Chapter 8
HOLD OUT YOUR HAND
To Glynis Woodhaye the school uniform was an affront. In the presence of women she would prefer to be naked. It was too small. But not so small as to burst its seams. Her slenderness did not tax it other than to fill it completely. It covered her private places reluctantly so as to make her constantly aware of them. She was sure the Seigneur was chuckling somewhere in the wings.
"You look deliciously sweet, dear," said Sister Amaldis. "I feel deliciously indecent. Sister, please help me? Help me leave this place? Help me to go home?"
"The first day at school if always difficult, dear."
Glynis wondered in furstration how a woman coped with Sister Amaldis. Perhaps she didn't! Sister Amaldis was as elusive as a shadow, though endowed with all the terrible substance of authority.
"You know I'm held here against my will. Sister, I don't want to play these games. I just don't!"
"But, dear girl. I thought it would be such a pleasant change for you." Sister Amaldis sounded hurt. "I have felt your sentence was overly long. I'm sure it's nice to be out of your cell and away from the prison for a little while."
"You mean-after-after this charade I'll be taken back to prison!"
"Of course, dear. Hold out your hands, please."
It was all of a pattern. All impossible but happening. The mailed fist beneath the velvet glove was never far from sight. There could be no profit in provoking Sister Amaldis. Feeling ridiculous, Glynis held out her hands and watched the handcuffs clasp her wrists and click snugly to render her semi-helpless. Or were they no more than a symbol of her servitude! She had grown used to them!
"They look so nice on your wrists, so bright and shining, dear."
"And they keep me well behaved. Is that it, Sister?"
"All of us are subject to authorities, Glynis."
"Please, Sister Amaldis, don't send me back to prison."
"I have no choice, dear. I wish I did."
"I wish you did too," Glynis said morosely. "What must I do now?"
"You are joining Mr. Atwood's class, dear. This is Mr. Atwood's second day with us. He's such a gentleman. So kind to his girls."
There were times when Sister Amaldis was just too much. A girl longed to scream and beat her fists. The Sister was a force. A power who swept aside obstacles to her course by means most obvious yet impossible to counter. Impossible, that is, to a girl with chained hands and under threat of punishment. Glynis swallowed her shame and followed meekly where she was led. It was a perfect humiliation: a grown woman in a child's school tunic, handcuffed, going to school!
"This is Glynis Woodhaye, Mr. Atwood. Such a charming girl."
Dick Atwood approved the charming girl. Glynis knew herself stripped bare. "Welcome to the class, Glynis."
"Thank you, sir." May as well play the fool game!
"Miss Woodhaye is somewhat older than the average pupil, Mr. Atwood." Sister Amaldis perceived an awkward question. "No, she is not a chatelaine. She is, however, of strong character and will require a firm hand."
"Discipline?" Dick Atwood's gaze roved the scantily hidden breasts.
"Of course! Discipline! I am sure you will temper justice with mercy. I know the dear child is in good hands. Glynis, you may take your seat."
A quick reconnoiter as the headmaster accompanied the Sister to the door revealed the lovely figure of a naked girl standing facing a corner, close into the junction of two walls. Her hands were out of sight, presumably handcuffed as were all the rest. She did not move or turn around. Her bottom was a blaze of stripes. Standing facing the class was a girl still clothed, fidgety and ill at ease, waiting. Glynis scanned her companions in academie and collected shy sad smiles quickly quenched.
"We are studying French History, Miss Woodhaye," the Master informed briskly. "The colorful period prior to the Revolution. But first we are engaged in a matter of correction." He turned stern eyes upon the waiting girl. "You were saying, Miss Bristow?"
The standing girl undulated, a pleasing motion Glynis suspected contrived. "Well, I don't think it's fair, sir, to ask me questions about things I don't know anything about."
"Has it occurred to you that perhaps you SHOULD know?"
"No, sir."
"Perhaps an incentive?"
"I don't want to be caned, sir."
"Your wishes are quite irrelevant, Miss Bistrow."
"I don't think they are, sir. That cane hurts awful. Look at Gladys' bottom over there."
"I have already seen it," Mr. Atwood said expansively. "But I am prepared to be accommodating. I will cane your hands."
"No, sir."
"What did you say?"
"I said, no, sir. I don't want my hands caned. That hurts something dreadful too." Elizabeth Bristow was red faced but determined.
The Master took a deep, ecstatic breath. These'feminine creatures were exquisite. A man's fondest dreams! "Perhaps you will tell the class what portion of your person you deem acceptable for punishment, Elizabeth?" His sarcasm was thunder.
"None at all, sir. I don't think girls our age ought to be punished with pain."
"I see. What would you suggest?"
"Nothing at all, sir."
"Ah!" Dick Atwood reveled in the power this damsel was delivering him gratis. "Would you like me to ring for assistance so that you may be flogged before the class?"
"No, sir. Why don't you whip Chrissy? She likes it."
There was a dead silence, then hushed giggles. The headmaster smiled benignly. His finger hovered above the buzzer. His voice was smooth. "Miss Bristow, I will count to five. If you have not started to remove your tunic by then, I will press this button. That will mean a sound flogging. However, should you wish to apologize and to moderate this absurd obstinacy, only your hands will be caned."
Glynis Woodhaye watched, breathlessly as the rest, rejecting the absurdity, yet fascinated by its authenticity.
This transposition from a Victorian schoolroom was happening before her eyes and she was a part of it. Inevitably her turn would come. What then!
The count was deliberately slow. Dick Atwood was reveling in the situation Elizabeth Bristow created. He was as uncertain as Glynis Woodhaye of Elizabeth's sincerity. He strongly suspected her obduracy to be a seeking of the limelight, an excursion into an erotic exploration all her own. As his voice intoned the fatal numbers he observed the shadows of expression cross the lovely face of his trapped victim as she twisted and turned and looked appealingly at the averted faces of her classmates. At the count of four her fingers rose to the strategis buttons.
"Very well, sir," she said woodenly, "I seem to have no choice. I-I apologize."
"Thank you, Miss Bristow. Proceed with your preparation."
Glynis saw it as a strip tease. Each slow reluctant motion was a provocation of the flesh as well as a rearguard challenge in a lost cause. It was beautifully done. The lush lips pouted redly moist. The body revealed by the falling tunic used every curse and muscle to flaunt its desirability. Glynis spared a quick glance at the Master. His tumescence was all too evident. Amused, she returned her attention to the now fully revealed loveliness of the girl about to be punished. It seemed the Seigneury took to itself only the most nubile of femininity.
"Thank you, Miss Bristow. Face me and extend your hand."
It was as though the girl had achieved her purpose and milked her plight of its dramatic potential. She was now all business. Her arm rose, the small palm tautened. The cane sang.
Glynis flinched. She could imagine the awfulness of the impact. But she watched in wonder as Elizabeth casually examined her wound, shook the injured member limply a few times, and said, with an infinite sweetness:
"Thank you, sir."
There was no real pause. The eyes of the hurt girl locked themselves with those of the man with the cane. Elizabeth's other hand rose negligently and offered itself for agony. Once again the cane shrieked its savagery.
It was the same as before. The young breasts rose and fell in spasmodic reaction. Their owner examined her injured hands woefully, shaking them as though to fling away her pain. Her voice held true.
"Thank you, sir."
"May I commend your acceptance of your punishment, Miss Bristow?"
"Thank you very much, sir. May I dress?"
"Most certainly not! Extend your hand again."
"Surely you're not going to cane my hands more, sir!"
"And why not, pray?"
"But you hit me so hard, sir. The pain is awful."
"You are a big girl, Elizabeth."
It was ritualistic as though rehearsed. Glynis Woodhaye felt irritably guilty with her own rapt attention. She was breathlessly involved, her own hands tingling. The Seigneury had her in its grip.
"Yes, sir, I suppose I am." Elizabeth shuffled a bare foot and bestowed a questioning look upon the black gowned male, assessing his temper. Deciding to get her travail over with, she positioned a quivering arm. Immediately it had received its cut she extended the other, evidently determined to give herself no chance for weakness. When it was done, she stood trembling, hands limp and listless at her sides. She appeared determined to exhibit none of the writhings so commonly employed by caned girls to ease their distress. Her voice was no longer assured.
"Thank you very much, sir."
The Master nodded. For the moment he was satisfied to behold his work. The girl was incredible. He was unsure whether he witnessed amazing female fortitude or whether his authority was being obstinately challenged by bravado.
Elizabeth stood, eyes bright with more than tears, waiting. "Again, Elizabeth, please."
The dam broke, the tears flowed. With an inarticulate cry of defeat, the caned girl sank to the floor in a bundle of hurt nudity, her face buried in her hands, sobbing. Elizabeth Bristow had had enough.
"Elizabeth." The command was stern.
"I can't, sir. I can't!" The denial was choked.
"You can and you will."
There was no answer, only sobs and heaving shoulders. With care and precision Dick Atwood cut his cane squarely across Elizabeth's unsuspecting bottom. Elizabeth screamed.
"Stop it! That's enough!"
Glynis Woodhaye recognized the voice. It was her own. She was trembling with outrage for the girl on the floor, and now in fear for yourself. But she glared defiance at the Master's interested attention. "You're being unnecessarily cruel to the poor girl," she added lamely.
Dick Atwood's heart beat high. Here was treasure indeed! A magnificent creature bursting at the seams with pulchritude, inviting punishment. His invitation was almost reverent.
"Would you care to step out in front of the class, Miss Woodhaye?"
"No, I would not! This is a silly game and we should all be ashamed of ourselves. I refuse to play."
She was panting, in the grip of a fearful excitement. She saw the finger of authority move towards the buzzer, and forestalled the obvious. Her challenge was furious.
"Go ahead and ring. Get your bullies. Have them brutalize me. You should feel really proud...!"
The finger paused. "I would prefer not to. ... "
Her voice seethed contempt. "Perhaps you can subdue me yourself. I refuse to submit!" Her defiance overflowed. "How much do you pay these people for the privelege of caning naked girls?"
She was truly splendid. Dick Atwood glowed. Here was an endless potential! His voice was suavely regretful. "But, Miss Woodhaye, you do realize you have earned a punishment?"
"By your standards perhaps!" Glynis waved his standards airily away. "And you know where you can put your standards. If you've any sense you'll aid me in getting out of this appalling place."
The silence was dramatic. Having enjoyed it to the full and noted the heaving breasts of his oldest pupil, Dick Atwood suggested blandly:
"Step before the class, Miss Woodhaye, and remove your tunic."
"You know perfectly well I must refuse."
"No, I do not know that. It is a conviction of your own. I am hoping mature reflection will change it."
"Bullshit!"
Glynis hated the word. Her use of it betrayed her agitation. She wanted no part of standing naked in this room, to be ogled by a young man whose motives were suspect. The day she had spent tied spread out on the bars of her cell, suffering Campys' amused scrutiny, had in no way inured her to being naked in the eyes of men.
"Miss Woodhaye, you are angry. You are new here. I make allowances. Please consider, we have our rules. We will not change them to oblige you. It would not be fair to the other girls. The fact that you are somewhat older...."
"I am hardly a grandmother! My age simply enables me to judge this nonsensical charade!"
"Miss Woodhaye!"
The protagonists rose to their feet, glaring. The clash of wills had gone beyond Dick Atwood's intent. He was grateful for the diversion of a raised arm.
"Yes, Miss Manson, you have something to say?"
"Please, sir, could I-could I-I mean, could I speak, just say something to Miss Woodhaye?"
"And what would you have to say to this intractable young woman?"
"Well, sir, I think we all want to say something. Could I, please?"
"Very well." The headmaster turned to the flushed rebel. "You are being honored," he said stiffly, "I believe Miss Manson wishes to be kind."
Embarrassment touched them all. Vera Manson rose diffidently to her feet and absorbed Glynis' surprised hostility.
"Don't be angry, Miss Woodhaye." The young voice was concerned. "But we all think you're new and don't understand-"
"Perhaps I understand too well."
"Don't make them flog you. They will, y'know! If you won't obey ... if the men come and get you it's awful. They strip you and hang you up and flog you with a beast of a whip. You're not much good the day after. It's happened to a lot of us...."
Glynis was touched by the girlish sincerity. She repulsed a momentary vision of herself, bare, suspended, lashed. A sudden realization that these girls were obedient only under the dictates of common sense chilled her anger. They were none of them children. Their obedience stemmed from conviction, experience! She felt deflated.
"But this is all so wrong...!"
"We aren't allowed to say that, Miss Woodhaye." Vera's voice faltered. "I think I'm trying to tell you our punishments can be borne. They don't kill us or put us in the hospital. I expect you're frightened of being caned. But, if you like, I'll ask Mr. Atwood to cane me instead so's you can see it's not fatal. You saw how well Elizabeth...."
There was a hushed silence. Vera's breathing had quickened. She flushed under the admiring scrutiny of her classmates.
"I couldn't possibly-" Glynis felt an idiot.
"I don't mind a bit-not if it would help."
Glynis suddenly glimpsed the bizarre-it would explain-! "You're one of those girls who-who likes it?" she asked dazedly.
Vera's grin was shy. "A lot of girls don't mind getting their bottoms caned a little, Miss Woodhaye," she admitted equably. "It makes us-well, it feels good after! But we're just as scared of the other...."
Dick Atwood was enthralled. He knew himself a privileged witness to an intensely female exchange. He had guessed right about Vera; within limits she would be erotically aroused by punishment. He sighed. If only he could buy the Seigneury for life ...!
"I'll take a few strokes too!" It was Chrissy Ragan's eager voice. Abashed, she exclaimed, "Oops, sorry...!" and subsided back into enthralled silence.
"Very well, Miss Ragan." Dick Atwood knew himself throbbing with lust. "If you care to step forward and raise your tunic."
Chrissy cared. The speed in which she bared her striped bottom and extended it for his approval was nothing short of indecent. Someone giggled. Elizabeth stopped sobbing and cocked an interested eye. The headmaster took a deep, ecstatic breath and implanted two vivid bars across the willing flesh.
"Thank you, Miss Ragan. I am sure Miss Woodhaye is grateful."
"Oh, thank you, sir!" Chrissy's voice throbbed with gratitude as she twinkled her way back to her desk. The pain of contact with the seat brought a glow of ecstasy to her bright eyes.
"And now you, Miss Manson?"
"Thank you, sir." Vera gave the bemused senior a reassuring smile and tripped forward for her punishment.
"One on each hand and two for your bottom? Would you feel that adequate, my dear?"
"Oh, thank you, sir. That will be lovely!"
Glynis felt a familiar world slipping away beneath her feet. Here was a new dimension of the feminine mystique.
Her heroics began to seem laughable. She felt ashamed. Without the intervention of this delightful girl she might at this very moment be getting her back scarred for life. Were all human postures thus subject to revision! Guiltily knowing herself the cause of what was taking place, she nonetheless watched as Vera Manson demonstrated the resilience of female flesh.
Vera slipped out of her tunic. Evidently the dual punishment merited nakedness. Glynis envied the girl's lack of concern over baring her body before a man's hungry eyes. Receiving the nod of approval, she bent forward and touched her toes....
Two savage slashes snickered into the young cheeks, imprinting their weals. Without haste, but with a studied casualness, the slender nudity came erect and smiled around the class. In particular she smiled up at the man who held the cane. Then she thrust out an arm and a hand ... totally innocent.
The arm sank beneath the impact of the cane. A small sound of anguish fought the smile, but did not win. The other hand, pert and willing, offered itself and was duly wounded. Both punished palms sought the refuge of moist armpits but were resolutely thrust down to hang limply against naked flanks.
"Thank you very much, sir. They hurt beautifully."
"I am glad you're pleased, Miss Manson. You may dress and resume your seat."
Vera did as she was told. Her eyes were very bright. After she was seated, her small hands found their way back beneath her arms and were lovingly hugged. Only a couple of tears escaped the shining eyes.
"And now, Miss Woodhaye!"
Glynis knew herself lost, betrayed by reason and the unpredictable eroticism of her sex. Chrissy's and Vera's contribution to her cause had robbed her of defense. An ordeal lay ahead. She supposed she would survive.
"Yes, sir?"
"Perhaps we may now proceed?"
It was the moment! Dick Atwood found poise hard to maintain as he watched the trapped woman struggle with her emotions. His need to ravish her was urgent. But greater delights were in the making. Glynis Woodhaye was going to yield. But what delicious hesitations she would betray! How fearful would be her shedding of the armor of dignity she still carried from her former life! He almost licked his lips.
"What must I do-sir?"
"You do not need to ask, Miss Woodhaye. You are now well aware of how to prepare yourself for punishment."
Glynis was aware! Terribly and fearfully aware! Slowly, her cheeks flaming, she took the shameful steps.
"You may dress and resume your seat, Miss Bristow."
The naked girl, still crouching on the floor, rose to her feet. She was crestfallen and ashamed. The worst of her pain had been erased by the drama she had beheld. Her hand was halted halfway to her tunic by the stern male edict:
"Your punishment will be completed later, Elizabeth. It will be doubled. You have disgraced yourself."
She turned, beseechingly. "I did try, sir."
"Falling to the floor! You disappoint me."
"I'm sorry, sir. I'm ashamed." The young loveliness squirmed in decision. "Please, sir, I would like to receive the rest of my punishment now. May I?"
It was one more of the wonderful moments. The class seemed forever breathless with them. Dick Atwood felt humble before the wisdom of girls. "You may, Miss Bristow. Since you wish to make amends I will offer you a choice. The four on your hands or six on your bottom?"
"The six on my bottom, please, sir."
Glynis knew herself for the moment unnoticed. She watched in awe a demonstration of courage she was sure she could never match. The lovely youthfulness bent and touched its toes, stiffening its knees, adjusting its curved cheeks for the convenience of the Master. She held her breath for what seemed forever as the cane bedded itself in them again and again....The hips swayed, a foot was raised and immediately returned. Elizabeth gasped under each blow; that was all. When the six crimson weals joined the flaring wound previously administered, she straightened up and faced her tutor.
"Thank you, sir. I'm sure I deserved them. I'm sorry about-about-what I did."
The caned girl slipped into her tunic. Returning to her desk, she wept quietly into her hands.
Glynis Woodhaye was in full retreat. She was in the throes of a trembling reaction. She was committed to being one of the girls. She was about to be punished in ways she was sure she could not bear. She was also about to strip naked before the eyes of a man and a roomful of girls. She moved, diffidently, to where she knew she must. Her chained hands rose to the two buttons she must now undo.
"I will not remove your handcuffs, Miss Woodhaye."
"Very well, sir, I will try and manage."
She managed surprisingly well. She and handcuffs were now old friends. A moment later she faced him. Naked. Deliberately she thrust her sex at him, hiding nothing. It was a bravado to sustain her courage. Her eyes met his, questioningly.
"You are a very beautiful woman, Miss Woodhaye."
"Thank you." She purposely omitted the "sir."
"It is a privilege to punish you."
"I am sure it is, sir." She laid on as much sarcasm as she dared.
"One on each hand. Six on your bottom. That is as lenient as I think you deserve."
"Thank you, sir."
She hated him, hated the servile words she must utter. Memories of her former life rose to mock her and accuse. She tugged at her handcuffs, hating them too.
"I think first, your hands."
Glynis raised her joined wrists questioningly.
"It is awkward, I know. But you can manage."
She managed. The connecting link was tugged tight and the cuffs hurt. But her open palm was suitably presented for the cane. She was still feeling untidy and awkward when the blow struck.
In spite of the handcuffs, her wound found its way instinctively to her armpit. She hugged it in agony. Her startled eyes beseeching mercy. The pain was far worse than she had supposed.
"Come, come, Miss Woodhaye, that is a child's response."
Hating him and angry with herself, Glynis lowered her arms so that her linked hands hung before her, passively impotent. Apprehensively, she brought them to where she could examine the angry scarlet swelling the cane had given her.
"You have a second hand, Miss Woodhaye."
Passionately, Glynis did not wish to grovel on the floor. If only she could carry this off with some semblance of maturity! Perhaps this man knew the limits of a first time. If he had sentenced her to four she would have been lost. But one more-only one more! Flinching, she repeated her awkward posture for her pain. When it struck, consuming her in fire, she managed, somehow, to allow her punished hands to fall and stay limp within their metal bands.
"You see, Miss Woodhaye, you were unduly concerned. By the way, there is a matter of thanks?"
"Thank you for caning my hands, sir."
"You said that most charmingly. It absolves you from punishment for the omission. I believe you are familiar with the correct pose for your next punishment?"
"Yes, sir." Glynis bent her loveliness into the oldest of female submissions. She supposed her fig would be staring at him, but she could do nothing to prevent. It was nost adjustable.
"If you will allow me...!"
Allow! How would she dare stop him! She had gone this far-! Seething inwardly, she suffered his hands upon her everywhere, pulling and thrusting. She was astonished and perturbed by the degree in which he was able to tauten and extend her exposure. She felt ninety percent bottom. The cane would hurt more, much more! She was sure it would.
It did! The searing scald was shattering. But her throbbing hands had paved the way to fortitude. Glynis managed to hold still, and even to ask humbly, "Do you wish me to thank you for earch stroke, sir?"
"Once at the end will suffice. But it was a nice thought."
There was nothing nice about number two. It evoked a wail of anguish and a trembling of her knees. But the naked girl had discovered an ancient formula. Two down and four to go! She said it fiercely to herself, over and over! And then three, and then two, and then one. In flaming agony she knew it impossible. But the last ringing stroke proved her wrong. She was crying with pain and she had made shaming sounds, but she had come through. She had made it!
"Six!" Dick Atwood counted it with gusto. "May I commend you, Miss Woodhaye."
"Thank you, sir. Oh, and thank you for caning my bottom!"
"You are most welcome."
She presumed nothing. Miss Glynis Woodhaye stood naked and awaited permission.
"You may dress and resume your seat. I am pleased with you."
Thankfully, she obeyed. The school tunic covered little, but she put it on thankfully. She gasped and flinched once when she sat down. That was all. She felt certain that to massage her wealed bottom would not be acceptable. And anyway, the handcuffs ...!
The class returned to France and Louis the Fifteenth. Glynis' chained hands discovered the appropriate volume. She was taking no chances. Authenticity was one of the Seigneury's most disquieting facets. Her cell in the prison was real enough. She wished she might not be returned to it. In spite of a blazing bottom and swollen hands, the schoolroom and its girls seemed a cheerful and colorful place by comparison.
It was then that Chrissy Ragan dropped her book.
There were giggles. The Master gave the fallen tome his full attention. Chrissy looked coy.
"Oh, dear, I'm so clumsy." She looked winningly contrite.
"Would you have dropped that on purpose, Miss Ragan?"
"Well, sort of."
"And what does that mean, Miss Ragan?"
"I think you're awfully nice." Chrissy wriggled in sensuous enjoyment of the situation she was creating. "You're so kind...."
"I am sure your seat will not agree with you."
"Oh, it will, sir! It will...! It does...!"
How sweet she was! An utterly desirable package of female. Dick Atwood wondered if her lust and his own could be quenched by coupling. He doubted it. In this vibrant girl there would be an endless regeneration. Chrissy's needs arose from some deep well of eroticism within her psyche. He longed to possess her. Perhaps...! But why think of the future when there was this moment now, now, now ...!
"You enjoy being caned, Miss Ragan?"
"Only be you, sir."
He doubted the truth of it. Chrissy was a quivering bundle of sexual desire. But she was also lovable. Suppose he could take her home with him! Supposed he married her and whipped her daily! Suppose-suppose! For a moment Dick Atwood was lost in a roseate dream world.
"This display of sexual carnality is highly improper in class, Miss Ragan."
"Ooooo, I expect it is, sir. But isn't it lovely!"
She was deliberately provoking. He must keep the recurring giggles within bounds. He was keenly aware of Glynis Woodhaye's speculative gaze, and was thankful for the academic gown which hid the tell-tale bulge in his pants.
"If you will step this way, please. Perhaps we can make it somewhat less lovely for you."
"Oh, thank you, sir!" Chrissy stepped foward, glowing.
"You present a problem, Miss Ragan. Since you enjoy being caned, how would you suggest I punish you?"
Chrissy was instantly helpful. "I don't enjoy it while it's happening, sir." She wriggled delightfully. "It's the-well, it's like right now-and afterwards. It's groovy."
"I associate this, er, grooviness to a certain zone...? Perhaps the caning of your hands produces less agreeable-sensations?"
"It's sort of the same, sir. But different."
"Ah! Have you other erogenous zones?"
He picked up her flicker of uncertainty. So the little beauty had an Achilles heel! He would find it. Chrissy undulated outrageously and exuded musk.
"Girls just get caned on their bottom and their hands, sir."
"What about their back?"
"That's sort of like a flogging, sir. It's done with a whip and we have to be tied up."
"You are being most helpful, Miss Ragan. I have in mind another sensitive spot. In your case most appropriate."
The silence quivered.
"Oh, sir?"
"You may strip."
It took a moment. Chrissy without clothes was almost too much for any man to bear. Everything had the same pert loveliness as her features. Dick Atwood was breathing hard.
"You may fetch me the appropriate whip."
"Appropriate, sir...?"
"You know perfectly well where I am going to punish you. I believe there is a most suitable instrument?"
Chrissy's tone was only faintly tinged with dolor. "On my cunt, sir?"
"The word is unsuitable. Use another. But, yes."
Chrissy knew it all. She had no illusions. The small whip she handed him was exquisite. Her eyes were bright with tears, but her smile was of adoration.
"Perhaps you will acquaint me with the preferred posture for this correction, Miss Ragan?"
Chrissy positioned a chair. "It's best done from the back, sir. I put one foot up on the chair and then the other. You swish the whip up underneath."
"Thank you, Miss Ragan. You may position yourself."
She did it beautifully. Standing on one foot, she placed the other up and sideways to rest on the chair. Her pubic area was blatantly exposed from back or front. With arrogant grace she clasped her handcuffed wrists at the nape of her neck and stood, expectant, for her pain. Dick Atwood measured the upward sweep and stuck his beloved between her legs. He could have sworn the thong slapped wetly.
The whipped girl gasped exquisitely. It was a sound echoed round the room. Without lowering her hands, Chrissy nimbly changed sides. Once again her nude sex screamed for attention.
In freedom, Glynis Woodhaye had kept sex in its place. She had used it as a pleasurable facility, but yielded it no more than social usage made convenient. The Seigneury had changed that. It thrust at her fresh dimensions of eroticism which she had at first scorned, as she scorned Rolfe Campys' vulgarities, but which here and there penetrated the armor of her pride and propriety. In the Seigneury sex was a rampant monster. A monster that became a hot and fiercely demanding part of a girl herself. It did not so much invade as possess. The effect was of an outrageous intensification of femaleness. Sitting at her desk, the wounds of the cane still burning hands and buttocks, she knew herself sexually aroused by what was happening to Chrissy Ragan. Knew that, even though she flinched, she envied. In a word, the caning of Chrissy had made her horny.
Stepping blithely from pain to pain, Chrissy's face was a study. Glynis gradually realized the girl was in the throes of a prolonged orgasm. An orgasm blossoming into flower, only to be cut back by the searching snaps of the whip. Suddenly it happened. Another wet slap upward to her belly took her beyond the brink She moaned in ecstasy, writhing, lost and enraptured, her boot remaining elevated so that Dick Atwood took advantage of the throes and added to them the final benediction of the most vicious slash of all. Chrissy screamed in joy.
It had to end. Glynis wished it did not. She envied the whipped girl her rapture. She wondered if within herself there lurked the same sensitivity, the same nerves screaming for fulfillment. She shared with the class Chrissy Ragan's return to the schoolroom and to pain, and watched achingly the small foot return to the floor as its owner returned to awareness. As usual, Chrissy was equal to the occasion.
"Oh, dear! I shouldn't have! I mean, that was awful ... I don't mean that either. It was gorgeous. But I shouldn't! I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Atwood."
"Think nothing of it, Miss Ragan."
"You can always whip me some more, sir-you know ... sort of to make up...?"
"You may return to your desk, Miss Ragan."
"Oh, dear, you're not angry, sir?"
"Indeed no! I appreciate your helpfulness throughout."
"Oh, I'm glad, sir."
Unable to think up any reasonable excuse by which she could get herself whipped again, Chrissy covered her flaming and engorged sex with the school tunic and returned, with some reluctance, to her seat. The class resumed its studies.
But Glynis was disturbed. Her hands and bottom were still hurting from the punishment she had earned by denouncing what she had seen earlier as cruelty. Perhaps it had been just that. But the behavior of the three girls had changed things. Chrissy, Vera, and even Elizabeth had, each in their own way, shown her an aspect of the female both shocking and enticing. Their sexuality had been so honest and unashamed it disarmed. It was an erotic enchantment. The excitations of the punishments, together with there personality of the Male who administered them, was intoxicating. After this, the sterility of her cell would be doubly dismal. She leant forward and edged her breast against the book....
"An accident, Miss Woodhaye?" Dick Atwood had looked up in startled disbelief as the History of France thudded to the floor.
"I expect it was, sir. I'm sorry."
"You expect...? Don't you know?"
"Not really, sir."
There were titters. Mr. Atwood flushed. So did Glynis. She was beginning to be shocked by her own temerity.
"I suggest you deliberately tumbled it to the floor."
"Oh, sir, I wouldn't dare!"
"Miss Woodhaye, I believe you are being coy."
She was! She knew she was! For the former Miss Glynis Woodhaye, being coy was about as far out of character as she could get. Glynis was angry with herself, but was under a spell. She would mend no fences, retract nothing. She was inflamed by curiosity, about the man who would punish her, but most of all about herself.
"Am I, sir? I'm terribly sorry."
"Don't answer me with a question. Did you deliberately push that book to the floor in order to earn a punishment?"
"I sort of nudged it, sir."
"Indeed! Just how did you do that?"
"With my breast, sir." She gave him a Chrissy Ragan flow. "It was the one on the right, sir."
Glynis was trembling. But she had never felt so vividly alive. At that moment she was prepared to burn every bridge in sight. Perhaps if she was outrageous enough they would not send her back to the cell!
Dick Atwood, too, was in a seventh heaven of bliss at what the Seigneury was providing. He hoped his joy would not diffuse his suave request.
"Ah! Be kind enough to bring your right breast here to the attention of the class."
"May I bring my left one, too, sir? They sort of go together."
"You are being flippant, Miss Woodhaye."
"Oh, thank you, sir!"
It would serve her right if he made her scream with pain! But Glynis was aflame with a force she could not control. Wryly she considered how astounded Rolfe Campys would be if he saw her now. She was thankful he could not. Almost gaily, she made the short journey to where she would be punished. She looked at Mr. Atwood brightly.
"Kindly undress. I am sure we would all like to view your offending breast. Nudging, I believe you said?"
"Yes, sir. My breasts are large and very firm. They often-well, they-they do things."
"Perhaps we should discourage them?"
Glynis saw the trap too late. She had been positive he would inflict on her the same punishment he had given Chrissy. Surely no man would dare....But her mood was high. A moment later she stood naked, thrusting her breasts arrogantly like pointing guns, her cuffed hands joined behind her neck to enhance their tautness. She did not answer but smiled expectantly.
"You expect to be thrashed between your legs, no doubt?"
"Oh, thank you, sir!" .
"For that reason I shall not punish you in that manner. I deduce you are seeking sexual gratification from an inflamed pudendum?"
"Oh, sir!"
"Well, am I not correct?"
"Yes, sir."
There had sprung up between them a rapport. Each perceived the motives of the other. To Glynis now, quite suddenly, Dick Atwood had become a man. The Male! She could feel the intensity of his desire, the rampant maleness hiding beneath the gown. In the grip of it he would be merciless. But she, too, was inflamed. The schoolroom and its pupils had infected her. Shame had vanished.
"You wish to be whipped on an erogenous zone, Miss Woodhaye?"
"Oh, sir!"
"Please stop making that absurd exclamation. You are a mature girl, Miss Woodhaye, and should approach your punishment with a mature recognition of its merit."
"Oh, I will, sir! I will!"
"I intend to whip your breast."
Once more the impossible! The unthinkable! The Master's simple words were shattering. Keyed and buoyed, as she was, for a vastly different infliction, they devastated her defense. She had played with fire. Now she would be burned!
"Please, sir, not my breast!"
Dick Atwood guessed her dilemma. Here was sport indeed! He would be inflexible and see how this sleek beauty coped.
"And why not your breasts, Miss Woodhaye? It is the offending member. The punishment is appropriate."
"I didn't know girls got their breasts whipped, sir. I've never heard of such a thing. Surely it's not permitted?"
"It is permitted. You deserve it."
"I don't think I can stand it, sir. Please punish me somewhere else?"
"No."
"More severly, sir? Somewhere else? Oh, please ...?"
"Don't be childish. There is no part of you not exquisitely designed for punishment."
"Between my legs, sir? Oh, please .,..?"
"I get the impression you would be grateful if I whipped your pudendum as well, Miss Woodhaye."
He was going to win. Glynis knew she was being played with. He was allowing her to plead, but only because of the eroticism of the situation it prolonged. Her breast was going to be whipped, her beautiful, lovely breast...! Surely she could employ more feminine wile!
"I think I could stand that, sir. I'm sure I can't stand still to have my breast whipped. Please, sir...?"
"I will relent to the point of spreading your whipping over both breasts, Miss Woodhaye. I had intended to concentrate on one, but I will be kind."
She was on an avalanche of lust. Slipping....She could manage only a trembling, "Thank you, sir." But then, under some feminine impulse of mischief and hope, she blurted, "Couldn't you whip me twice as hard on my cunt?"
"That word draws a punishment of its own, Miss Woodhaye."
"Of course, sir. I apologize. It slipped out."
"It slipped out with an intent to achieve your carnal desire, did it not?"
"Oh, sir, I wouldn't dream...."
"We both know you would. You are in the throes of sexual excitation. You seek an orgasm at my expense. I am ashamed of you."
"I am ashamed of myself, sir."
It was true! Every word! And she was ashamed! Through the rainbow mists of lechery, the former Miss Glynis Woodhaye stood aghast in disapproval. But she did not care-she did not care!
"You will stand with your back to the vertical pole over there, Miss Woodhaye. Face the class."
She had wondered about the pole. Now she knew! She stood, trembling, as her wrists were unlocked from their cuffs and locked again behind the slender column.
"We will relieve you of the embarrassment of standing still." The Master turned to the class. "Miss Phillips, be kind enough to fasten Miss Woodhaye in the approved manner."
"Sorry, sweetheart, but I have to." The words were whispered as the appointed girl adjusted a strap around Glynis' taut tummy and buckled it so tightly as to make her a part of the pole itself.
The rope hurt, under her armpits from behind and back over her shoulders. As it was tensioned more and more the captive's shoulders were back and back and her breasts thrust themselves more and more into the limelight. It was a cruel tie, wickedly efficient. Every time Glynis drew a breath the strictures cut. She looked down at her flaunting but immovable breasts in wild dismay. To her fevered imagination they were pleading for the whip.
It was the same slender thong as used on Chrissy. Gauging his stroke, the headmaster slapped it lightly across the delinquent breast. The nippled became hard, turgid, engorged. Absorbed, he sensitized both of Glynis' soft curvatures so that she herself was ashamed by their tumescence as the slender lash slapped and slithered across their skin which even their own palpitations and their owner's frantic thrusts against the ropes could move no fraction of an inch. Miss Glynis Woodhaye was bound for punishment.
"Can you move your breasts, Miss Woodhaye?"
"No, sir."
"I trust you are grateful for my kindness in relieving you of the hazard of unseemly struggles?"
"You are very kind, sir. Thank you for having me tied."
"Anything to say in mitigation?"
"Only to plead for mercy, sir. I don't want my breasts whipped. I'm frightened!"
A quick flash of an arm and her right breast burned with fire.
"One at a time, Miss Woodhaye. Much more efficient."
It had happened! It had been done to her! Her breast bore a thing, straight thread of scarlet. Glynis gasped and coped with sobs, her head thrusting back against the pole to which she was bound.
"Five on each, Miss Woodhaye."
Even as she choked out her denials: "No! No, no! Please don't-not my breasts!" and as the thong sliced again neatly below her nipple, she knew the incredible was happening. The fire within her loins was fanned to intensity by this new pain-a new and different pain-a splendid agony! As the strokes cut at her firm, taut curves the flame consumed her utterly so that she screamed aloud in the strangest ecstasy of all, her untied legs writhing, her pelvis striving frantically against the strap. It was her greatest shame of all.
But she did not care.