It was, in the end, simply inevitable. If you were late thrice you could expect to make that most awful trip; compliant across the knees of a man old enough to be your father! And there to be walloped. As if your seniority counted for nothing, knickers mid-thigh, and your bottom flushing a deeper shade of red with each descent of his unforgiving palm. It was inevitable too that the tears would come. Deep, sorry, and ever more desperate: the sobs of a girl at last truly subdued.
Irritating. That’s what it was. Those all-but-useless attempts the girls inevitably made to interfere with their punishments. And insulting too: for their atonements were necessary; the sins had been committed; now it was his job to wipe their slates clean – with sound application of male palm upon bared female buttocks. But it was an irritation easily resolved. When their hands flew backwards, to try and stem the pain of a particularly cruel spank, he would simply take a grip of the wrist, firm, unbreakable, and hold her, pin it, pin her, and let his right hand continue its unfortunate work uninterrupted. And the flush spread ever deeper.
And so, at last, the chastisement began. After two days of waiting and half an hour of scolding, the condemned felt the first pain of punishment. Vivien’s buttocks clenched briefly and then relaxed.
Varley’s spanking technique – which had been perfected over almost a decade on many, many female bottoms – was characterised by a savoured care and control. He took his time over the spankings, resting his hand between smacks and he never, ever, lost his temper. He would tap the offending buttocks once, twice – to prepare the waiting girl – and then he would bring down his palm fast, SMACK!, onto the flesh. As the buttocks registered the pain, Varley would return his hand to the girl’s waist, giving time for the pain to build across her rear. When the bottom relaxed again, and when the red of his handprint started showing on the girl’s skin, he returned his hand to the bottom, tapped it again, once, twice, sometimes three times and then, SMACK!, would bring it down again.
So it was that Vivien’s second chastisement over Mr Varley’s knees proceeded. Every twenty seconds or so, the silence of the study was broken by a violent SMACK! While the other girls in her year slipped into bed and sipped cocoa, chatting softly to their roommates, Vivien paid the price for her foolishness.
For while her campaign over the past six weeks, to antagonise teachers with the goal of returning to Varley, had been successful, it had hardly been wise. Lust had guided her, along with an ill-conceived faith that the headmaster would never truly hurt her (for was there not, just the slimmest chance, Vivien had asked herself over and over, that he could like her – in that way?). But as she lay in disgrace across his lay, her bottom a salutary red, her misplaced hopes were dashed. Each strike of his hand eroded the fantasy further. As the sounds of chastisement bounced from the walls again, and again, and again, until thirty smacks had been delivered to the waiting rear, Vivien’s misplaced romantic imaginings were gradually bought to an end.
Spanking Photography 