Whip Hands (8 page)

‘Oh, God, no! That's too much!' Clare gave a groan that seemed to come from deep within her. At the same time she arched her back even more, making it easier for Mandy to come at her from behind in an upright position. Mandy clutched Clare's hips, making the submissive work to the rhythm she was imposing.

It seemed as though Jeff had come by now. He slumped forward and Clare had taken his prick out of her mouth. Mandy upped the tempo, getting the feel of being fully behind the action rather than reacting to another's control. Clare was whimpering like an animal at each quickening thrust, her muttering indecipherable.

‘So how do you like working under the boss, girl?' Mandy asked, giving her the deepest thrust yet. ‘I hope you'll be prepared to obey him in every particular.'

She took a series of high-pitched yelps from Clare as a positive answer. Mandy was now very aroused at having another woman's body so totally under her control. The base of the dildo stimulated her own clitoris. She felt herself close to coming. There was but one further step to go to achieve the culmination of her pleasure.

‘Take Lou's prick in your mouth and make him come. Do as I say. Quick!'

She felt the woman under her shift position slightly, then she heard Lou's gasp of pleasure. Satisfied, she thrust more rapidly and with greater vigour. The tempo was matched by grunts from Clare accompanied by Lou's longer groans, just like the sounds he made when he was making love to her. Well, this time the tables were turned, Mandy thought, as the first waves of her own orgasm engulfed her. In the distance she heard his shout of ecstasy as he climaxed, just as she had planned, then a throaty scream from Clare. She began to let herself go. The powerful wave went over her head. She gave a final lunge before sinking down on Clare.

The office junior was going to take more responsibility in future!

 

 

 

‘Miss Rose, Miss Rose, can we remove our cardigans? The atmosphere is getting so stuffy.'

‘Miss Rose, I really can't see the blackboard properly sitting in the front row. It must be long-sightedness or something. Can I move to the back row again?'

After only two weeks in a private boarding school for girls I was beginning to feel at my wits' end. I could scarcely believe it. The Camilla Bancroft Academy was credited with a high academic reputation, but for the life of me I couldn't see why.

Certainly not if this sixth form was typical. Only fifteen girls in the class, compared to twice as many at nearby Boroughbridge Secondary, where I'd started my teaching career around five years previously. But these girls were far more demanding to teach.

Luckily, unlike the majority of the staff, I didn't have to live in. Already I was beginning to feel that some of the third and fourth-formers were beginning to establish one of those sickly ‘crushes' that feature strongly in school stories. Oh, how glad I was to get away from their simpering faces at the end of each day, retreat to my penthouse flat in town and unwind with a good book.

After, of course, the marking was complete. At Boroughbridge High there was ample opportunity during staff time to do most of my marking load. At Camilla Bancroft, which was named after a fierce Edwardian spinster with a spine like a ramrod and a matching educational philosophy, teaching went on right up to teatime. My stamina, I suspected, was just not up to it.

Only twenty minutes to go, according to the ancient classroom clock that marked each minute with a sound like a mousetrap being sprung. Though the ancient mullioned windows were thrust wide open, the room had become unbearably stuffy. With a feeling that was close to gratitude I could see that my charges were subdued by a combination of boredom and the oppressive heat of a mild autumn afternoon. Somehow my account of the French Revolution wasn't stirring the imaginations of these privileged darlings. And, frankly, I'd gone past the point of caring.

It was then I heard smothered laughs from over by the far window where the same group of three girls always took a table. They were supposed to be reading but this trio, led by a striking, raven-haired girl called Philomene Lamartine, were as usual out to create a diversion. The Lamartine girl was mature-looking for her age and had a good brain, but unfortunately she found little to apply herself to at Camilla Bancroft except in areas such as drama and music, where she could indulge her penchant for exhibitionism. Her father was half-French. Or so she said.

The other two, Fay and Fiona, were usually well-mannered, but once they got together with Philomene anything could happen. As I looked up from my reading Fay gave a loud yelp of glee, clapping a hand over her mouth too late to prevent it alerting the rest of the class that some diversion was afoot.

When I stood up I could see what had caused Fay's shocked response. Philomene had pinned her long locks to the top of her head, exposing her graceful neck. The effect was further enhanced by two buttons of her school shirt being undone. Then, as the whispering grew to a hubbub, she slowly lowered her forehead to the table top. Reaching for a ruler, she brought this down, edge first, on to the back of her neck. She finished with a brief death scene complete with bodily convulsions.

The final effect, witnessed on either side by Fay and Fiona, whose shrieks of delight were now unrestrained, was to grasp her hair and pull her head up from the table. She had arranged her features to create the maximum effect. The dark, staring eyes and twisted mouth caused some of the more impressionable members of the class to scream out in horror.

‘Lamartine, explain yourself.' My voice was barely audible as the girl coolly stood up and took a mock bow. The rest of the class was actually applauding. She was the centre of attention and I felt almost powerless to intervene. But I had to make sure they realised things had gone too far.

‘Well, I'm waiting for an explanation.' I tried to sound menacing but somehow failed to strike the right note with this group of privileged creatures. I had to resort to banging my fist on the desktop to capture their attention.

‘Lamartine and you other two, come up to the front of the class immediately.'

While Fiona and Fay approached rather sheepishly, the Lamartine girl made a regal procession of it, accepting plaudits from all sides and looking straight ahead as if demanding obeisance from me, too.

I had to retain the upper hand.

‘I'm not going to waste time in lecturing you again,' I stated in a firm but quiet voice. ‘You are all old enough to know this sort of conduct is unacceptable and merits the ultimate disciplinary action.'

‘But, Miss Rose, I was only trying to imagine Marie Antoinette kneeling at the guillotine. The book missed out some important details which I was trying to...'

‘Philomene, enough!' I shouted in my desperation to shut the girl up before she began more of her theatrical tricks. ‘I shall see you all this time tomorrow and let you know what your punishment is to be.'

Before she had the opportunity to remonstrate the afternoon bell sounded and I could dismiss the class with even more relief than usual. Now I needed to arrange with the head teacher what the appropriate discipline should be. And it was to Mrs Linacre's study that I now made my way, at the same time trying to collect my shattered nerves.

‘Well, Miss Rose, how are you progressing with the sixth form?' boomed Mrs Linacre. She was a large, prepossessing figure who oozed total self-belief. Though not unkind, she could still be overpowering, particularly when seated, as she was now, behind her vast leather-topped desk, flanked by portraits of previous incumbents of this cavernous study.

‘I'm having a bit of trouble, I'm afraid, Mrs Linacre,' I whispered. Honesty, I decided, was the best policy in this case.

‘Is it the Lamartine girl, by any chance?'

I was taken aback.

‘I'm not surprised,' she continued. ‘That girl has always been a very bad influence on the rest of the class. I put it down to that early education she had on the continent. Over there, you know, young ladies' establishments have an entirely different notion of discipline.'

I gave Mrs Linacre a brief account of what had just happened in class. She made no reply but immediately opened a drawer in her desk and, reaching over, handed me a small key attached by a chain to a curious leather fob.

‘You know what this is?' she hissed, looking straight into my eyes. ‘I think not. It is the key to the punishment cupboard in the staff common room. After last afternoon class tomorrow, take the three offenders there for suitable retribution.'

‘But that seems very extreme, head teacher. I thought they would be given a verbal admonishment by you,' I stammered, beginning to feel slightly light-headed.

‘Three strokes of the strap to each of them, Miss Rose. That will be the appropriate deterrent. I shall be there to ensure that everything goes smoothly.' Mrs Linacre lowered her voice a decibel or two. ‘I take it that, having come over from the state sector only recently, you have no experience of administering corporal punishment?'

Unaccountably blushing and shifting on the hard seat, I admitted I had never given nor received the tawse. Although the headmistress refrained from comment, I sensed the implication that, in her view, an essential part of my education had been omitted.

‘Well, never mind, Miss Rose,' she continued, getting to her feet. ‘Unless there are any other questions we'll meet up for a nice cup of tea in the common room tomorrow after you've dealt with those three troublemakers. If for any reason I am delayed, just take advice from one of the other members of staff present. Remember, do not let compassion get the better of you. In this case the gale should not be tempered to the shorn lamb.'

Mrs Linacre's parting advice still boomed in my ears as I scurried away from her closed door.

 

The next day, somewhat to my surprise, the Lamartine girl did wait behind. Being easily led by her, Fiona and Fay did so too. The rest of the class filed out reluctantly, with many whispered exchanges and backward looks. Clearly the word had spread and there was a palpable tension in the air. I felt I had somehow risen in their estimation. Though nervous myself, I was determined to go through with it.

‘Right, the three of you follow me to the common room.'

I packed up my books and lowered the desk lid with a decisive flourish. The girls followed me down the corridor to the staff common room. I opened the door and was almost blinded by the rich amber light streaming through the leaded panes that overlooked a private garden.

To my surprise the wood-panelled room was empty, although cigarette smoke was still wafting visibly between the leather chairs. I was taken aback. Mrs Linacre had committed herself to attending in person and I therefore hoped she would save me from having to administer punishment. It was, after all, my first time, whereas I suspected that the Lamartine girl at least was an experienced offender.

I had expected support from other members of the all-female staff who, at this time of the day, were usually to be found unwinding over cups of tea and digestives. But there was not a soul, a situation rapidly assessed by one of the trio behind me, whispering, ‘They've all scarpered early.'

I took a few steps forward and turned to face the three girls. Fiona and Fay looked decently cowed at the prospect of their strapping, but Philomene was her usual antagonistic self. She closed on me with a look of triumph.

‘According to regulations the headmistress or senior staff member must be present at punishment,' she said lightly, giving what appeared to me a mocking look.

‘Well, there you're quite wrong, Miss Know-it-all,' I burst out. ‘I spoke to Mrs Linacre yesterday during the afternoon break. She confirmed that three strokes for each of you would be the minimum punishment appropriate to your breaches of discipline and authorised me to go ahead.'

There was a stunned silence; my confidence rose immeasurably.

‘But, Miss Rose, I think the punishment cupboard is locked.' This was Fay, in a tremulous voice that was suddenly bright at the prospect of a last-minute hitch.

‘Hope dwells eternal in the human heart, Fay. But I'm afraid that for the next few minutes hope will need to move house. See, here is the key to the cupboard.'

I produced the key Mrs Linacre had given me from the pocket of my three-quarter-length worsted skirt.

It was only the work of a moment to unlock the glass-fronted mahogany cabinet that was a principal feature of the common room. So far, this had always been locked during my stay at Camilla Bancroft. The pungent odour of seasoned leather wafted into the room, mingling with the stale tobacco air and causing me to shiver for some reason that I tried to distance from my conscious mind.

My hand went towards the stiff, twin-leafed tawse I had previously noted through the glass. I couldn't help noticing also within the punishment cupboard a selection of canes of various lengths. Paddles and tawses were hanging on individual hooks, but these more vicious implements were lying loosely on the floor of the cupboard, invisible when the doors were closed. They seemed grossly inappropriate instruments with which to chastise young flesh, even in a single-sex establishment, I thought.

However, I now turned on my heel with the selected tawse firmly clenched in my right hand, at the same time unbuttoning and rolling up the sleeve of my light blouse.

‘All three of you know that you are being punished for intolerably bad conduct in class after repeated warnings. Each of you is to receive three strokes on the palm of the hand. Now, which of you is to go first?'

I was not surprised that neither Fay nor Fiona ventured into the arena first. Philomene was the one to step forward into a patch of sunlight on the threadbare carpet. She did so, sweeping a hank of long dark hair off her forehead with one hand while the other remained jauntily on her hip.

‘Miss Rose, you've always emphasised to us in your history classes the evils of tyranny and the value of personal bravery and courage, haven't you?'

What was the girl getting at, raising such an issue at this juncture? Presumably it was an attempt to win me round by showing that she had been more attentive than I had imagined. Determined to maintain the psychological advantage, I assented quietly.

She then moved rather closer to me than before, emphasising the slight height advantage she had.

‘Well, don't you think this rather puts you in the role of a tyrant and makes us appear like persecuted slaves?' Philomene's unblinking look was still tinged with mockery.

The preposterousness of the idea left me bereft of an adequate reply. So she continued.

‘Fiona, Fay and I have a suggestion to make to you. It might help you to feel less conscience-stricken over what you are about to do to us.' The two other girls murmured support, but I noticed they looked extremely apprehensive. Anticipation of their punishment was beginning to have a cowing effect on them, I noted with grim satisfaction.

‘I can assure you, Philomene, that you are only postponing the evil hour. But you might as well let me hear it briefly.'