by Michael Burntwood
MOST girls at our school like him. Some have a crush on him and there are those who never seem to cease talking about him.
Mr Brisson, our Art Master, is tall and slender and very handsome to look at. Some girls in the classes he takes prefer to rest their eyes on him during lessons instead of occupying themselves with boring schoolwork. His wavy hair is dark brown and he has a tiny moustache, which a lot of us teenaged girls dream of feeling against our skin if he once would kiss us. But then there is the rumour.
Nelly and I learned the truth about that rumour in a hard way. We did not know that it was more than a rumour. In our school a girl never complains about the way he sometimes taps her on the seat of her skirt. The girls like that little touch of his hand. Some girls blush, but they don’t move away, hoping he will do it again.
The rumour is quite exciting and tells that he once took two 17-year-old girls across his knee and spanked them, for having made obscene drawings and caused quite a commotion by showing their masterpieces to classmates. But not even the girls in his class know if he really did do that. The truth is a deeply-hidden secret between the three persons involved.
Nelly and I came to learn that Mr Brisson actually is capable of dealing with naughty girls in the way such girls deserve. Now we would truly have preferred it to be a secret from us too, if what happened was the truth behind that rumour.
I don’t think anyone could imagine my feelings while I was sitting there on that hard chair nervous and miserable, watching the sight in front of me. On the chairback behind me my skirt was hanging and if I looked down, which I mostly did, I could see my tie bulging over my breasts which felt taut and sensitive inside my white blouse. Below the hem of my blouse I saw my navy blue knickers and the bare strip of skin between them and my nylon stockings, above which tight white suspenders stretched from the stocking tops up under the legs of my faded and now somewhat outgrown knickers. My legs were trembling, so I had to hold them with my hands on my knees and I was too ashamed to look up. I felt more naked without my skirt on than I would have done in the showers and I was frightened. I wished I could close my ears in the same way as I shut my eyes, so that I wouldn’t have to hear.
In front of me was my best friend Nelly. It was her voice that I heard. Sometimes she had her face turned towards me and sometimes she was looking away. Nelly is one of the prettiest girls in the whole of our school, with long curly blonde hair and an oval face with big blue eyes. She has a cute little nose and rather small pouting lips. But this was not how I saw her now. When she turned her face in my direction it was contorted. Her cheeks were flushed and tears dropped from her eyes. Wailings, squealing sounds and cries came from her mouth.
Nelly wasn’t sitting up, as I was. She was lying down. Her shoulders and head were close to the floor and she had her hands on the parquet floorboards for support. Her long shapely legs were pendulating up and down. She was stretched out across the lap of our Art Master. Her tummy rested on his thighs.
Mr Brisson hadn’t asked her to take her skirt off, as he had me. Nelly had hers on because she was wearing her school uniform with the pleated skirt, whereas I had chosen that day to dress in an almost pencil-tight quite short skirt in the same colour, but which they didn’t like me to wear at school.
Nelly’s skirt was turned up round her waist and her navy blue knickers were not where knickers are supposed to be. They were pulled down to barely a few inches from the backs of her knees. She was wearing knee-length white socks, not stockings, so her thighs were bare except for where the knickers encircled them.
It was Mr Brisson’s flat palm which was causing her to make all that heart-thumping noise. He was spanking her naked bum with resounding slaps and his intention was to make her regret the commotion that she and I, or to be more correct, I and she had brought about during his lesson. There was double proof that he was doing well. First the blubbering cries from Nelly’s mouth and secondly the ever-growing bright red patches across my friend’s well-rounded and very cute, now wobbling and flinching girlish bottom.
I really didn’t want to watch, but I couldn’t avoid hearing the loud, sharp slapping sounds when his hand time and time again met Nelly’s bouncing bottom-cheeks. These noises and the sounds from her lips set my nerves on edge in the most alarming way.
I and my contemporaries are well aware of how a spanking makes a girl’s bottom sore, but I would gladly have changed places with Nelly if I had been allowed to because I knew I was not to be let off with a mere spanking. I had to sit there and wait for my turn. Before Mr Brisson had started to punish Nelly he had sent me to open a cupboard and take out a long ugly-looking cane, hard and shiny and frightening. That cane was lying across my thighs waiting to be made use of when Nelly no longer was an object for his attention. I had to sit there apprehensive and scared and very envious of Nelly, who was to be let off more lightly than I. Of course my best friend had cause to blubber and wince like an eel, as she did. When I at times furtively glanced at them, I could see that her appleformed very girlish compact little bottom was red like stoplights, but thinking about myself I wished for him to go on a few minutes more.
Her spanking came to an end and it was much too soon.
Whining and with her knickers below her knees now, Nelly stood up and Mr Brisson sent her to stand in the corner. She was not allowed to pull her knickers up, but he said nothing about her skirt. She didn’t have to hold it up as girls sometimes must, to be made really ashamed.
What afterwards happened to me I would rather not tell. To girls of seventeen a spanking doesn’t mean so much, it’s more embarrassing than painful. A caning on the contrary is something quite else. That was what I was going to get. I disliked having to stand up and hand that lithe instrument to him. His eyes were looking me over and it was awful, because I didn’t have my skirt on. It is truly humiliating to have to stand as I had to. I didn’t know where to put my hands. My blouse ended above my belly-button and I knew his gaze was directed below that level. Even when I closed my eyes I could feel him staring at me and it made me very nervous. It was a relief that my navy blue school knickers weren’t of the see-through kind. But I had goose-pimples on my naked skin at the tops of my thighs. It would surely have been less shameful if I hadn’t been wearing nylon stockings and a suspender belt. My cheeks were hot with blushing.
Mr Brisson stood up and grabbed my arm right below my shoulder. He led me to his chair, which he turned round. He ordered me curtly to bend over its back. I had never been told to do so before, but I was trembling with fear and knew there was no way I would dare to disobey him. The position he wanted me to take would make me arch my bottom up for him to cane. At that moment there was just one thing I longed and prayed for, and that was to find some way out – that a miracle would happen so that I wouldn’t have to feel that horrible cane across my bottom.
There was one thing I could be sure of and that was that I would not find a way out. I hated the cane at school and I hated the cane at home. The pain was terrible and the marks on my bottom stayed for many days before they started to fade.
I was on the verge of tears, but I knew I had to obey. I cast a swift glance at Nelly in the corner. She was standing there with her legs apart and her knickers round her calves, blue against her white socks. She was still rubbing her eyes with her knuckles because she wasn’t allowed to rub her smarting bottom.
My knees were weak as I bent over. With clumsy hands I clasped my fingers hard round the edge of the seat. The top of the back-rest dug into the upper fronts of my thighs and I was aware of Mr Brisson moving round behind me to stand close to my left side, cane in hand. Nelly was still whimpering faintly.
The anticipation was absolutely dreadful. I closed my eyes and my body was trembling. My knickers stretched taut across my bottom which felt so exposed and vulnerable, and I prayed that he would let me keep them on. The cane was going to hurt much more than his hand had hurt Nelly. But in despair I felt his cold fingers coming up inside my blouse at my hips and waist. He inserted them inside the elastic waistband and I fidgeted and the first tears wet my cheeks. Such things do not take long. In a few seconds only, my knickers had been pulled down to mid-thigh, baring my bottom. I sobbed in desperation and to stand properly I had to move my feet apart and backwards to keep my balance. It was now that I became aware of how uncomfortable it was to have to bend over the back of a chair like this. Its wooden top edge now pressed hurtfully into my tummy, making me stand on the balls of my feet to alleviate it. Fearing the worst and feeling very precarious, I had to listen to him.
‘I’ll give you ten, young lady,’ Mr Brisson declared sternly. His words naturally added to my despair and desperately I pleaded for leniency but to no avail. Instead I felt his left hand pushing down hard on the small of my back as his booming voice admonished me.
‘I told you, it will be ten,’ he repeated. ‘I’ll count them myself Jeanette, so you don’t have to. Just don’t fidget too much because if the cane doesn’t hit where it is supposed to teach young girls to behave, it will not count,’ he said pedantically, but I could hear the pleasure in his voice. ‘Be still and don’t clench that nice little bottom of yours.’ He paused tapping me with the cane across my buttocks. ‘You ought to know by now that it hurts less if you are relaxed.’
There was a pause again and the cane wasn’t touching my skin any more. And then he continued, ‘Now this is number one.’
WHAAACK! The swishing sound before the cane hit my flesh was too short a warning.
‘Aaaoooouuuh!’ I squealed and pressed my thighs together scissoring my calves as the pain seared through my bottom. Just as the first stroke always does, the shocking scorching sting came as a complete surprise and made me realise I had forgotten how awfully it hurts to be smacked or caned. And a caning always hurts far much more than a spanking.
‘Number two now, Jeanette.’
That same vicious whistling sound… ‘Yyyeeeooooww!’ It really did hurt down there close to my thighs, but I forced myself to stay still.
‘Oooouuuch!’ The cane struck straight across the middle of my buttocks but not so hard this time.
‘Four, Jeanette.’ I didn’t like the sound of his voice.
There was a pause of waiting first and then it fell.
‘Aaoooouuh!’ This one hit me lower down and stung wildly. My bottom jerked a lot and I started crying for real.
‘This is five.’
‘Ooouuuch!’ Higher up and it didn’t hurt so much, but I still couldn’t help yelping out. I sobbed and panted, hoping I would be able to take them all without fuss.
‘And now this is six.’
The cane really stung this time. It felt much worse. I screamed out and my cheeks were suddenly wet with tears. The pain in my bottom was maddening. My legs were quaking and the chairback felt sharp against my tummy.
Faintly through my blubbering cries I heard, ‘Seven’. And this was the stroke I had feared all along. The cane whipped across my thighs above my stocking-tops, blazing like the devil. Involuntarily I pushed the chair forward and my position was now even more awkward and uncomfortable.
I kicked both legs upwards as the cane struck again across the tops of my thighs, singeing my skin. My legs are so much more sensitive than my bottom and I detested getting such revealing weals there.
‘Nine, Jeanette.’ His voice sounded calmer and unaffected, as if this was just a job he had to do. He was punishing a 17-year-old girl for her own good. But I cried of course and for the third time the cane bit sharply into the flesh on the back of both my thighs. The chairback cut hard into my stomach at the same time, but I didn’t care about anything except the need of a fire brigade for my burning bottom.
‘Ooouuuch! Ooooh! Oohhh!’ Thanks anyway, I could have said. I got it across my bottom this last time, like a crackling flame. I cried and cried. My whole bottom was so hot and sore. I knew it was over and my feet found the floor. Mr Brisson held my arm, helping me to stand up.
If he had wanted, I would have promised him anything at that moment if he could guarantee that I would never be caned again. I felt sure he had been terribly strict with me. I knew my bottom and thighs bore many angry smarting weals. Those marks on my thighs meant that I couldn’t wear shorts or a bathing-suit or even my gym outfit until they were gone. There was to be no visit to the pool for me this week and I would have to find some excuse for the gym lessons too.
Mr Brisson didn’t allow me to pull up my knickers. He sent me to join Nelly in the corner and Nelly was ordered to lift her skirt and hold it bunched up around her waist at the front. He wanted both of us to stand there with our bottoms on display for his own pleasure and our salutary humiliation.
Nelly held her skirt up with both hands, but as my skirt had been taken away I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I desperately wanted to clap them to my bottom in order to soothe the smart in my skin, but I knew Mr Brisson would be angry if I did. At first I crossed them in front to hide the patch of fluffy hair between my thighs, but as my tummy was turned away from him I had no reason to do so and I felt silly holding my hands like that. So I put my arms down by my sides and after a while I let my fingers play with the suspender straps in front of my thighs just to keep them occupied.
I was still sobbing, but Nelly had calmed down. While we were standing there I soon found to my surprise that I didn’t feel ashamed at all, as girls are supposed to do when they are sent to the corner. Instead I was thinking about our Art Master who was the only person in the room to see us. I thought he must be feeling satisfied with his efforts. He was looking at two very dejected 17-year-old schoolgirls whose sorely smarting bottoms showed unmistakable signs of a treatment of the kind which has always been prescribed for the bottoms of troublesome teenaged girls. Oh, but it hurt!
Ten or fifteen minutes later we were allowed to dress and leave. Walking home, Nelly and I didn’t talk very much. We were both certain that the rumour was true. We promised each other never to tell anyone about what had happened to us. Possibly there would be a new rumour spreading amongst the girls at our school. But we were never going to talk about the old rumour or comment upon the new one concerning Mr Brisson and ourselves. Any girl who wanted to could find out for herself about Mr Brisson’s remedy for naughty girls.