Chapter 5

THE SCHOOLROOM

"Simulation is only in the planning, sir. Our enactments are real." With grave courtesy, Maslin proffered the academic gown. "Please feel free to consult me. I am the butler here, but also one of the custodians. The other is Sister Amaldis. And now the mortarboard....If I may say so, Mr. Atwood, you wear it with distinctfon."

Guilt over the squandering of Uncle Prescott's money modified before the image in the big mirror. Dick Atwood was aware of a quickening pulse. The black-gowned figure staring at him was the man of his fantasy. Tall and lean, the eyes intense.

"And I will be completely alone, in charge?"

"Quite so, sir. But you do understand that the chatelaines and chevaliers of the Seigneury are always free to come and go, in suitable guise, of course. You will find their deference to you beyond criticism. They will never intrude. Your class may receive callers."

It was worth the money. It had to be! It was so incredibly perfect. Dick Atwood posed an entrancing question at Maslin's imperturbability. "But, in the class, there will be chatelaines among the-the...."

Maslin permitted a smile. "We refer to them as the girls, sir. There is no ambiguity."

"But should I not differentiate?"

"No, sir. They are there by their own wish, impelled by motives similar to your own. They will be hopeful of your attention."

"But will I be able to tell?"

"The difference?" Maslin's small smile held nothing but helpful respect. "I think so, sir. Mostly they are somewhat older-though suitably attired. May I request, Mr. Atwood, that you in no way betray your awareness. As a matter of policy, our girls are rarely fully informed. Their ignorance of certain factors is part of the authenticity."

Dick Atwood took a deep breath and offered Maslin an apologetic grin. "If the little darlings are half as nervous as I am...!" He shook his head and left the rest unsaid.

"It is most natural, sir, and will soon pass. And now, if you will come this way?"

All else was forgotten in a surge of joy as the headmaster swirled into the classroom. Here it was as he had dreamed. Fourteen respectful feminine faces turned at his entry. Fourteen leggy girls stood erect as fourteen girlish voices pealed in unison.

"Good morning, Mr. Atwood."

Ecstasy!

The headmaster took his place behind his desk. Across it was ostentatiously draped the slenderness of a yellow cane. There was a sheet of paper with names. ... "Please be seated."

The rustle of pure femininity as pleated skirts slithered back across wooden seats in obedience to his male command was the essence of life itself. Dick Atwood became aware of a tightening in his loins as he scanned the bland innocence of pert mischief or petulant compliance delivered into his hands. Briskly, he picked up the roll.

"Mabel Slingsby?"

Agirl rose to her feet. "Present, sir."

"Dapline Durante?"

"Present, sir."

How exquisite they were! What sweet obedience! Dick Atwood felt a wave of deep gratitude to Uncle Prescott, now deceased. Without the legacy this could not have happened.

"Margaret Shwartz?"

A moment's silence, and then the eager raising of a bare young arm. "Please, sir, Margaret's being punished. She's in the dungeon. Sister Amaldis told me to tell you."

He coughed gently to gain a moment in which to digest the dungeon. "Thank you. And your name, please?"

"Chrissy Ragan, sir." A giggled. "I'm present."

It was a name and a face he would remember. Even at a distance and across the desks her sexuality struck Dick Atwood like a blow, a sweet and cloying clutching at the heart. His voice was coarse.

"Phyllis Pendleton?"

As the headmaster called out the dwindling list of names and received the girlish reassurances of their presence within the room as feminine flesh and blood, he became increasingly aware of an approaching hiatus. When the last name had drawn its response, he announced crisply:

"We will start with English literature," he announced crisply. "I would like us to explore a possible relationship between Christopher Marlowe and William Shakespeare, with particular emphasis on any political overtones in Marlowe's Dr. Faustus and his 'Jew of Malta.'"

The atmosphere of the room was heady stuff as feminine fingers caused a rumble of sound in the withdrawal of the required volume from each desk. The Master became aware of two dark eyes and a raised hand. He consulted the roll and discovered, inexplicably, that he was pointing the cane.

"Vera Manson...? Ah, yes. You wish to speak, Miss Manson?" He had the feeling of getting off to a good start.

"Please, sir, I don't know anything about the subject." The eyes remained bold, challenging. "And I don't think I want to."

So soon! It was perfect, incredible, wonderful! It was heart's desire. The pseudo headmaster labeled Vera Manson as a chatelaine but what did it matter! His voice was suavely confident.

"Perhaps you may be persuaded to change your mind."

"No, sir, I don't like poetry."

The rapt silence was exqusitie. Dick Atwood knew himself the conductor of a feminine symphony, his baton poised....

No words in history had rang out the acceptance of challenge with greater emphasis. "Kindly step out before the class, Miss Manson."

"I'd rather not, sir. I don't wish to be caned."

"Did I speak of caning, Miss Manson?"

"No, sir, but that's what you're going to do to me. I can tell."

'Indeed! And just how, pray?"

A wriggle of feminine shoulders, but the dark eyes held steady. "It's happened before, sir. We always get caned. I don't like it."

The eyes belied the words. The headmaster knew himself in the grip of a tumescent excitation. His assurance was vibrant. "You are not supposed to like it, Miss Manson. Please step up beside my desk and hold out your hand."

"I'm sorry, sir, I can't."

"What do you mean, you can't?"

Did the eyes waver! The tense shoulders droop! But the feminine voice was determined. "I guess I just don't want to, sir."

He poised a finger. "Do you know what will happen if I ring this bell?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, what?" He made his voice snap.

"Some of the staff will come and compel me...."

"And is that what you desire?"

Vera's wriggle was both pronounded and provocative. The bold eyes softened and became wistful. "No, sir."

"Then step forward."

It was an exquisite performance. The headmaster neither knew nor cared if it was real. Certainly the flushed cheeks were a visible proof of the same evidenced in every rebellious motion of the young body. Vera's steps were those of the condemned as she left the haven of her desk and revealed the inadequacy of the school uniform to shield her contours. Uncertainly she faced him before the thirteen pairs of fascinated eyes.

"Hold out your hand, Vera."

Vera Manson did not hold out her hand. Instead, she clasped them defensively behind her back. "Couldn't I be punished some other way, sir?" she inquired hopefully. .

"You prefer to be thrashed on your bottom?"

Her flinch was clearly visible. "Not really, sir."

Dick Atwood reveled in a pure erotic joy. But he made his voice caustic. "Perhaps you have a suggestion, Miss Manson?"

"Must I be thrashed at all, sir?"

Her girlish wail was superb. He suddenly saw her naked, nubile and beneath his authority, pliant. She would be more than beautiful.

"You will be thrashed, Miss Manson. I leave the choice to you."

"I-I'd-I'd have to bend over, sir?"

"If you please. First bare your bottom and protrude it to face the class. Touch your toes."

"Oh, sir...!" The now limpid eyes gazed up at him in supplication. "My bottom-all bare! In front of everyone?"

How sweet she was! How perfectly she prolonged the role! Was she perhaps giving an object lesson to the younger ones-the girls! And yet-the blush! Could females blush at will! Fervently the headmaster blessed his Uncle Pres-cott, now deceased!

"You don't expect me to cane you over your uniform, Miss Manson?"

"Weeellll, yes, sir. Could you, please?"

It was as though she had found an acceptable compromise. Her eyes were wide with pleading. Exposed to their female potency, how easily a male might relent, be twisted, managed ...!

"Don't be absurd, Miss Manson. You are to be punished."

"Then, sir, could I-perhaps-just my panties?"

It was beautifully done. Dick's memory roved: De Granamour, Cleland, the Comte Du Bouleau....None had penned their heroines blushing shames more graphically.

"Not even your panties, Vera. Come, be sensible."

Her surrender tore his heart. Vera Manson's eyes roved appealingly, her shoulders fluttered in distress. Her hands emerged from hiding.

"In that case, sir-perhaps I'd prefer-if you don't mind?" She extened a bare and very feminine arm.

Dick Atwood hoped the thudding in his chest could not be heard. Was Vera Manson's heart thudding too? And if so, was it in fear or exultant joy? In the best tradition of the Victorians, he used the cane to adjust the level of the penitent hand. "Your palm taut, Miss Manson. Your arm well out....Ah, thank you!" He began the preliminary tapping to gauge his aim.

"Please don't hit my hand too hard, sir...."

Even in the final cringing appeal she was letter perfect. The headmaster took a deep, ecstatic breath and struck with all his force.

Whether Vera Manson was enacting a role or not, no longer mattered. The swift cut upon her hand was real. The resultant agony was real. Her response was the most real of all. With a wail of shock she hugged her punished palm within an armpit. Bending forward, oblivious to everything save pain, she sobbed in hurt surprise. "Oh-oh-oh! Oh, no-no-no-!" She stamped a foot in protest against something beyond bearing.

Dick Atwood knew it would be wrong to hurry. The room was involved, holding its collective breath. Vera Manson, coping with her anguish, was a pulsating piece of erotica that should be allowed to run its course. Standing quietly, he let his gaze rove across his class. It came to rest on Chrissy Ragan. The girl was totally absorbed, her eyes shining, her wide lips moist. She exuded a radiance....

"Your other hand please, Miss Manson?"

Vera looked up at him, wan but adoring. "Must I, sir?"

"Immediately."

In mute resignation to male authority, the caned girl stood erect and slowly extended her other arm. Her eyes, now, were infinitely pleading, limpid. But for what did they plead! Knowing himself the most privileged of men, the headmaster tapped and tapped-then struck.

"Owwww-oh-oh!"

Once more, Vera Manson bestowed bliss. Her writhings and her sounds required no script. This time, both her injured hands found solace beneath her arm's most secret place. She hugged herself and sobbed. The Master watched until the paroxysm of grief began to ebb.

"Thank you, Miss Manson. You may return to your seat."

"Oh-oh, yes. Oh, thank you, sir." There was one more message from the witching eyes before their owner turned and retraced her shameful steps.

Seated at her desk, the caned beauty hugged her hands and quietly cried, her eyelids flickering upon a sparkle born not alone from tears.

Perhaps Vera Manson had expected more! Was it possible she was disappointed with her burning palms! The headmaster knew it was. He sighed heavily. Surveying his plethora of feminine riches, he turned the leaves of his book.

"I think we should trace the possibility of Marlowe having written or influenced the work of Shakespeare...."

Dick Atwood had been prepared to drone on upon a favorite topic when his drone was terminated by a thud. He looked up, annoyed.

"Oh, dear-I'm terribly sorry." Chrissy Ragan looked up in dewy eyed apology as she retrieved the heavy tome she had allowed to fall.

He let it pass. Perhaps an accident! But he had concluded no more than a couple of sonorous sentences before there was an even louder thump.

"I'm so clumsy!" Chrissy's eyes were pleading. Pleading for what! She picked up the book and looked at him expectantly. "It's my own fault, sir, I'm so silly...."

She was provocatively gorgeous. Pubescently female. Dick Atwood once more knew himself blessed. "I am sure your problem is subject to correction, Miss Ragan," he suggested blandly.

"I expect it is, sir."

"Perhaps a sound caning of careless hands?"

"If you say so, sir."

Chrissy did it superlatively well. To so combine the demure with the provocative was purely feminine wile. Here was none of Vera's shrinking, but rather a glad discovery of his understanding of the vibrantly sexual play of words.

"Step forward, please, Miss Ragan." It was beautifully done, impossible to prove deliberate. In passing the desk of the girl in front, Chrissy's small hand hovered nervously....Another book was sent tumbling to the floor.

From somewhere there came a titter, instantly quelled. The atmosphere was electric as the culprit picked up the displaced copy of "Spencer's England."

"I've done it again!" Chrissy exclaimed in flushed contrition. Her eyes sought those of the headmaster in perfect understanding. "You'll think I did it on purpose, sir."

"The thought had crossed my mind," Dick admitted dryly. "Perhaps four on each hand ...-.?"

She stood before him now so that her musk was heavy in his nostrils. Chrissy was sending out vibrations in wave after wave of lubricity. She looked up at him in genuine concern. "Four, sir!" The prospect was evidently daunting. "Four on each hand...! Oh, sir...!"

"Are they not deserved, Miss Ragan?"

"Well, I suppose so, sir. But I've never had four...." She giggled nervously. "I'll never be able to hold my hands out after the first two." She became girlishly serious. "It hurts quite a lot, y'know, sir. It hurts awful."

"An excellent deterrent to carelessness."

"Oh, yes, sir!" Chrissy's agreement was quite unfeigned. It was possible to believe her grateful for a cure and dubious only of her ability to swallow the medications. "You're ever so kind, sir."

She was outrageous, blatantly wallowing in the sexual overtones of the scene she had provoked. In this douce damsel Dick Atwood's fantasy was recreated a hundredfold. His loins were afire and would be a problem.

"There is always a first time, Miss Ragan."

"Of course, sir. I'll try and be ever so brave. But-but-?"

"Yes, Miss Ragan?"

"Well, sir if I hold out my hand and-and-sort of flinch-or pull it back-do I get an extra stroke?"

"Naturally."

"Oh, dear!" She looked up wistfully. "I might end up with a dozen. Or maybe more! I'm not sure I can manage."

"Are you contriving a conversational caning, Miss Ragan? We appear to be lost in words."

"We do, don't we, sir? Aren't I awful!"

It was less an apology than a statement of fact. There could be little doubt Chrissy was glorying in her awfulness. To the man with the cane it was intoxicating. Dick Atwood suddenly glimpsed a fresh new vista. "Perhaps you would prefer ten on your bottom?" he asked kindly.

"Oooooo, oh, would you, sir! Oh, that would be lovely."

Such heartfelt gratitude! Dick felt he had bestowed an inestimable gift. He explored Chrissy's further potential. "You would be required to bare your bottom for your punishment."

"Oh, of course, sir!"

"And to touch your toes."

"You're ever so kind, Mr. Atwood."

Dick sighed inwardly. He knew his limits and wondered what it would be like to orgasm before fourteen pair of interested female eyes. "You may bend over, Miss Ragan," he instructed dazedly.

Chrissy obeyed with a shameful alacrity, as though fearful he would rescind his benevolence. Her round young bottom reared amazingly like the bursting of a bud in spring. With practiced fingers, she flipped back her tiny skirt to reveal the fact she wore no panties. With knees held rigid, she positioned her pert posterior to face the class. Then, to give good measure in her penance, placed the palms of her hands upon the floor. Chrissy was flexible.

"You do not wear panties, Miss Ragan?"

"No, sir." A giggle. "It saves a lot of time."

"Bur hardly decorous for a young lady."

"I'll remember, sir and put some on for next time."

"Next time what?"

"Well, just in case, sir." Another giggle. "A girl never knows, does she? I say, sir, I hope you don't mind the way I stick out my behind?"

"Is that not concurrent with this required posture?"

"Yes, sir. But I don't mean just my bottom. My bottom sticks up beautifully, but I mean between my legs-my pussy. Perhaps you should look?"

The class was delighted. Dick Atwood knew himself on trial. How easy it was for these little baggages to make a fool of a man. Quite apart from erotic intent, they needed a firm hand. Conscious of inexperience in such comparisons, he stepped to where the twin curves awaited their punishment.

"I'm sort of proud of it, sir. If one of the girls hadn't told me about it I'd never have known." Chrissy seemed in no way discommoded by her trying pose.

It was a ludicrous shock. An amazing erotic discovery to a bachelor who had known no other similar glimpse of female versatality. Chrissy's plump pussy winked at him flamboyantly from between her parted cheeks. For company it had brought along a few fronds of dark hair.

Prudently, he quenched excalmations. Best not to evoke giggles at his own expense. Perhaps all girls...? "Congratulations," he said heartily, "It's superb. I shall cane it along with the rest!"

"Ooooooo, sir...!"

He could not tell if the exclamation was in pleasure or dismay. Aware of deep water, he swung the cane.

"Wooooow, woo, woo-oh, gollies! Thank you, sir."

The girl was magnificent. Dick watched the forming of the scarlet ridge across the taut skin. The bottom weaved but the pose was not broken. The pain was probably exquisite. He resolved to strike within the limits of this delightful creature's tolerance. Carefully, he raised a second crimson bar beside the first.

"Mmmmm! Oh, wow-wowwwwwww-Oh, thank you, sir!"

"I'm so glad you're getting down to work, Mr. Atwood." Sister Amaldis had entered unseen. She bestowed a beaming smile on one and all. "Ah, dear Chrissy-I'm so glad you are caning her! She's a darling."

Dick perceived an inconsistency. But the Seigneury would have values all its own. In this case Chrissy's bottom was a casualty. And perhaps Sister Amaldis knew something...! His response was usurped by his bent over protege.

"Good morning, Sister Amaldis. Mr. Atwood canes ever so well."

"Isn't she sweet! So appreciative." Sister Amaldis absently relieved Dick of the cane and delivered half a dozen shrewd cuts before handing it back.

"Thank you, Sister." The gratitude quivered only slightly.

"You are enjoying your girls, Mr. Atwood?"

"Immensely! They are-"

"You will discipline them all, I hope?"

"Er-fourteen?"

Sister Amaldis sighed fondly. "It does the darlings so much good." Her eye hovered on the still bending Chrissy. "How many more has this dear child earned?"

"Er-just two."

"I suggest you deliver them. She may then return to her desk. I have in mind a brief demonstration."

Bemused by too much too soon, Dick Atwood aimed for and struck the plump puss pouting from between Chrissy's legs. The blows were not severe but evoked tears so that he knew a pang of conscience as the dewy eyes enveloped him in adoration and the dulcet young voice sobbed, "Thank you, sir, for caning me-there!" He stood enraptured as small hands lifted the cane to lush lips to lingeringly kiss the instrument of pain before their owner scampered back to her place.

"I cannot imagine the Seigneury without Chrissy." Sister Amaldis glowed with affection. "I am wondering, Mr. Atwood, if you have considered the possibilities of shame?"

"Well, not specifically...."

"It is most potent." Her eyes swept the class. "Noreen! Step forward, please."

Dick Atwood guessed the pretty creature who hesitantly approached to be one of the chatelaines, nor was it hard to surmise her displeasure at being singled out. Her voice betrayed nothing but a polite response.

"Yes, Sister?"

"I want you to lift your tunic and show Mr. Atwood your pubic hair, dear."

Dick realized the shrewdness of the demand. Sister Amaldis probably knew the Achilles heel of each member of the Seigneury. It was obvious Noreen shrank from what she must do. But she did it! With flushed cheeks and rebellious eyes, she fumbled beneath her skirt and stepped out of brief white panties. A moment later, Dick found himself confronted by an accusing black triangle above ivory thighs. The whole effect was cringingly indecent.

"Thank you, dear. Now turn and show the class."

Noreen was obedient but sulky. Dick wondered why she had attended his class. But perhaps the lovely creature had not reckoned with Sister Amaldis. The class itself examined Noreen's pubic hair with no more than a polite interest. There was an air of expectancy, emanations wholly female.

"You see what I mean, Mr. Atwood?" Sister Amaldis was briskly helpful.

"Er, yes-I do indeed."

"Nudity is implicit, Mr. Atwood." The Sister turned to the apprehensive class. "Girls, you will remove your clothes. Leave them on your desk, then form a line."

Dick was torn between resentment at the usurpation of his authority and enchantment with Sister Amaldis' methods. He was still holding the cane, but a firm feminine hand thrust into his grasp a short single thonged whip. The same feminine fingers patted his arm reassuringly. Suddenly, the first girl stood before him, totally naked. She was looking at his bewilderment with wry amusement.

But the good Sister was in full stride. She positioned the docile damsel to stand with breasts out-thrust and hands behind her neck. "One very hard stroke on her bottom, Mr. Atwood," she requested briskly.

Gratitude to Uncle Prescott once more flooded Dick Atwood's being. Fourteen naked girls! All waiting to be caned. All looking at him with their own response of adoration, lust, resentment, and docility. But all were expectant, and he was the focus of their regard. He swung lustily.

"Thank you, Mr. Atwood." The punished maiden delivered him a relieved smile and a curtsey, and minced back to her desk, rubbing her weal.

Sister Amaldis had prepared number two in exactly the same pose. It was Vera Manson. The girl's eyes glowed with an emotion all her own. The look she gave him was one of complicity.

"The right breast with the whip, Mr. Atwood," Sister Amaldis intoned. "Vera dislikes it. You will strike from the rear under the exposed armpit."

It was clever, and cruel, and wonderful! Strive as he would, Dick could not moderate his cutting thong. It bit into Vera's white skin beneath her raised arm and spent its curling lash upon the curve of her defenseless breast.

"Oh, Mr. Atwood!" She gazed at him with deep approval. Female fingers traced the tender line across her breast. Vera tripped, almost gaily, back to her desk.

Breast and buttock, thigh and armpit! It was compel-lingly beautiful. Dick struck and struck again, his loins afire, his breath responsive to the thudding of his heart. Sister Amaldis was helpfully efficient, the girls unfailingly charming in their acceptance of brief cruel shame. He was sure that no man had ever been so drenched in female nakedness. A bobbing array of breasts and bottoms, impudent nipples and concave tummies. But the inundation of bare skin brought no satiety. Instead, it fueled a mounting lust, for each nudity was an enchantment of its own. No breast or pube, bush or thigh, was ever quite the same. Naked girls passed endlessly. Each one offering him a splendor all her own.

"I will leave you now." Sister Amaldis beamed affection. "Forgive my intrusion. But I did so want to give the darlings a proper introduction. I feel now that you've actually 'met them.' Be very strict and very cruel." She smiled benignly. "They'll respect you so much more."

With the closing of the door, Dick Atwood consulted his watch.

The shaming of his fourteen girls had taken barely thirty minutes.