the world, Miss Kale would report to her weekly at a set time for the rest of the term (Aramilla’s last), and receive a sound caning. Six strokes across the bottom, to be exact. Nancy Kale was afraid of that picture, and was assured that she would receive it, and its negative, at the end of term, after this absurd penance had been completed.
What’s more, she enjoyed Phys. Ed. and wanted to continue in it. She had heard of the sorority hazings, but had not witnessed them. She was a strong, muscular woman in prime condition. Six strokes with a cane did not seem so awful. In short, after a lengthy and acrimonious debate, she had accepted. The two had shaken hands, agreeing on a regular hour. Whenever she met her on the campus, Aramilla treated the mistress with the utmost respect. But her colleagues in the House used to say, as the two crossed, ‘And thereby hangs a … tail.’
Nancy Kale had now been three times, for Aramilla’s revenge, and each time had fallen just a little more in the sweet-faced girl’s spell. Each time Aramilla had been able to push a step further forward in the other’s total chastisement and humiliation. From the first the girl had insisted on the beating being administered on the bare skin and each time the other had refused, taking a scorching eight instead over a whisper-thin girdle the first time, and skin-tight slacks the second and third. By now she had had two dozen full-blooded strokes across her bottoms and had developed a thorough dread of the sorority stick, which could punish through and through. And the last time Aramilla had begun to punish her spirit as well as her flesh.
She stood now chalking the end of the long, pliable cane so that her tormentor could see the place each stripe had fallen, and aim accordingly. It was one of the refinements she found strangely disconcerting and demoralizing. But she summoned all her courage not to give her junior the satisfaction she weekly sought.
‘The same position?’
‘Yes’, said Aramilla cheerily, facing the mirror.
‘I want to be able to see your expression and I want you to see it, too.’
Humming to herself, the girl had locked the door, drawn the curtains, and arranged a standard lamp. Then she had fetched a big sponge, heavy with water. When she came back the woman had cleared the room behind her, put out the cane and was standing in front of a long mirror to one side of the fireplace. Aramilla stood just behind her. To think of the impending storm hanging over that thrusting rump, why, it had become the breath of her being.
‘Those slacks are man-tailored, aren’t they?’ she asked casually. Receiving no answer she went on,
‘Part of a pants suit?’
‘Yes if you must know. Now let’s get on with it.’
Drawing the waistband away from the strong back behind, the girl squeezed water from the sponge down over the hips. The mistress ticked.
‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘Some say it hurts twice as much wet. Let’s see what you think. I’d be interested.’
‘How can I walk back like this?’ She wriggled uncomfortably as the water trickled down her crease; it was again surprisingly degrading.
‘Oh, with navy it won’t show much. They’ll just think you sat in a puddle right up to your middle, or something. I seem to recall you didn’t mind dunking me. There, well damped to cling.’
‘You don’t f
orget a trick, do you?’
‘We do our best. There. Even our pledges don’t get their pants any tighter than that.’ Her fingers felt the now thoroughly wetted fibrous material, beneath which the buttocks seemed swollen, clumsy, hot with apprehension. They were like her valuable property now and she stroked them with care, finally yanking up the waistband so that the woman winced. ‘Now all you need is a stiff upper lip.’
She held out a short elasticized thong, of the type used to secure luggage on the racks of autos, and Miss Kale secured it around her powerful thighs, just beneath her bottom. It drew the material perfectly tight. But Aramilla was not quite satisfied, tugging it well down the thighs.
‘Oh no you don’t. That’s where I like to hit.’ She took up the cane. At once she felt intensely excited.
Its stinging skill was apparent in the active way it vibrated in her hand. ‘I’m going to make you remember the way you tried to disgrace me publicly all your life. Right here.’ She tapped the protuberant behind at its tightest spot.
‘If you’re going to whip me, do so’, said the other, and to Aramilla’s delight there was the faintest tinge of a whimper in her tone. The athletic woman leaned forward in front of the mirror at an angle, placing her hands behind her head and interlacing her fingers there. Aramilla had proposed this position the first time and found it excellent, somehow making the senior lady look strangely silly, her eyes staring at herself in the mirror, her thighs clipped together by a strap, the slacks perfectly snug over the broadened beam presented. Aramilla gave an unnecessary tug here and there and stood well back.
‘Can I have something to bite on?’ asked the mistress.
‘No.’ But this was good. It was another reduction, and she noticed how the other gritted her teeth together, in the glass. ‘Keep your eyes open throughout. I want you to see your expression all the time.’
Padding barefoot, Aramilla took about three paces and bent her knees for the final swing. The yellow snake thrashed elastically across the firm, well-rounded cheeks. Nancy Kale gave a jerk, but that was all. In the mirror her face frowned in concentration. Aramilla stood back and took stock of the thin white line she had drawn across the navy seat.
For maximum effect, she knew, it was imperative to lay and place these first cuts properly. Above all, to time them right, hitting just at the peak caused some seconds later by the previous stroke, and then cutting again after that – until the mounting smart seemed intolerable to the sufferer, finally alarming.
Sorority of Submissive Girls Page 7
