Caught in the Dorm and Punished

The corridor is cold and draughty as we stand there, silently, hands on our heads, legs shoulder-width apart, waiting for the Headmaster. At least Matilda still has her nightie on, I think, spitefully. As soon as his study door opens he'll see my goosebumped skin, my nipples standing out like bullets, my nakedness exposed for his cold, searching eyes to devour. It's all her fault. Bloody Matilda. It's her fault we're standing here, waiting for Miss Dodds to explain just how much we need punishing. Just how much we deserve. Just why she's had to fetch him away from his quiet evening by the fire to deal with us.

Oh, he's going to be really furious.

I risk a glance to my right, but Matilda is looking straight ahead. Her stare is fixed, her breathing steady, but I can tell she's seething too. Her perfect record, ruined. At least it will give me some satisfaction to see - and hear - her get her first punishment. Sadly, I can't say the same for myself. I've been here far too often.

And then I remember what he said the last time, when I'd been caught giggling at prayers in Chapel. When he put me over his knee, right there in the nave, my pinafore up around my armpits and my knickers round my ankles, and spanked me with a hymn book. Each word punctuated by blow of the hard leather-bound volume on my tender bum:

"If...[SMACK]...I...[SMACK]...ever...[SMACK]...have...[SMACK]...to...[SMACK]...punish... [SMACK]...you...[SMACK]...again...[SMACK]...you'll...[SMACK]...NEVER...[SMACK]... forget...[SMACK]...it...[SMACK]...as...[SMACK]...long...[SMACK]...as...[SMACK]...you... [SMACK]...live!"

Oh no, this is going to be horrible.

*****

I don't mean to be bad. It's just that, sometimes, I get carried away. Like tonight. We were talking about the visiting speaker we'd had that evening, to give us our enrichment lecture. We often have visiting speakers to our college for young ladies, to help broaden our horizons and help us understand the wider world. Mr Roberts was a very clever man, a graduate from Oxford University, who edited a prestigious History publication. He gave us a lecture about working in publishing, the importance of studying hard, and how important it was for each of us to make sure we were being a "good girl" in college. There was something about the way he said "good girl" that made several of us shift in our seats. An arch of his eyebrow, the way he scanned the room, something inside him that sent a little frisson through the room. More than one of us had a little flutter inside us at the thought of this older man calling us his good girl, and I certainly felt it too when his eyes met mine.

He held my gaze, just a moment longer than was comfortable, and then, just for a moment before he looked away, he licked his lips. I know he was probably just moistening them so he could speak more clearly - he had been going for half an hour already - but in that moment I felt myself melt inside. I imagined that tongue moistening my lips...and not just in a French kiss. Oh, I feel so dirty admitting it! But I imagined his tongue pushing apart the lips of my most private place, flicking up over my special little button and giving me all those feelings that I'm told are so wrong but which feel so right! Oh, for an older, experienced man like him to sweep me up in his arms and do all the things that men do to girls, to me...oh, what I wouldn't give for him to teach me those things! To see his...his...his cock. His penis. His dick. Oh...to touch it. To feel it. To taste it...

As you can imagine, I didn't really take in much of the rest of the lecture. And there was only one topic of conversation when we were back in the dorm before lights out - who would be able to get work experience at the prestigious History journal so we could be Mr Roberts' personal assistant! We were giggling and talking about how we'd wear short skirts and unbutton our blouses so when we bent over he'd get an eyeful...and how he'd put his hand on the back of our legs and guide it upwards...and how he'd bend us over his desk to give us a good seeing to...lots of the girls were laughing, but I kept picturing his tongue moving over his lips, his hands and fingers flexing, and the shape of his hips. And I got that familiar tingle deep inside. We were all tucked up in bed, and my hand crept down under the covers, finding its way between my legs. Oh...I was already soaked! Without even really thinking about it, my fingers crept inside and I began to curl them up and down, that familiar motion building my excitement, my other hand joining in to move in circles over my little button, my eyes closing, thinking about him, his experience, his strength, his power, how he would just take me, use me, hurt me...

"Lucy? Are you WANKING?"

I froze. Matilda's voice was like a siren blaring through the dormitory. My eyes snapped open and I saw the other girls staring, hands clapped over their mouths. I saw Matilda, pointing at me...but looking at the doorway. I followed her gaze and there, framed in the corridor light, was our formidable Housemistress, Miss Dodds. White haired, ancient, steely-eyed and constantly angry, she used the crucifix she always wore like a talisman to root out immoral behaviour wherever it lurked. And now, staring at me, she had found it. Again.

In five short strides she was across the dormitory and ripped my coverlet back, revealing the sordid truth: my right hand with two fingers buried up to the knuckles in my sopping wet slit, my left hand frozen on my engorged button, the slick sheen of sticky juices clearly visible on my hands and my thighs. She may as well have been Medusa, for I was frozen like a statue, unable to move, blood pounding in my ears, a flush of mortification blooming up my neck and into my cheeks, the horror of my predicament exposed for all to see.

"Stand," she commanded. Like a marionette on strings, I obeyed. "Remove your nightgown," she hissed, her words forcing their way out through teeth gritted so hard they could have been used on icy roads. I obeyed, shivering naked under the gaze of my dorm mates. I dared not look up to see their looks of horror, of disappointment, of amusement, of disgust. I was so ashamed. But her next words made it even worse: "hands on your head. You dirty girl, you clearly can't be trusted to keep them off yourself, so they'll stay there until the Headmaster has seen you himself. Now go and stand in the corridor." And off I padded, my bare feet on the cold tile, naked and embarrassed beyond words, my hands clasped in my tousled red hair.

"And as for you, Matilda, your language is simply unacceptable. You are young ladies, not dockers! You will join Lucy in receiving the Headmaster's punishment."

I heard her start to protest, beginning to argue: "But Miss Dodds, she was..." before she sputtered into silence. I could have told her that arguing only made it worse, but Miss goody-two-shoes Matilda had never been in trouble before, never even had a late mark I'll bet. And now, thanks to her shouting the odds, I'm for it, so I'm secretly glad that she'll be getting a taste of what it feels like to be me. She deserves it, the nosy little...no, I'd better not. Even here.

*****

And so, we ended up here. Standing outside the Headmaster's office, awaiting his sentence. Miss Dodds had to go and fetch him from his quarters, where he was entertaining our guest lecturer. He was going to be fuming to have his evening spoiled! I imagined his face, darkening with fury as Miss Dodds explained what had happened. And when he heard it's me...oh my goodness. A little shudder ran through me.

And then, another thought occurred to me. Oh no...surely Miss Dodds wouldn't have told the whole story in front of his guest? In front of that intelligent, powerful man with the strong hands and the captivating eyes? Surely not. Surely she would have waited before telling him she'd found one of the senior girls...pleasuring herself...in a shared dormitory. What would he think? No. No. She wouldn't have. It would be too embarrassing.

And then, the study door creaked open.

I felt myself stiffen, and heard Matilda's breath catch next to me. Here it comes, I thought to myself.

"Come in," came the Headmaster's voice, dripping acid from every syllable. "Both of you."

Matilda led the way. I saw her trembling as I followed her. We kept our hands on our heads, as instructed. I felt the cold, tiled floor of the corridor give way to the soft, luxurious carpeting of the Headmaster's study. I took in the dark wood panelling, the shelves lined with heavy, leather-bound volumes. The huge Victorian desk, an expanse of wood with a leather-lined panel for writing, an ornate fountain pen lying next to a sheaf of thick papers. And there, behind the desk, was the Headmaster. In his seventies, surely, white haired, with tiny half-moon spectacles on his hooked nose, his ill-fitting brown suit cloaked in a black academic gown, the mortar board, as ever, atop his balding head. His cold, cold eyes boring into us both as we took our place in front of his desk. And, laid out in front of him, the tools of his trade: paddle. Tawse. Strap. Belt. Cane.

Oh no. We were for it now.

We took our places in front of him. Hands on our heads, legs a shoulder-width apart, eyes straight ahead. Matilda in her nightie, me as naked as the day I was born. His cold, old eyes travelled over us, assessing us, lingering on my boobs, the little tuft of hair covering my private place, the tell-tale glisten of moisture still between my thighs. Mortification crawled over my skin, flushing my neck and cheeks with the heat of embarrassment.

He cleared his throat.

"Sins of the flesh," he began, his thin, reedy voice filling the expectant room. "The evils of self-abuse. These will be the undoing of you young ladies." He paused, holding us both in his gaze. "You will never find a husband if you continue to treat your bodies with such contempt."

I could feel Matilda bristling beside me. I could tell she was desperate to protest, to tell him it wasn't her, it was me that had been...indulging myself. That she had merely pointed it out. That it was me that needed punishment, not her.

Wisely, she held her tongue.

"And Miss Dodds tells me that the language she heard shocked her to her core. To her core, I say! Such vocabulary, I cannot imagine where you learned such things. It brings our fine institution into disrepute. Dis-re-pute, I say!" He was working up a head of steam now. "You may be young women, fully grown, but we try to teach you self-respect. Dignity. Propriety. And what do we find instead? Filthy bodies, filthy minds. You are nothing but a pair of common slatterns. Sluts, I say. Sluts!"

***

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***

He rose from his chair, wheezing with the effort. Despite his age, he was a truly terrifying figure. The gown framed his elderly body, making him seem bigger, like a vampire or a ghoul or some awful Hallowe'en goblin, looming towards us with malicious intent.

"Matilda. Tell me. What was Lucy doing? Tell me Matilda. What was she doing?"

Matilda stuttered. She stammered. Her voice squeaked. "She was...she was..." She searched around, trying to find words that wouldn't get her into any more trouble. "She was...under the covers...with her hands...she was..."

"I want you to say the word, Matilda. Say the word that Miss Dodds heard you say. I can't believe that word crossed those pretty little lips of yours. I won't believe it until I hear it for myself. What did you say, Matilda? What was young Lucy doing?"

I felt Matilda steel herself. My flesh burned with humiliation as I heard the words come out of her mouth, barely more than a whisper: "she was wanking, Sir."

"Louder, Matilda. I couldn't quite hear you."

"She was wanking, Sir."

"I'm sorry, what was she doing?"

"Wanking Sir. Rubbing herself." At that moment, something broke inside Matilda. She had said the word "wanking" in front of the Headmaster: suddenly all bets were off. Her head snapped up, and she spoke as if she were giving a presentation to the fifth form girls. "She was talking about our guest speaker this evening, Sir, and how she'd love to do work experience for him. How she'd wear a short skirt and unbutton her blouse and bend over for him, so he'd feel her up. She was talking about his hands on her legs, and how she wanted him to bend her over his desk and fuck her Sir. How she wanted to feel his hard cock inside her, taking her, making her his, fucking her until she screamed. And she was wanking while she thought about it Sir: her slutty fingers were rubbing her dirty little cunt and I think she was about to cum all over the bed when Miss Dodds walked in." She paused for breath. "Sir."

The silence which followed was so thick you could cut a slice of it with a bread knife. The Headmaster's face was pale and still, his jaw set firmly; mine, on the other hand, was hanging open at what I'd just heard. All the blood had drained from my body. Straight-A Matilda had straight-up thrown me under the bus. I worked my jaw, trying to find something, anything to say, but the power of speech had deserted me. She had said all the words. I had none.

And then the Headmaster broke the silence. But he did not speak to me, or to Matilda. He turned, instead, towards the fireplace, and spoke to the shadows. "You see what I have to deal with? You appear to have caused quite the stir, my good man."

Oh no. No. No no no no no no no.

Oh yes. There he was. Mr Roberts, the handsome guest speaker, stepped out of the shadows. His eyes raked up and down my naked body. A smile played across his lips as his tongue snaked out again, licking across them, dwelling over it this time, lingering, savouring the moment. I wished the ground would open up and swallow me whole. Every fibre of my body thrummed with the awfulness of my humiliation. Naked, exposed, standing in front of the man my dorm mate had just told I was fantasising about. I felt my skin goosebumping under his cool, appraising gaze, my nipples hardening so they stuck out in front of me. I couldn't see how it could get any worse.

But it could.

So much worse.

"Well, thank you for that detailed description, Matilda. It was most...enlightening. But clearly you need a lesson in appropriate use of language in front of your elders and betters." He reached for his tawse: a twin-ended, flexible leather strap that stung like mad and left your bottom flaming red. "Bend over the desk, my girl. That's it, right over. Hands flat on the surface. Yes, just like that." He arranged Matilda to his liking, bent at the waist, her body flat against the desk, then came round to the other side. Nudging with his foot, he spread her legs wider. Moving with precision, he lifted the hem of her nightie and tucked it up, exposing her white cotton panties, which he then eased down to her knees. Her tight, white bottom shone in the dim light of the study, completely unmarked: she had clearly never been spanked before.

And then he turned to me, leaving Matilda exposed on his desk.

"What did I say to you the last time I had cause to punish you, Lucy?"

The image of the hymn book crashing into my behind under the stained glass of the chapel crackled through my mind. I cleared my throat.

"You said I'd never forget it as long as I lived." I wanted my voice to sound strong, confident, defiant; instead it sounded weak, pathetic...and scared.

"And so it shall be. I am going to punish Matilda here with the tawse. I am going to strap her hard. She is going to count every stroke, and thank me for every one. How long her punishment goes on, is up to you." He paused, and looked at Mr Roberts, with half a smile playing across his lips. "You are going to show our guest here what you were doing in your dormitory. And you are going to describe to him all the things you imagined him doing to you in your sordid, disgusting imagination. I will keep strapping Matilda until you..." he paused, searching for the word. "Until you finish." He turned back to me. "And then, I will bend you over this desk, and you will receive the same number of strokes of the cane. A third from me. A third from our guest here. And the final third," he smiled, "from Matilda herself." He looked around the room, from Matilda, bent over the desk, to the guest, smiling by a big leather armchair, to me, naked, hands on my head, in the middle of the room. "Shall we begin?"

I stood, completely frozen, as the awfulness of the situation sank in. He was going to make me...to make me...touch myself...in front of him and Mr Roberts? And confess my fantasies in front of him? Until I...oh no. It was too awful. And...and a caning afterwards? The longer it took me to - oh, I can't even say it! - to cum, the longer I'm going to be caned for. It was fiendish. It was horrible. It was worse than I could ever have imagined.

The Headmaster flexed the tawse, and ran his wrinkled, liver-spotted hands over Mathilda's round, white buttocks. I could see her body, stiff with revulsion, every fibre of her being trying not to flinch away. He was addressing her, recapping his instructions whilst I stood, rooted to the spot in horror.

"You will feel the tawse strike you across the bottom, Matilda. Every stroke is designed to remind you of the importance of using appropriate, respectful language. As such, the only words that come out of your mouth must be to count the strokes, and to thank me politely for each one." He paused, his hand resting on her bottom, absent-mindedly caressing and squeezing her cheeks between his hoary old fingers. "You may, inadvertently, make some other sounds. This is to be expected. But no other words. Do you understand?"

Matilda inhaled, about to speak, but she realised the trap he had laid just in time, and nodded instead.

"Good girl. Let's begin." He turned, and flexed the tawse again. Turning to me, he seemed surprised that I was still standing there, my mouth agape, my eyes wide, trying to process what was expected of me. A slight smile played across his thin lips, under the white moustache. "You may take your hands off your head, girl." He chuckled. "You will need them."

With that, he drew back his arm, taking a slow practice swing to check his aim. Satisfied, he brought the tawse down violently across Matilda's bottom. I heard the leather whistle in the air, and the hearty THWACK as it made contact with her skin.

"AHHH! FFffffffffff..." Matilda breathed hard, swallowing down the word that had almost escaped involuntarily. I saw the red mark across her left cheek where the tawse had made contact, rising up against her white skin in an angry welt. "One." Her voice was strangled, coming through gritted teeth. "Thank you Sir."

I looked around the room, unable to make any decisions for myself about what to do next. I knew that every stroke of the tawse on Matilda's bottom was going to be matched by a stroke of the cane on mine. And that I had the power in my hands to make that number as small as possible. But to do so, I had to...I had to...

My eyes met those of the handsome guest lecturer, Mr Roberts. He was smiling, clearly enjoying the show very much. He gestured to the red leather armchair that he was standing next to, inviting me to take a seat. I felt my feet moving of their own accord, taking me across the plush carpet, and then I found myself settling into the rich chair looking up at him as he stood over me. It was as though I was in a trance.

THWACK!

The spell was broken by the second stroke landing across Matilda's bum.