The Paddle Line this night had been Juniors and they had gone to work with a will, not to show themselves outdone by the Soph actives. Once again, unlucky Rowena had been slowest and had had to pass through once more, under the stinging slashes of the tawses. Aramilla was a positive martinet in the sentencing this evening. For not walking backwards to rejoin the rank after this penance Rowena received one Omission Demerit, and one Commission Demerit, for Insolence, though the fault was approximately the same. Melissa received a ‘Generality’ mark, which simply meant she had been ‘generally’ something-or-other.
Perhaps the President wanted to impress her opposite number with the severity of their hazings, and the high selectivity of the sorority in general; in any event, all the actives wholeheartedly approved.
Constance Wood, chief scorer, had to be pulled forward, weeping, for her frightful total – twenty with the birch, twelve with the cane.
‘Pull yourself together, Pledge, and remember that you want to be a Beta.’
Rowena, whose big right bottom had been likened by unfeeling commentary to ‘uncooked beef’,
‘raw liver’, , and ‘skinned rabbit’, respectively, was next with fifteen with the birch, and three of the stick. Joan Mason and Melissa, two and two Demerits each. Terry Sands had no Commissions, but a juicy nine of signal severity with the cane was administered low down on her chubby rounds and sent her crying to the rank, clutching as if a horde of hornets had been let loose under her white pleated skirt.
After some ordeals involving oysters and raw eggs the five were told that a very special event was going to take place and that, as mere worms, they would only be allowed to watch it upside down, bent over. Facing the far wall they flipped up their minis, bent and touched their toes, feet together. Five glowing tushies – Rowena’s oozing ruby – confronted the ever more excited assembly, as they would the evident newcomer to arrive down the bum-room’s steps in a moment, and their nature was so lengthily and ribaldry remarked on that soon the faces of the five were as red as their bent bases, above. In particular, the set of sweetly slotted fruits thrust back were the subject of speculation and debate. Joan’s was deemed the most
‘pushy’, and prominent, though not necessarily the deepest, red-fronded Rowena’s by far the jolliest, Melissa’s slit wound by far the most aristocratic, Constance Wood’s the sulkiest but possibly the snuggest, while Terry’s marvellous morsel, set between violet weals, was voted most scrumptious –
or, more precisely, ‘lickable’, ‘stickable’,
‘friggable’, ‘fuckable’, – and the one, despite its modest dimensions, most likely to widen first to the emergence of a future President of Beta Beta Rho.
Sandra Mclllick came down the stairs. An expectant silence fell. Aramilla filled her glass of dark red wine. The House Matron, in her usual leather outfit, looked back up the steps with a frown.
‘Come on’, she ordered peremptorily.
And Nancy Kale came into the room.
You could have heard a pin drop and someone, later, said they did.
The Phys. Ed. mistress had on navy slacks, so snug to her hips they seemed almost elasticized, and her soft brown sweater, chained at the waist.
Her square-jawed face was anxious but determined as she took her stance in the centre of the tables like any pledge, and as if, in truth, prepared like one.
There was a long silence, then the President said slowly:
‘As I think just about everyone on Bermuda now knows, I was brutally and needlessly humiliated by the lady standing before us, in the first week of term. Our guest for this evening, girls, is Miss Nancy Kale, and I want to make sure she receives full honours. Unfortunately this unjust humiliation …’
‘You were late for class’, came in a husky voice.
There was a deathly hush.
‘Matron’, said Aramilla, to the already briskly advancing Sandra McIllick, ‘give her three across the thighs. I want her bottom saved. But make them good ones.’
In the breathless, deathless hush the switch snickered thrice into the tight material – it was as obviously just as hard as the raven-headed girl could hit. The third made the woman bite her lip, but she stood them with considerable stoicism. This brightened Aramilla’s eye perceptibly.
‘Unfortunately this unjust and totally unnecessary humiliation to my person’, she continued calmly, ‘was effected in the presence of my colleague President Skill, and other members of Gamma Gamma Phi. This was unforgivable, and I resolved not to forgive it. Tedious as the task became, I was compelled to summon Miss Kale to my room regularly throughout the semester for a sound caning. She has now, I am convinced after a number of such visits, seen sense and has come here tonight to prove it to you. Perhaps she would turn and show herself … behind.’
Nancy Kale turned, her eyes absent. She had obviously decided to steel herself for this remarkable performance in public humiliation and, to make it easier for herself, was trying to abstract her mind entirely. She dropped her slacks to the floor. Under them she had no panties. She leant forward exposing her magnificent gluteal mass, marked (as the ever-observant President of the college had noticed) by the lines of recent canings.
‘Touch your toes.’
There was another pronounced silence. Most girls in the room retained considerable respect for their gym mistress; three lively weals now crossed her thighs.
‘A bottom of good sense, indeed’, said Davia Skill drily, helping herself to the decanter of wine.
‘Now stand up, pull up your slacks, and tell us why you’re here, Kale.’
The mistress looked dead ahead and spoke with obvious difficulty in an expressionless tone of voice.
‘It was … a very regrettable experience … and I have come here to apologize to Miss Ponsonby …
personally, and, and publicly …’
‘There’s a little more to it than that, I think’, said Aramilla slyly.
The mistress’s tongue ran on her lips.
‘That is to say … to apologize to Miss Ponsonby for this regrettable occurrence and to assure her it will not happen again …’
‘Continue.’
‘And to receive at her hands … a personal chastisement … er, in front of you …’
There was a sudden gust of whispering round the tables. Whipped … Miss Kale … a mistress …
publicly? Aramilla was really going too far at last.
‘Silence’, said the President, banging on the table with a spoon. ‘Come on, Kale, remember what I told you.’
The mistress blinked. In a slow determined voice, nodding her head, she went on, ‘That is, to be caned, publicly, in front of you … with the cane … across my naked buttocks …’
‘No!’
‘To bare my buttocks and bend over and be caned across the naked arse’, said the mistress hectically.
‘But you’re not telling it like it is’, said Aramilla peevishly. ‘You haven’t got it right.’
‘Aramilla, really’, said a Praelictor sitting on her left. ‘I don’t know what you’re doing.’
‘Or what you’re getting us into, either’, said Barbara Brooke, who actually liked Miss Kale a lot.
‘Shut up! And you, continue.’
‘I think what your President means’, went on the mistress in the same unemotional voice, ‘is this. At first when she caned me it was over clothing, though always drawn very tight. However, the punishments were very painful, and extra was administered for flinching, so that I came to find it preferable to bare my body and take less. There was always a set tariff. Then last week your President was kind enough to ask me whether, rather than continue with my canings until the end of the term, I wouldn’t prefer to wipe the slate by coming here and receiving one single chastisement at her hands, in front of the assembled sorority. I should mention that there were other indignities involved and I decided to summon up my courage and pay off all in one.’ The dark head came back. The eyes behind the glasses gave another blink. ‘I a
pologize profoundly to Miss Ponsonby and request her to give me, as promised, eighteen strokes with the cane.’
‘Eighteen!’ yipped a voice.
‘Aramilla, you must be out of your mind.’
‘This has gone too far.’
‘Shut up!’ shouted Aramilla again, staring almost savagely around. She was panting until her breasts almost burst over her low green velvet.
‘When I want advice I’ll ask for it, thanks.’
Abruptly she picked up half a pie some Senior had brought down and flung it at her face. It splattered on Miss Kale’s face and trickled down her sumptuous chest. Aramilla flung another. This hit the mistress square in the stomach.
‘Undress’, she said hotly, standing up.
But others were rising, too. Aramilla was livid at these signs of mutiny. Only the five pledges at the end of the room still bent obediently over.
‘I’m getting out of here.’
But Nancy Kale was bare.
‘The beetle position, bitch’, hissed Aramilla Ponsonby furiously.
The mistress prostrated herself on the floor, her arms and legs outstretched. Aramilla advanced with the cane.
‘This is going too far.’
‘I agree’, said Barbara Brooke fervently. ‘This has got to stop.’
‘It has got to stop’, said a stentorian male voice from the foot of the stairs into the bum-room,
‘because it is going to stop. This minute.’
Everyone whirled, mouths open. There, in a dark turtle neck and easy flannels, stood their revered (and rightly-revered) President, Milton Hamilton, B.A., B.A., M.A., Ph.D., B. Litt., D.G., M.C., B.Pd.
and ff.L. There was a copy of Studies in the Polynesian Tadpole under one arm.
‘I have read about campus unrest, and revolution’, he said, ‘but it isn’t going to happen at Brierton. I hereby declare Beta Beta Rho utterly and completely and definitively dissolved, and order all its members to come to see me tomorrow.’
Turning on his heel, the President gave a last look at the five bent bottoms. His left eye was a shiner.
‘Why, you aren’t even accurate’, he harrumphed, before he left.
CHAPTER TEN
Two days later, the tender lawns and decent grasses of Brierton Academy in Bermuda were testimony to an unusual spectacle. Gloved in early evening mist, illumined by the shrouded lights and lamps dotted about, they seemed deserted and ordinary, and would not have attracted the attention of an outsider. All girls, it seemed, were hard at their studies.
But a visitor from Mars, staring more observantly, would have noticed a constant traffic of girls clad (unusually for that hour) in short summer tennis things, between the Beta Rho building and the President’s house. A further detail would not have escaped remark: on the way to their Prexy’s mansion these nubile figures strode with grace, if sometimes a trifle slowly. On the way down back from it, however, almost each and every one of these exclusive maidens had her hands glued to the back of her bottoms. And a closer look yet might have revealed on more than one of those puerile panties a tell-tale red or russet stain. Only the very bold got back with tightly folded arms, their teeth clenched.
For Beta Rho had sworn to bear it bravely. Since they had been dissolved for the rest of the academic year, and all members returned to common dorms, their prestige was seriously at stake.
Certainly with – Gamma Gamma Phi.
As promised, the President saw the assembled sorority up in Hill House the next evening.
‘I could expel you all’, he said calmly, in the diamond-windowed ‘play’ or ‘keep-fit’ room, ‘and I probably shall, in fact. That is unless’, he added,
‘you see some other solution open to me. I want to be democratic in the matter. I know how much of a voice in affairs means to you students.’ All paddles and tawses had been confiscated from the bum-room, and he was toying with a long House cane as he spoke. ‘Well? Any ideas? Or should I start phoning your parents?’
Aramilla Ponsonby stepped forward from the frightened rank. She had on a short and dingy jersey dress that was elegance personified.
‘If I might be permitted, President.’
‘Go ahead, Miss Ponsonby.’
‘We’ve talked this matter over and we’re prepared to accept any punishment you may deem fit, just so long as our parents won’t get to know. It was’, she added modestly, ‘mainly my fault, in the first place.’
‘And in the last’, thundered Milton Hamilton.
‘Don’t worry, Miss Ponsonby, I shall see to it that you are punished, er, appropriately. Very well, then. All in favour of accepting correction – and it will be corporeal – at my hands instead of common expulsion?’
There was a universal ‘Aye’, a mixture of relief and apprehension in its note.
‘Right. You will return to your quarters and each girl will change into tennis things. You will be sent for individually and, so as there shall be no impropriety, the Dean of Women will be present while I inflict. Moreover, it will be – in the first instance – over clothing. I shall give every member a dozen strokes of the cane and I think I may show you the difference a male hand makes in its wielding. Furthermore’, and his dark brows beetled, ‘all Dorm Sisters and/or Praelictors will report here tomorrow for a serious thrashing. Your President will be dealt with after that. But first of all I’ll cane you myself, the lot of you. I believe you know my motto is that we take a personal interest in our students.’
They trooped dully off and it was then the traffic across the lawns and up the hill commenced.
Thirty girls, twelve strokes, the President was thinking as he prepared his arm. Three hundred and sixty strokes. With extras for flinching, perhaps almost four hundred. He took a sip of scotch. His head came up. Well, Busby had done it at Eton, and Keate in the last century. Milton Hamilton would do as well.
The first to be shown up was a frightened brownette, her soft curls close to her scalp.
Dean of Women Frederika (‘Freddie’) Thorne smiled at her in comforting fashion.
‘You’re about to receive a dozen with the cane, Salibelle. Have you anything to say?’
‘Ner-no, Ma’am.’
Miss Thorne led the cheerless girl to the side, where she stood her a yard from some wall bars, feet together. She had to lean forward at an angle and grasp the bars, butt out. Miss Thorne checked the panties for possible padding, then raised the skirt up the back. She added but one refinement here. Since she really didn’t want the flippy little tennis skirt to slip down during correction she pinned it up with safety pins, only with safety pins pinned through the skin.
‘No more than a hypodermic’, she said, reassuringly.
Milton Hamilton thrashed the tightly pantied bottom with a breathtaking vigour.
‘Ouuuu!’
‘One!’ pronounced bright-eyed ‘Freddy’ Thorne.
All the Sophs got fifteen – three extra for shifting – and two of them (including Drusilla) as many as eighteen. Not one of them could get out of the door for a full minute after the last stroke. The Juniors came next and suffered the same. Most of the Seniors got through with twelve. Avery Congreve and Barbara Brooke were two of the bravest, but
‘Diney’ Carruthers carried the day. The freckled Senior stuck it gamely to the end and then requested an extra; for moving at one stripe.
As she went out she smiled at the President.
‘That was a damn good hiding, sir. I deserved it and you made me feel it right through.’
‘I’m glad you appreciated it, Miss Carruthers.
Thank you.’
But when it was finally over the President was patently perspiring. He sat in a hard chair with a gasp.
‘Ouf! That was quite a workout there.’
‘Freddy’ Thorne came forward, beaming.
‘You were magnificent, Prexy, just magnificent.’
Her eyes were shining. ‘To warm all those bottoms like that.’ She could not keep from looking at the bulge in Milton Ham
ilton’s fly. ‘If only I could …
well, just touch … and feel … and see!’ With an excited moan she gave up controlling herself and flashed up the zip of his fly. The amazing member flew out in her face. ‘Oh Good Heavens, President. I never dreamed. It’s so … and I …’
‘Really, Miss Thorne’, he began dreamily, albeit reacting to her caresses. ‘I had no idea. I don’t think you and I …’
‘Never’, she confirmed. ‘But I’ve always hoped.
And if I could just be permitted …’ She licked her lips with appetite. ‘Just to melt this down quickly for you … er, purely as a matter of hygiene, of course.’
‘Of course’, he echoed, as she lowered her Deanly head. Then he gasped, ‘Christ, you’re right
… I am going to blow any … go down on it hard.’
Dean of Women Thorne gulped and swallowed frantically.
‘Thank you, President’, she said gratefully, before she left. For a second it was as if she was feeling her way out of the room.
The first to report the following night was Mary French-Jones. The Praelictors came in Sunday best, which they doffed fairly instantly, carefully folding each scant item on the hard chair to one side. And then confronted their ordeal.
For if their own punishment desk was Victorian what was now placed centrally was Edwardian – a shining whipping triangle, beside which expert Mr.
Jorrocks stood, brushing up his moustaches awkwardly with one hand while he cracked a thin whip in the other.
It was ten of the best for them all and Mary was full-fleshed, even meaty, from nape to knees, so that President Hamilton, watching in his blue bath-robe, felt an insidious stirring as he watched her secured in an inverted Y, hands high together, feet spread. Already his livid cock was ram-rod stiff, the veins throbbing to release their steady slime.
‘Five on the back and five on the buttocks, Mr.
Jorrocks, please. Do your duty.’
She needed the whip, she needed the whip.
The lash streaked her shoulders, extracting a startled cry. Expertly its tip bit under her armpit.
Mary French-Jones gave a gargling wail as the true immensity of the pain came to her. The whip ripped a furrow lower down. Finally, its tough trainer plucked at a buttock cheek and seemed, for a second, to worry in its surface like some angry asp.
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