Spilt Milk

by Sarah Steel

  Eight young ladies - for whom champagne suppers were now a mere, half-forgotten memory - in white vests and tiny black shorts trod the polished wooden floor with squeaky pumps. It was February. A hard frost overnight had left the glass roof of the gym clouded and opaque. The huddled girls shivered, arms crossed against their bulging breasts. It was chilly in the gym. Miranda discerned the peaking nipples behind the tight, white vests.

  'Soon warm 'em up,' Peters promised, cracking the rubber-coated bat down across the dull hide of the leather vaulting-horse.

  Calling each girl forward, the gym mistress instructed them to vault. Hammering their pumps into the floor, they took turns to print up towards the horse, spring and vault clear. The first three girls were successful; the fourth stumbled slightly on her approach run, falteringly lost momentum and failed. She landed astride the scuffed leather, breasts bouncing and buttocks splayed. Peters sprang like a cat, pouncing mercilessly to pin the unfortunate girl face and breasts down into the horse.

  Crack. Crack. Crack. The triple echo reverberated around the spacious gym as the bat bit into the bunched buttocks sheathed within the thin black shorts. Miranda shuddered as the punished gymnast squealed aloud in torment. Peters controlled the delicious rump with the surface of the bat which had just blazed down upon it.

  'Again,' she commanded.

  The hot-bottomed girl peeled her breasts and tummy away from the dull hide and slipped down from the horse. Returning to make her approach five yards away, the girl rubbed her buttocks resentfully. Peters cracked the bat down onto the hide. The girl's hands fell from her cheeks and she dutifully took up her stance.

  'Approach,' came the command.

  Breasts bouncing within the stretch of her white vest and pumps pounding the polished wood, the girl ran, sprang and vaulted high. A superb effort.

  'See?' Peters remarked, thumbing the dimpled rubber of her bat. 'All they need is a little strict encouragement. A firm touch on the tiller. Next,' she barked, raising the bat.

  Spring brought the dancing daffodils to the manicured lawns surrounding the Queen Anne mansion - and panting, mottle-thighed hockey players onto the pitch down by the spinney. The Jakob Institute insisted on a vigorous regime of sports for all pupils. Long-distance running through the spinney in blue track suits, followed by steaming showers in which the squealing girls jostled and squabbled in their shining nakedness. Hockey before tea - just as the chill wind gathered strength to whip the short pleated skirts of the girls up over their buttocks as they bent to bully off. Divided into two teams representing their respective 'house colours', blue for Spartans and green for Corinthians, they played a mean game. The losing team went supperless - and spanked - to an early bed. There was, Miranda discovered, all to play for.

  The tackling was hard, the fouls increasingly blatant. Squealing girls, pony-tailed hair streaming out behind them, collided bosom to bosom, thigh to soft thigh. Punishments were administered on the spot by Peters, whose table-tennis bat never left her hand, playing an unorthodox role on the hockey field. For the more flagrant offenders, punishment meant a more intimate appointment with the dimpled rubber in the changing rooms after a compulsory cold shower.

  With the spring came an addition to the curriculum.

  'Dance is such a disciplined activity,' the Head beamed, catching Miranda firmly by the elbow after prep. 'Go down and watch Emily putting our naughty girls through their paces.'

  Miranda joined Emily, the Institute's drama and dance tutor, in the windowless studio fashioned out of the mansion's cavernous wine cellarage. Unaccustomed to the spotlights, the twelve young ladies appeared to Miranda to be utterly naked as they twirled and danced - but she saw that they were in fact clad in tight, pale cream body-stockings. The sheer second skins of satin revealed more than they were designed to conceal of the lissom young dancers' firm bodies. Miranda gazed wide-eyed as breasts thrust out from the sheaths of sheen, and swallowed at the shadowed clefts between rounded buttocks deliciously sculpted within the stretchy fabric. The satin paid full homage, Miranda decided, to the perfection of the girls' buttocks, capturing and controlling the swelling contours so tightly.

  Emily, twenty-seven, dark eyed and severe, darted between the dancers wielding a brutal leather tawse. The cruel hide snapped repeatedly across proffered bottoms, its harsh staccato echoing around the dance studio. Up on tiptoe, arms above their heads, the pirouetting girls were completely defenceless as Emily prowled between them, tawse in hand.

  One girl proved sullenly reluctant and quickly became the focus of Emily's attention - and her tawse. Miranda was perusing the girl's long, slender legs and chubbily pert cheeks when Emily pounced. The tawse flickered, lashing the softness of the upper thighs, then snapped twice, biting into the flesh of the twin peaches above. Miranda thrilled to the haunting crack-lash of the leather and secretly longed to hug the whipped dancer's buttocks, pressing her face into the punished cheeks. Emily demonstrated a more prosaic interest in the stubborn girl's bottom. Her sole desire was to make the blistering cheeks hotter with her unerring lash.

  Suddenly, the music stopped. The perspiring girls stood in a bewitching gaggle, plucking their damp satin from their breasts, clefts and moist labia. Their tousled hair spilled down in a wanton tumble, clinging to their faces and necks as if they had just been caught in a spring shower. Emily's dark eyes flashed dangerously.

  'I am not satisfied. Not satisfied at all. And I am far from convinced that any of you are even trying. Everyone get down and do a dozen press-ups.'

  The girls groaned their protest. The tawse snapped harshly. Seconds later, Miranda was treated to the vision of a dozen bosoms flattening as they kissed the dance floor and a dozen perfectly poised bottoms looming up as the girls obediently executed the press-ups. Weaving between the stretched thighs of her pupils, Emily admonished them with sharp strokes of the tawse across their clenched cheeks. The soft sound of the struggling girls' panting was punctuated by shrill yips as the leather licked upturned buttocks.

  Miranda stole her fingers down to her pussy and thumbed it covertly. She closed her eyes, storing up the images for later - later, when, alone in her bed, she would masturbate furiously, feeding from her memory bank loaded with the sounds and sights of strict discipline.

  Crack. Crack. The straining girls powered themselves towards the target of a dozen press-ups. Some were already wobbling on unsteady arms. Crack. Crack. As Miranda slipped out of the dance studio, she heard the tawse encouraging some unlucky pupil who had just slumped down onto the polished wood.

  Summer came early. Blossom burgeoned on the apple trees in the walled kitchen gardens, but Miranda's name had yet to make an appearance in the pages of the Punishment Book. Brimstone butterflies fluttered in the flower-beds and a cuckoo called each evening from the spinney.

  The Head, eager to complete Miranda's induction to discipline, sent her to Miss Bannermann's lesson to observe the mature teacher's methods. Miss Bannermann taught economics, and carried a polished pear-wood paddle with her in a red velvet bag. It seemed to remain in the red bag, Miranda thought, hidden away - just like the Chancellor's statement on the eve of the Budget.

  The lecture and subsequent question and answer session was tedious, the subject matter dry and the girls openly bored. Yawns were smothered and chins propped up on hands. Pens and pencils lay still on empty notepads. But Miss Bannermann had only to fleetingly touch the red velvet bag with her caressing fingertips and suddenly the entire class, Miranda noted, became animated with copious note-taking and eager responses to the teacher's questions. Just a touch of her fingertips against the red velvet. The pear-wood paddle was not actually produced, remaining out of sight but vivid in the girls' imaginations as a potent threat.

  Miss Bannermann did not, Miranda realised, allow poor performance to go unchallenged. Three girls who displeased their tutor were ordered to step forward from their desks and place their hand briefly on the red bag. Miranda frowned - but noticed that when they had returne
d to their desks, the three culprits sat white-faced and shivering throughout the rest of the lesson. When the bell sounded, the class rose and filed out in silence. Miranda was about to thank Miss Bannermann and depart when she saw that the three girls who had been ordered to approach and touch the red velvet remained seated at their desks.

  'One moment, Miranda. Observe,' Miss Bannermann said, picking up the red bag and striding down between a row of desks. 'Observe how I dispense discipline. Economically.'

  Taking the pear-wood paddle out of its velvet bag, Miss Bannermann offered it to the first girl. Taking it in her trembling hand, the girl promptly rounded on the second miscreant, bent her over and administered a stinging six strokes. Miranda saw that, though it was not a bare-bottomed chastisement, it was a blistering business. The second girl, rubbing her buttocks, accepted the paddle from the hand that had just beaten her and approached the third penitent, who shivered in silence at her desk.

  'They beat each other. It is a method which instils both fear and respect in the girls. Fear and respect for me. And it extols the virtues of capitalist enterprise. I get what I want - I remain absolutely in control but get others to do all the work. An excellent grounding in economics for the girls, don't you think?'

  Deeply impressed, Miranda nodded.

  The evening that the first swallows swooped low over the elm trees, confirming that summer had truly arrived, Miranda was instructed to attend an interview with the Head. As she entered the study, she saw Prism, the secretary, in urgent conference with the Head. There was much remonstration, shrugging and gesticulation. Prism looked up, frowned at Miranda and left.

  'My secretary tells me that the staff are anxious about my judgement, Miranda. There appears to be something of a whispering campaign against me.'

  'Judgement?' Miranda echoed.

  'In appointing you. Despite the fact that you have been privileged to witness at close quarters every method and example of administering discipline you have, to date, singularly failed to dispense discipline yourself. And your failure,' the Head continued tersely, 'is being deemed by the Staff Common Room gossip to be my failure.'

  Miranda looked down at the carpet, avoiding the Head's searching gaze.

  'In two and a half minutes, Pastora will be coming into this study to be chastised. I caught her using a mobile phone. Strictly against the rules. I am going to give you the opportunity to administer a severe spanking. The young lady's misbehaviour has been grave and her punishment must be commensurate with the gravity of her offence.

  'Who was she phoning?'

  'The details need not concern you. Her need for strict discipline does. I trust you will spank her good and hard. Understood?'

  Miranda nodded.

  'Here she is. Come, girl,' the Head commanded.

  Pastora, sallow-skinned and spoiling her pretty face with a scowl, entered the study. Like all those summoned for punishment, she wore only her vest and panties. The unbrassiered breasts were proud and thrusting, the buttocks ripe and round. Miranda felt the pulse at her throat quicken, and the flesh at her slit tingle.

  The Head rose up from behind her desk and approached the sullen young Portuguese girl.

  'Ah, Pastora, I'm afraid I am too busy to attend to your naughty little bottom—'

  Pastora's eyes flashed wide as she sensed the possibility of a reprieve.

  'I'll leave it in the very capable hands of our Greek tutor.'

  Glimpsing her doom, Pastora automatically shielded her buttocks with protectively cupped hands at their swell. She bowed her head. The light shone on her dark, oiled hair.

  The Head dragged Pastora's hands away from her bottom and turned her around, presenting the young Portuguese girl's buttocks to Miranda. 'Her bottom is yours. Do your duty,' the Head commanded. Pushing Pastora towards Miranda, the Head abruptly left the study, closing the door firmly behind her.

  Miranda wasted no time, realising from what she had observed and learnt of discipline that it was essential to establish absolute authority over the victim immediately. To hesitate was to lose the advantage - the upper hand.

  Even before the Head had joined Prism in the secretary's office to eavesdrop on the proceedings over the intercom, Pastora was bare-bottomed across Miranda's lap. Pinning the wriggling Portuguese beauty down firmly at the nape of her neck, Miranda placed her spanking hand palm down across the tempting swell of the upturned cheeks.

  'You have, I believe, been very naughty, Pastora,' Miranda said sternly, firmly squeezing the softness of the girl's outer cheek. Very naughty.'

  'I'm sorry,' Pastora whispered. 'I used the mobile to phone Isobel. I lied. I said I was phoning my aunt. I said my aunt was ill.'

  'So,' Miranda repeated, beginning to understand. 'You lied. You phoned Isobel. And she is?'

  'My lover. I miss her.'

  'Using a mobile is forbidden, as you well know,' Miranda said, her tone still severely sharp. 'And lying deserves to be harshly punished. Doesn't it? Hm?'

  Pastora remained silent. Wriggling gently, she buried her breasts into Miranda's stockings, crushing her nipples into their nylon sheen.

  'Doesn't it?' Miranda repeated.

  'Yes.' The sulky whisper was barely audible - but both the Head and Prism, crouched over the intercom, heard the important admission.

  'Yes,' echoed Miranda. She squeezed both buttocks fiercely, causing Pastora to squeak in anguish and jerk her hips in an effort to escape.

  'Are you truly sorry?'

  'Yes, I'm sorry,' Pastora hissed, threshing her small feet as she writhed.

  Miranda relaxed her fierce grip on the rubbery flesh and soothingly palmed the crown of the buttocks in her absolute thrall. 'Tell me a little about Isobel before I punish you.'

  'About Isobel?' Pastora replied in surprise.

  'Tell me,' Miranda whispered, dragging her straightened forefinger dominantly down along the darkly shadowed cleft.

  Inching her cheeks up a fraction to receive the fingertip more fully, Pastora confessed her love for the girl left behind in Lisbon. She spoke of her loneliness at the Institute and of the bitter tears she shed each night on her pillow. Miranda - and the Head at the intercom - listened in silence to this important revelation. It did not excuse Pastora's misbehaviour, but it certainly explained it.

  'I see.' Miranda stroked the warm cleft more dominantly, allowing her fingertip to trace down the increasingly sticky flesh-creases to Pastora's warm, pouting plum.

  'After what you have told me, your offence appears to be less grave. I will spank you, though. I will spank you because you broke the rules and you lied. But I will not punish you too severely. What I want you to do is promise me that you will work harder and obey all the rules. If you do so, you will be successful here at the Institute. And if you are successful, your parents will allow you to return to Lisbon - and Isobel.'

  'I promise—' Pastora gasped hastily.

  'No, no promises. Not yet. Promises made under the shadow of impending punishment and pain are easily made - and all too easily broken. Thighs apart please, and get your bottom up.'

  Pastora obeyed, inching her soft thighs apart a fraction so that her wet plum-lips smiled their sticky welcome. Snuggling down into her chastiser's lap, the bare-bottomed girl jerked her cheeks up for their pleasurable pain. Miranda gazed down, drinking in every detail of the beautiful Portuguese girl at her mercy. The tumble of dark, glistening hair curtaining the penitent's sorrow-shadowed eyes. The slender neck firmly in her pinioning grasp. The swell of the naked cheeks, occasionally dimpled by a spasm of expectancy. The neat little feet pressed together as if making a mute contrition. The sight, the sheer sensation, juiced Miranda urgently. Her hot quim perfumed the air of the study, the feral perfume of arousal as heavy as over-ripe medlars oozing their sweetness.

  Crack, smack. The spanking was slow, deliberate and searching, each measured swipe of palm across plump cheek echoing around the study. After every third resounding blow, Miranda paused to thumb Pastora's cleft, dragg
ing her thumbtip down to torment and pleasure the punished girl's clitoris. After eighteen spanks across each crimsoning cheek, Miranda paused again - for a full, delicious minute - then used two firm fingers to probe Pastora's slit deeply. The Portuguese girl clamped her thighs together as she rocked gently back and forth across her punisher's p.

  'Don't stop - please—' she begged, her voice a choking whimper. 'Spank me. Spank me hard. I was bad. I must be punished—'

  'Silence, girl. I am in control of your bottom. I and I alone will decide whether you deserve to be spanked any more.'

  'I promise to obey you. Spank me. I will do as you say. I will work hard. Obey all the rules. Spank me. Spank me, please—'

  In the secretary's office, huddled over the intercom, the Head gripped Prism's arm tightly. Both faces bore the broad smile of delight.

  'Listen to that. She's actually pleading for more punishment. I knew I was right. I knew it. She is an exceptional teacher - and disciplinarian. She got the whole story out of the girl: and how many of our wayward young madams actually whimper for more chastisement? Hmm? My new appointment,' the head concluded, 'is a triumph.'

  Wincing at the fierce grip at her arm, Prism agreed enthusiastically.

  In her bed, Miranda had just enjoyed her second climax. Her pubic fuzz and inner thighs were soaking wet. Beneath the warm weight of her clenched buttocks, her crisp white sheet was stained. The orgasms, fuelled by images of the Head prowling the dorms, slipper in hand, had been powerful. Powerful and exquisite. Loosening her limbs, she slumped into her mattress.

  The Head had been very kind and fulsome in her praise. Miranda had arranged for Pastora to have two compassionate phone calls to Isobel every week - and already the Portuguese girl's work and behaviour had improved.