The story you are about to read is fiction.
It has been posted with the consent of the original copyright author.
Please do not repost or republish without the express written consent of Pablo Stubbs.

It only took a moment for the changing room to fill with the gabbling voices and healthy sweat of the upper-sixth hockey team. Where there had been silence amongst the neatly-hanging blazers and white shirts, the carefully-folded sweaters, kilts and knee-socks, there was now a blizzard of discarded scarlet hockey skirts and knickers. The girls piled into the showers. One by one they finished washing themselves, towelled themselves dry and began to don their uniforms once more, although with no great care - although they certainly had to remain in uniform for the rest of the day, there were no more classes, and no more nit-picking uniform inspections. Miss Robbins, the games mistress, passed between the girls, handing out praise for good play that had contributed to the victory, and insightful pointers for future reference.

The door was heaved open by a tiny first-form girl, who excused her way through the forest of - to her - impossibly huge sixth-formers, and handed a note to Miss Robbins, before scurrying out again.

A cough from Miss Robbins elicited silence.

"Thank you ladies. Sally Heriot and Abigail Rice to see the Headmistress at Five. That's all. Best of luck to both of you."

Sally looked towards Abigail - even in a crowded room, each always knew exactly where the other was - to find Abigail glaring at her. There were murmured words of encouragement from the other girls to either Sally or Abigail, and smiles of solidarity. Certainly not to both, though. The feud between Sally - small, industrious, trustworthy - and the tall, dark Abigail had done nothing if not polarise the affections and fickle friendships of the Upper School.

Of course, anyone else receiving a summons to the Headmistress's study after school would have been deluged by merciless teasing - eleven-year-old, fresh-faced first-former or eighteen-year-old senior prefect, most travelled to Miss Grainger's study for a trip to lapland and a well-smacked bottom. Not these two, though. Not now. It was the first week of the new school year, and there was the small matter of the appointment of the new Head Girl. Without needing to be told that such a shortlist existed, the whole school did seem to assume that sensible, blonde, boyish Sally, and the rather obvious Abigail, were the only candidates.

Both girls rushed to put on their uniforms. It wasn't yet half-past four, but there were things to do. Sally buttoned her shirt, threw on her blazer, grabbed her school tie from the peg, and made a speedy exit.

"Just you wait, little miss Heriot," came a spiteful voice from the corridor behind. It was Abigail, of course. "I'm told there's a nice big wooden hairbrush that comes with the job."

Sally knew exactly what Abigail meant, and she slipped keenly away from the crowing girl towards the stairs to her room. Abigail was referring to the fact that it was a tradition at St. Catherine's School for Girls, that the Head Girl had precisely the same powers to administer corporal punishment as the Headmistress and Deputy Head. More powers than were available to other teachers, in fact, who were not authorised to lower a girl's knickers for a spanking. The Head Girl, in addition to assisting the Headmistress or Deputy Head if they were too busy to carry out the necessary punishment duties, or if - as happened on occasion - the spanking of an entire class was required, was assumed to possess the sense and judgement to decide for herself whether a girl's transgressions merited a bottom-warming and, if they did, to administer this without further confirmation.

Sally was sure that Abigail as Head Girl would find plenty of flimsy excuses to get her over-the-knee with bottom bared then reddened. And there'd be nothing she could do about it, without risking further disgrace. It would have to be a flimsy excuse, mind. Sally was justifiably proud of the fact that she'd never been spanked at St. Catherine's, which was a school in which everyone - staff, pupils, parents - was quite comfortable with the idea that a sore bottom was often the simplest and best way to instil discipline into growing - and grown - young ladies. Whilst at St. Catherine's, Abigail had been spanked precisely twice. Sally knew this because she'd been involved - "to blame", Abigail would say - each time. The spankings had both happened, what's more, in the same week, Sally and Abigail's first week at the school, as innocent eleven-year-olds.

They shared a dormitory, then. There were two other girls but, as since, immovable object Sally and irresistible force Abigail tended to dominate things. Mischievous from the start, Abigail's informal late-night hockey practice in the dorm had resulted in a broken window. Attracted by the commotion, the then Head Girl - a willowy blonde, Sally remembered, who habitually wore her white school shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows after classes - had demanded to know who was responsible. Sally knew that a notion of schoolgirl solidarity probably expected her to remain silent, but this hadn't seemed right to her at the time. She guessed - rightly, as it happens - that the absence of a confession would result in a walloping for all four of them, and this hadn't seemed like any sort of justice to her. While the others looked shamefaced, Sally told the truth, without any guilt. Abigail would be punished anyway. It was just stupid for them all to suffer the same fate.

When questioned, Abigail confessed tearfully, and with black looks at Sally, to breaking the window, whereupon the Head Girl led Abigail to the blanket box in the centre of the dorm. She sat down, with the girl to her right, then looked Abigail straight in the eye and said:

"I don't know if your parents spank you when you're naughty, or if you've been spanked at other schools, but any misbehaviour here will find you straight across my knee, do you understand?"

Abigail nodded.

"This is your first spanking here, so I'm going to make it a hard one, so that maybe you'll make sure it's your last. Right."

Sally watched as the Head Girl put Abigail across her lap, and pulled down Abigail's pyjamas. Sally remembered that she'd moved to roll up her right shirtsleeve, before realising that it was already rolled up to the elbow. The Head Girl had seemed like a woman to Sally then. She may have worn the same school uniform as Sally, but she certainly hadn't seemed like a schoolgirl as she administered Abigail's brief but energetic first spanking at the school. Sally remembered how Abigail had started to bawl and kick at once, as her little buttocks acquired a smarting rosiness, under the ringing palm-slaps.

It hadn't really been a hard spanking, Sally knew. But Abigail's perceived hurt was considerable, and she took no part in the discussions which continued in the dorm until late that night about the girls' punishment experiences, preferring to sulk on her bed - lying face down. From what the other two girls told Sally, they were used to frequent home spankings much sounder than the one Abigail was making such a fuss of.

Ashley, a plump but pretty Scottish girl, described her regular bare-bottomed slipperings across her father's knee as if they were the most natural thing in the world. The other girl, Susie, was from Hong Kong. She was punished by her mother, she said, ruefully, with the cane end of a feather duster.

Sally imagined that most of the girls in the school could tell similar stories. After all, the fees at St. Catherine's were sufficiently high that a parent would me making a strong choice in sending a daughter to the school, and its reputation for strict discipline, of which corporal punishment was an integral part, was no secret.

Sally could contribute little to the dormitory stories. It wasn't that she hadn't grown up with spankings. It was that she'd grown up with spankings in the same way that the world had existed since the war alongside nuclear weapons. Just as the weapons had never been used in anger, so her Daddy's spankings were never actually needed. Their potential existence was quite enough to make sure that Sally stayed a good girl.

It certainly wasn't true that Sally believed her Daddy wouldn't actually give her a spanking if one was deserved, even now she was a mature eighteen. She was well accustomed to the sight of her father leading her younger sister Charlotte - now thirteen and seemingly having acquired Sally's allocation of naughtiness - solemnly to her bedroom, and the sound of a stern scolding followed by the rhythmic slapping of palm on bare flesh. They even kept a cushion in the family kitchen for Charlotte to sit on during breakfasts after bedtime spankings.

Abigail must have spent that night planning her revenge on Sally, and later that week she made her move - which turned out to earn her the second spanking of the week.

In their first French lesson, that Friday, the French French mistress, a young and small brunette named Mme Picard, had explained seriously and with sweet accent to the girls that it was her custom to issue a short test of ten sentence translations at the end of each lesson, and that each incorrect answer, after the first, would earn the girl two spanks with her wooden school ruler.

In time, the class would discover that Mme Picard's tests were actually quite easy if they'd paid attention at all, and that most of the time most girls answered at least nine questions correctly. When a girl had earned some ruler-spanks, Mme Picard administered what was really just a token punishment. She instructed the girl to remove her blazer - if this was necessary - and then to bend forward over her desk. Mme Picard lifted the girl's kilt and applied the necessary spanks - little more than taps - with the ruler on the seat of the knickers. Infrequently, a girl would answer correctly only one or two questions. This would be the occasion of a slightly more formal punishment. The girl would be called to the front of the class and the ruler spanking would be administered with the naughty girl placed across Mme Picard's knee. On such occasions, the spanks would be harder, too.

In any event, Mme Picard knew that the purpose of the punishment was the subjection of girls to a little indignity in the company of their peers, and this seemed wholly effective, especially for sixth-form girls, for whom Mme Picard's spankings, whether over-the-knee or over-the-desk, were often a greater deterrent than the more painful and more formal bare-bottomed spankings administered by the Headmistress.

Abigail knew none of this when she conspired to produce two sets of answers to the first test: one with correct answers, and with her name on the top; another with incorrect answers, and with Sally's name on the top. Since Abigail was sitting in front of Sally, she could easily replace Sally's real answers (all correct, by the way) with her forgery.

While the girls waited expectantly, Mme Picard marked the girls' answers. When she paused, and said, "Hmm. I can see one young lady in this class is in serious trouble," Abigail barely contained her glee.

Mme Picard stood.

"Abigail Rice, please come to the front of the class!"

Abigail was dumbstruck.

"You are a stupid and bad little girl!" Mme Picard exploded. "Did you think I wouldn't see that the handwriting was the same? Either Sally forged your correct answers, or you forged her incorrect answers. No? Now come out here, and bring your ruler."

It was a warm day, and the girls were not wearing their blazers. Swallowing her pride, and with a backward glance to Sally, Abigail picked up her wooden ruler and shuffled to the front of the classroom. The rest of the class watched saucer-eyed as Mme Picard, clearly furious, moved her straight-backed chair in front of her desk, took the ruler from Abigail, then took Abigail's wrist and flung the girl across her knee, whisking up her kilt at once. Mme Picard held Abigail firmly with her left arm around the girl's waist, and began to smack Abigail's knicker-clad buttocks very hard with the ruler. Abigail, squealing and wriggling throughout, suspended across her teacher's knee, was then given what was both the hardest spanking she'd received - and her mother had a strong right hand - and the hardest spanking Mme Picard had yet administered in her short teaching career.

Subdued and sobbing, Abigail was walking gingerly back to her desk, hands moving carefully across her bottom, when Mme Picard called her back.

"Just one minute young lady. I think that tie will have to come off for a few days."

"No, miss! Oh, please, miss, no!" Abigail protested even more at this than the rulering.

"I think yes. Come on, or perhaps another bonne fessee?"

They were only first-formers, and their French vocab didn't yet stretch to this reference, but Abigail got the idea. She unknotted her school tie, pulled it from her shirt-collar, and handed it to Mme Picard.

"This lesson next week, you can have your tie back, okay? Until then, your shirt-collar will remain buttoned, yes?"

"Yes, miss." Abigail returned to her seat, wincing with the contact of hard wood and smacked bottom.

This was something the girls did know about. After anything more than a very informal spanking, a teacher was empowered to confiscate a girl's school tie for up to a week. During this period the collar of the girl's shirt had to remain buttoned at all times, and the girl was forbidden to wear any other tie. The consequence of this was that it was immediately obvious to teachers, parents, visitors to the school, but especially other girls, which pupils had been formally spanked that week. There were a few girls whose schooldays at St. Catherine's consisted of a permanently tie-less shirt-collar, and a permanently smarting bottom.

After her rather intensive first week at St. Catherine's, it seemed that Abigail had decided that the best way to get her revenge on Sally for the original treachery resulting in her smacking from the Head Girl would be to outperform Sally in every way. And Abigail was bright, creative, sporty, good-looking. But Sally was too, in her own quiet way, and the following years saw the two girls sharing prize after prize, narrowly beating each other in exams, blowing away all opposition in school teams when their talents were combined. And neither found themself needing to be walloped. Not so much as a gentle chiding smack.

There could be only one Head Girl, however. What Abigail had said to Sally outside the girls' changing room told Sally that Abigail wanted the post very much, for more than one reason. And so did she.

Sally opened the wardrobe. To the right there were deep shelves, holding neat piles of school uniform sweaters, knee-socks and knickers. To the left, hanging from wooden coat-hangers, were Sally's spare school blazer and kilt, six freshly-ironed white school shirts. And something else. Sally had been shopping.

Two weeks previously, at the end of the summer school holidays, Sally's father had taken her to London for the day. They spent the morning at the zoo, and had lunch at an expensive restaurant in Bond Street. Afterwards, Sally's father left on some business of his own, giving Sally enough money to buy all of the things she needed for the new school year.

Inevitably, for a September Saturday, the schoolwear department of the large store which served as the official supplier of St. Catherine's uniforms was buzzing. Harassed parents, armed with school uniform lists and with reluctant brats in tow, acquired ever-greater stacks of required items, from the most expensive striped, crested blazer, to the name-tapes which they'd spend hours sewing to every damn thing. The reluctant brats themselves were herded into changing cubicles, from which they emerged as sweet, smart schoolchildren, the magical transformation having been effected by means of donning their crisp new uniforms.

Unburdened for once by either parent, Sally sought out the things she needed. First she needed some new white shirts. Well, she didn't actually need new shirts, but she wanted some. When she was away from school, Sally was quite happy to slob around in jeans and sweatshirts, but when she was at school - when she was in uniform - she liked to really be in uniform. She couldn't see the point in having a uniform unless it was worn formally, and enforced very strictly. The basis of a smart school uniform, she thought, was a crisp, well-fitting shirt, with a neat collar, and she liked to make sure she got new shirts for each school year.

Sally had no trouble locating the shirts. They occupied the whole of one wall of the department. The wall was built with shelves, like huge pigeonholes, and on these shelves were arranged, in order of colour - mustard yellow, sky-blue, a few greens and reds, but predominantly a clean, virginal white - style and size, all of the boys' and girls' school shirts one would ever care to see.

Having taken her measurements the night before, Sally needed no assistance. She located the shelf containing the white shirts in her size, making sure that they had stiff, pointed collars, and pulled out a stack of seven cellophane-wrapped shirts - most girls at St. Catherine's managed with no more than three, but Sally liked to have one for each day of the week.

Next, she needed a new kilt. Both of the kilts she had were still wearable, but they had been bought when she was smaller, and while she could use them as second-best, they didn't really count as regulation knee-length any longer.

Sally wasted time searching through racks of pleated skirts in every style and hue before she found a quiet section which contained all of the uniform items specific to particular schools. Amongst gingham summer dresses and alphabetically-ordered shelves of candy-striped school ties, she caught sight of the St. Catherine's tartan.

There were kilts here, and regulation maroon and grey blazers, too. Sally had taken a couple of the kilts from the rack, holding them against her body to judge their length, when she came across something totally unexpected.

There were gymslips here. Gym-tunics. Square-necked, gym-tunics, with knee-length, box-pleated skirts, in the regulation tartan.

Sally vaguely remembered as a first-former seeing one or two sixth-formers wearing gym-tunics as part of their uniforms, and she knew that the St. Catherine's school uniform regulations required that a girl wear either a kilt or gym-tunic in the approved tartan, but she'd always thought that such things didn't exist any longer. This was the first time she'd come here alone, without a parent to arrange for an assistant to do the fetching and carrying.

Sally selected from the rack a tunic which looked to be her size, and measured it against herself. She wanted it. Looking around furtively, as if she was doing something illicit, Sally made for the changing cubicles. There was a queue. She stood impatiently behind a mother with two teenage daughters, each with outstretched arms laden with skirt, shirt, sweater and blazer.

Then she had another idea, one that she remembered thinking before, without remembering when or why. She returned to the shirt shelves, deposited the seven she'd taken, moved along to the nearby shelves where the boys' white school shirts were stored, and grabbed seven of these, in a size which was the best approximation to her own.

She rejoined the queue.

After a tediously long wait, Sally pulled the cubicle curtain closed. She kicked off her trainers, jogging bottoms and baggy T-shirt, then contemplated herself in the mirror.

Her blonde crop was distinctly boyish, and her breasts were really quite small - enough so that in unisex clothes she was sometimes mistaken for a boy. Plenty of sport at school had given her muscular thighs. The only excess fat was that which steadfastly clung to her chubby little bottom. Sally turned her hips to look at her bottom in the mirror.

She unwrapped one of the boy's shirts, and put it on, over bare torso - just like at school, where bras were not considered part of the uniform, except for older girls during physical exercise. Buttoning up the crisp cotton shirt, she felt very comfortable with the shape, especially the snug collar, which she lifted her chin to button. Out of uniform, she often wore boy's shirts, and the uniform shirts that she saw schoolboys wearing always seemed - she wasn't sure, exactly - sharper, crisper.

Sally took the gym-tunic from its hanger and lifted it over her head, sliding the pleated material down her body until the shoulder straps met her shoulders. She adjusted the lines, and tied the accompanying sash around her waist. What little curvature she possessed in the breasts and hips was immediately accentuated. Above the waist, her breasts were gently supported. The box-pleated skirt finished just at her kneecaps.

Framed by the square-neck of the tunic, the collar of the boy's school shirt looked very smart. Sally only wished she'd brought her school tie to complete the effect. She looked good enough to eat, and felt great.

It was just the outfit for the new Head Girl at St. Catherine's.

Sally put back on her scruffy clothes. She paid for the gym-tunic and shirts - smiling sweetly at the male assistant when he asked if she realised that the shirts were actually boy's shirts - and also some new knee-socks and knickers. Her school knickers didn't wear out quite as fast as those whose seats were their owners' sole protection from a spanking hand, ruler or hairbrush, but they did wear out eventually.

Later, when her father asked what she'd bought, Sally said, "Just some socks, shirts and knicks. Oh, and this..." She showed him the gym-tunic. He grinned. "You'll knock them dead in that, Sal," he said. Indeed she would.

Sally took the gym-tunic out of the wardrobe for the first time, and laid it out on the bed. She checked her watch. Twenty-to. Right.

Clean and naked, Sally stepped into a pair of the regulation school uniform knickers. They were thick maroon cotton, big but close-fitting, with strongly elasticated waistband and legs. She eased the knickers over her hips and bottom. Most girls hated these things, she knew, but Sally had never found them anything other than very comfortable.

This was probably a good thing, because the regular uniform inspections at St. Catherine's did tend to focus on the wearing of the regulation knickers - perhaps it was believed that, because they were hidden most of the time, the knickers were perversely the most important part of the uniform. Every couple of weeks, the Headmistress would announce a uniform inspection at the end of morning assembly, with no prior warning. She and the Deputy Head passed down each row of girls in turn. The girls in the row would be required to gather their kilts above their bottoms at the back, to show that they were wearing the correct knickers. Or not. Sally couldn't see why anyone would be so stupid as to risk the punishment by wearing non-regulation knickers or - it had happened - no knickers at all. Still, some did.

Minor uniform faults - socks around ankles, shirt-collar unbuttoned - were punished with a couple of sharp slaps to the knicker-seat, and that was that.

Girls with non-regulation knickers were kept behind as the others left. They were then sent to fetch, and put on, the proper maroon cotton knickers. The Headmistress and Deputy Head (and the Head Girl, if necessary) then divided the girls between themselves, obtained a straight-backed chair, and administered the appropriate over-the-knee spankings on now-regulation knicker-seats.

As far as Sally was concerned, they deserved it, for being so dumb. The regulations were perfectly clear.

Knee-socks. These were grey, with a maroon band around the top, which folded down to leave the tops just below the knees. Sally pulled up her socks.

Next, the shirt. There was one of the white boy's shirts left in her wardrobe which she hadn't worn yet. It was freshly washed and neatly ironed, but unworn. Sally slipped her arms into the sleeves of the shirt. She buttoned the cuffs, then fastened each of the buttons on the shirtfront, starting at the bottom and finishing with the collar button. The shirt collar was stiff with newness, and higher than she'd been used to. It encircled Sally's neck as tightly as it could without actually being too small.

She turned up the collar, and took her school tie. The tie was striped in the same colours - maroon, dark blue and grey - as the St. Catherine's tartan, and was worn by all girls at the school, from eleven to eighteen - excluding, of course, those whose recent naughtiness had resulted in a painful spell across a teacher's knee. With the unconscious ease of someone who'd been wearing a shirt and tie most days for the previous thirteen years, Sally formed a tie-knot, making sure that the tie wasn't twisted as it looped around her collar, then slid the knot up to sit squarely over the top shirt-button. She turned down the collar, running her finger between it and her neck to make sure the collar was neat and tidy. All was crisp and even, and the tie-knot made a satisfying bulge underneath her chin.

Sally turned to the gym-tunic. She lifted it over her head, and pulled it carefully over her torso, settling it in place. She wrapped the grey sash around her waist, and tied it at her side. She bulged, just enough, in all the right places.

Taking a moment to look at herself in the mirror, Sally brushed her hair, adjusted her tie-knot one last time, laced up her sensible brown Oxfords, and departed, in the direction of the Headmistress's study.

Miss Grainger's study was at the end of a short, carpeted corridor beyond the staff room and the Deputy Headmistress's office. Alongside the heavy wooden door were six chairs, on whose hard seats St. Catherine's girls would shuffle nervously, as if in a dentist's waiting room, awaiting their chastisement. Five chairs were empty; on the sixth, the one nearest the door, sat Abigail Rice, freshly-scrubbed, hair in long plaits, every inch the sweet schoolgirl.

She saw Sally, and her eyes registered surprise at the gym-tunic, but only for a moment. Abigail then raised her nose haughtily, and turned away. Sally sat next to Abigail, and the pair of them listened to the muffled reports issuing from the study, neither of them fazed by the thought that they were next to go into the room where a sound spanking was currently in progress. There was a pause of maybe twenty seconds, then the spanking resumed.

This was quite a spanking, Sally thought. The poor girl must have been very naughty. After a few minutes, the spanking stopped once more. Shortly, the door opened, and there emerged Sandy and Katie Mallory, mischievous identical twins from the fourth-form, tie-less and bum-rubbing. Katie - obviously the second across Miss Grainger's knee - was sobbing still; Sandy was merely flushed and dishevelled.

Following the spanked girls came the Headmistress.

"Ah, good. You're both here," Miss Grainger said. "Sally, would you come in first, please."

Sally's heart sank, She hoped she was wrong, but she'd supposed that whoever was going to be let down would be first in. Looking at Abigail's smug face, Sally could see that Abigail supposed this, too.

She went into the study, to see Miss Grainger moving a wooden stool into a corner.

"Please, have a seat, Sally. My word! I've not seen one of those for a while," said Miss Grainger, taking in Sally's new uniform tunic. "Very smart. Please, sit down."

Sally and Miss Grainger sat on armless chairs either side of the Headmistress's desk. Throughout her time at St. Catherine's, Sally had been most keen to gain the respect of her Headmistress, for here was a woman whose respect was genuinely worth something. She was in her mid-forties, but dressed and carried herself as would a younger woman. Her brown hair was clearly long, but always tied back - in school at least. Strong brown eyes shone from a clean face mostly free from - and free from the need for - make-up. She always dressed in the simple but well-tailored wool and cotton garments that neither moved into nor out of fashion. And she never - to Sally's knowledge - wore a skirt.

"Sally," Miss Grainger began. "You've always been a credit to yourself and to the school. Your schoolwork is exemplary, You command the respect of all your peers."

Not quite all of them, thought Sally, who could feel a "but" coming.

"You'd make a fine Head Girl."

Here it comes.

"But I'm afraid I can't choose you to be this year's Head Girl."

Sally thought about Abigail, and about Abigail with a hairbrush in her hand. She shivered.

"I feel I should explain. When the Deputy Head and I met with the governors on Monday to discuss this matter, there did seem to be a consensus. Most, including me, were of the opinion that you were easily the best candidate."

"Thank you, Miss."

"We came upon something of a problem, however. How can I put this. Sally, you've always been such a good girl, and it's never been necessary for you to be chastised here at St. Catherine's - and this is unprecedented - but I'm sure you are aware of the important role corporal punishment plays at this school."

"Yes, Miss."

"And also the responsibilities of the Head Girl concerning punishment of other girls."

"Yes, Miss."

"Well," the Headmistress explained, "I'm afraid that we had to conclude that since the Head Girl has responsibility for administering corporal punishment, we could not appoint a Head Girl who had no experience of being, as it were, on the receiving end."

"Miss?"

Miss Grainger was clearly uncomfortable with this. "Sally, the Head Girl is expected to be able to administer spankings of appropriate severity to girls from eleven- to eighteen-years-old - some of whom may be older than her, in fact. We must be able to trust that she could judge exactly how - and how hard - to spank. Spanking too lightly would not have the required effect, whereas spanking too harshly could be damaging to a sensitive girl."

Sally found this astonishing. She was being denied the post of Head Girl because she'd been too well-behaved.

"I do hope you will understand this, Sally," Miss Grainger continued. "I even went to the trouble of telephoning your father. I thought perhaps if you had received spankings from your parents, these might be held in your favour. Unfortunately, he told me that he and your mother have never found it necessary to spank you. "She's always been such a good girl," were his words. I'm sorry, Sally. I only wish there were another way - perhaps you have received a spanking here which wasn't recorded for some reason."

"No, Miss," said Sally. She was seething. This was the stupidest thing she'd ever heard. Her mind raced.

"So what you're saying," asked Sally, slowly, her voice quavering, "is that I can't be Head Girl because I've never been naughty enough to deserve to have my bottom smacked."

"Well, yes. That's just about it."

Sally's heart seemed about to leap out of her mouth.

"Then you are a stupid bloody cow," Sally said, in a level tone.

What was she doing!

"I beg your pardon, young lady!" barked the Headmistress.

"You heard me," repeated Sally. "Then you are a stupid bloody cow."

"Sally Heriot!" warned Miss Grainger, "you do realise that swearing at a teacher in this school is punishable by a serious, formal spanking."

Sally hadn't experienced such a thing before, but she knew the code. Serious meant the hairbrush. Formal meant her knickers would be taken down.

"Yes," she said. "You stupid bloody cow."

Miss Grainger's face lit up, and all her anger disappeared, as if this was suddenly the greatest compliment.

"I always knew you were a clever girl, Sally. Of course, there was no way I could suggest this to you, but I thought that perhaps if I presented you with the situation you might see the solution for yourself. You must realise that I can't apply any sort of leniency. This course of action can only work if your punishment is both serious and formal."

Sally swallowed hard.

"Yes, Miss," she said. Prompted by Miss Grainger's eyes, she added, one final time, as if in signed confirmation: "you stupid bloody cow."

"Very well then."

The Headmistress opened a drawer in her desk, and took out a large - fearsomely large, Sally thought - wooden hairbrush. She laid this on the desk, then brought the wooden stool to Sally's side of the desk.

"I usually spend a short while with the new Head Girl," Miss Grainger explained, "passing on a few tips and guidelines. Perhaps I can do this as we proceed."

"Yes, Miss."

"Stand up and move that chair out of the way."

Sally did so, then stood sheepishly, hands clasped behind her back.

Miss Grainger sat on top of the stool.

"Sally Heriot, come here!" she said, suddenly adopting a stern demeanour.

Sally's blood seemed to be charging around her body. She felt thoroughly ashamed that she was going to be scolded and spanked, even if the situation was contrived. She edged to Miss Grainger's side.

"The first important point," began Miss Grainger, "is positioning the girl across the knee. And I do think you should always administer spankings with the girl across your knee. There's really no substitute for the nursery position."

At this, Miss Grainger guided Sally towards her right-hand-side, eased Sally's torso across her lap, and then - reaching over to grab Sally's waist - physically lifted the sixth-former across her knee, so that Sally was suspended in mid-air, her body arching upwards to her fat bottom, currently positioned directly over Miss Grainger's right thigh.

Sally could see why it was known as the "nursery" position - she felt about three-years-old.

"Holding the girl firmly about the waist - " Miss Grainger wrapped her left arm as far as possible around Sally's waist, pulling the girl towards her and slightly further forwards " - gives the spanker complete control. The girl is immobilised, and the bottom is raised and readily to hand. The girl should feel perfectly secure and comfortable. Any discomfort should be in the form of loss of dignity; any physical pain should be restricted to the intended area. You shouldn't underestimate the effect of the positioning alone. For a girl of eleven, being put across the knee is a painful experience, but for older girls it can be extremely humiliating, and is useful for taking girls down a peg or two."

"Yes, Miss." Sally found herself unable to deny any of this.

"Personally, I find it helpful to lift the girl clear of the ground. For younger girls an ordinary straight-backed chair is adequate, but for older and taller girls a stool is useful. I will make sure that one is taken to your room."

"Yes, Miss."

"Now, adjustment of clothing. There's no point at all spanking over more than one layer of clothing. If the spanking is intended to be fairly mild, then school knickers or pyjamas provide plenty of protection. Skirts should always be turned up to the waist."

Sally felt Miss Grainger take hold of the hem of her gym-tunic skirt, and lift it over her bottom, exposing her maroon knickers, and white shirttails. Miss Grainger gathered the skirt and shirttails tidily at Sally's waist, leaving the knicker-clad bottom unobstructed between waistband and legs.

"As for implements, whilst there are teachers at this school who prefer to use a ruler or slipper to administer punishment, I feel that it's possible to achieve the required range of severity with hand and hairbrush only. You must make the appropriate judgement in each case, of course."

The Headmistress paused.

"When administering a hand-spanking, you should cup your hand a little, and keep the fingers slightly apart. Smack the buttocks alternately, in a quick tempo - the effect of a hand-spanking is cumulative."

Sally felt Miss Grainger grip her tightly. Her mouth was dry and her face glowed with the blood rushing down. Why didn't she just get on with it!

"Very well. Are you ready for your spanking, young lady?"

Finally, eighteen-year-old Sally Heriot, draped across her Headmistress's knee, faced her very first bottom-smacking.

"Yes, miss."

And so it began.

Miss Grainger raised her right palm to shoulder-height, then brought it sharply and squarely across Sally's right buttock. She raised her palm again, and issued a ringing smack to Sally's left buttock.

Smack! Smack!

Sally's immediate reaction was certainly not that of pain. She was surprised at just how loud the spanks were, and felt only a hand-shaped tingling in each cheek.

Smack! Smack!

Right buttock, left buttock. Miss Grainger's hand was large enough to cover most of each of Sally's buttocks, so although the spanks were distributed, there was plenty of overlap.

Smack! Smack!

The spanks were coming about one per second, each resounding around the large study.

Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!

Sally started to wriggle, but found herself held firmly. She felt herself breathing shallowly, as if in some physical exertion.

Smack! Smack!

There was nowhere unspanked now. Each new palm-blow landed where the effect of many others was still felt. The punishing metronome continued. Right, left, right, left.

Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. Sally silently counted the spanks, focusing her attention away from the warm sting that now covered her whole bottom.

Smack! Smack!

The spanks now were no harder than at the start, but now each one really stung.

Forty-five. Smack! Ow! Forty-six. Smack! Forty-seven. Smack! Ow! Forty-eight.

And no more. Two-dozen to each side.

Sally lay across the knee. She slowed and deepened her breathing. Suddenly her buttoned shirt-collar seemed rather too tight. She'd heard other girls talking about having been given a "bottom-warming", and Sally knew that was what she'd just experienced. There was a warm, Ready-Brek glow about her bottom, the sort of almost-welcomed dull pain left behind by a departing toothache. Sally was old enough to have read comics as a child where the naughty boy and girl characters were often rewarded with a spanking in the last frame, the heat of the spanking efficiently rendered using a little reddening of the pants and some radiating motion lines. She felt as if there were radiating motion lines coming from her bottom.

"Fine," announced Miss Grainger. Sally felt the Headmistress reaching around to the desk.

"Now, the hairbrush is a much more serious implement. It can very easily bruise, and can leave a lasting impression with relatively few strokes. Use the hairbrush if you feel it is necessary to teach a girl quite a serious lesson, one that she won't forget for some time. There will be occasions when you will be required to administer group punishments. In these situations, you will find that your hand becomes sore and tired quite quickly, and the back of a sturdy hairbrush can be of great assistance. Ready, young lady?"

"Yes, miss."

And the Headmistress continued the gymslipped sixth-former's first spanking. With plenty of wrist-action, and without needing to lift the brush too high, she administered a rapid-fire paddling.

Sally felt the difference at once, and gasped. Where before the hand-spanks generated warmth, the hairbrush produced stingy explosions in specific places.

Eight. Ow! Nine. Ouch! Ten.

Miss Grainger concentrated the brush-spanks on the fleshy underside of Sally's bottom. Spanks overlaid spanks in quick succession. Sally winced. Smack! Smack! Smack!

Sixteen. Ouch! Seventeen. Owww!

Sally could almost feel her bottom glowing pink. It was getting very sore. She was still in control, though, and able to separate the harsh impact of the hairbrush from her deliberate counting of the spanks, as if she was watching another girl being walloped.

Smack! Twenty-two. Smack! Twenty-three. Smack! Twenty-four.

Once the hairbrush-spanking stopped, however, the burning in Sally's bottom reasserted itself, and she felt an overwhelming urge to reach back to rub some of the sting away. She'd seen plenty of girls earn extra spanks for rubbing before they'd been released from over the knee, though, so she gritted her teeth and clasped her hands in front of her. The last thing she wanted was for Miss Grainger to need to hold her hands away from her bottom while she spanked her.

The Headmistress placed the hairbrush back on the desk, and continued the lesson.

"Taking down a girl's knickers, or taking down her pyjamas, obviously increases the severity of the punishment. There is an extra formality in the baring of the bottom. Without protection, the spanking is more painful. Perhaps most usefully, though, there is an enhanced sense of humiliation. This is felt very acutely by senior girls, but also to a lesser extent by juniors. Some advice, though: don't take down underwear until the girl is safely across your knee. The intention is to humiliate, not to degrade. Also, if you feel a bare-bottomed spanking is appropriate, make sure that you take the girl somewhere private. A bare-bottomed spanking is humiliation enough, without being in public."

With this, Miss Grainger released her hold on Sally, took hold of the waistband of Sally's maroon school knickers on either side, and whisked them down to mid-thigh in one swift movement. Sally had no time to resist, which was fortunate, because she was sure she'd have tried. Sally blushed instantly. Having her bare bottom on display like this was the worst part so far.

"There's no need to remove the knickers completely. If you pull them down to the thighs, they will sit there quite happily until you are ready to pull them up again."

Miss Grainger held Sally firmly around the waist once more.

"An over-the-knee bare-bottomed hand-spanking is the most childish punishment. If you wish to show a young lady that she's just a naughty little girl, and that she'll continue to be punished like one, this is the way to do it. It's also very intimate, and can be oddly reassuring to younger girls who are used to having their mothers spank their bare little bottoms. I've known several cases where new girls have been very unsettled and homesick, and this has caused them to be inattentive and badly behaved. A trip across my knee with their pants down made them feel at home here, and their behaviour was transformed."

Sally certainly felt a childish humiliation. She considered that, given the choice, she'd much prefer the soundest fully-clothed thrashing to this knickers-down nursery ritual. She was practically a grown woman - already old enough to vote - and yet here she was, upturned across the Headmistress's knee, bare bottom blazing, just like a disobedient child. She resolved to make sure that she took the remainder of the spanking stoically. This was the only way to retain any dignity.

The second hand-spanking began, this time on the bare. Miss Grainger's hand arced down from a high trajectory and landed with a Crack! across Sally's right buttock, leaving a ghostly-white palm-print, which hadn't time to seep into stinging red before the left buttock was struck.

Keeping the girl in place with her left arm, the Headmistress delivered solid smacks to Sally's bottom with her right. With Sally's knickers at half-mast, she could see the effect of each palm-spank, and watched with detachment as pink turned to the scarlet of Sally's gym-knickers. She'd gone beyond the caring, maternal sort of spanking she would use to put a normally well-behaved girl back on track. This wasn't a mother's spanking any more, but a Headmistress's spanking.

Sally shut her eyes and counted spanks. Each mighty wallop rocked her forwards and backwards, but she was in no danger of toppling - Miss Grainger held her tight. Sally heard herself gasping with each spank, and she felt tears welling in her eyes.

Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!

Left, right, left, right.

Thirty-five. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight.

Owww! Ouch! Ouch! Ow!

God! Was this what her daddy did to Charlotte in the privacy of her bedroom? Was this what Mme Picard had done to Abigail that first week?

"Forty-seven. Forty-eight!" Without realising, Sally had started counting aloud. She reached forty-eight - again, two dozen spanks per cheek - with huge relief, then lay there panting like a tired dog, her chest heaving against the snug bodice of her regulation gym-tunic.

Miss Grainger smiled, and gave the sixth-former a minute to compose herself. As is signalling her readiness to continue, Sally took a deep breath, pushed her hair away from her eyes, and wiped away the tears.

"Finally," said the Headmistress, "for a punishment which is both serious and formal, there is the application of the hairbrush on the bare bottom. You should find that you rarely need to resort to such measures. - only when the humiliations of the nursery position and the lowering of knickers have failed to have the salutary effect, or when a girl has seriously misbehaved."

"Yes, Miss," Sally managed to reply.

"Here we go then," Miss Grainger announced.

She picked up the hairbrush and set to work, beating out a tattoo on Sally's bouncing buttocks. Sally stared intently at the carpet, her whole body flinching with each smack, her bottom feeling like one huge sore blister. It throbbed in time with the smacking.

The Headmistress spanked and spanked and spanked.

Sally counted and counted and counted, trying to ignore the severe pain in her smacked-bottom and willing the number of spanks up to the twenty-fourth she knew would be the last.

Smack! Smack!

Nineteen. Twenty.

Smack! Smack!

Twenty-one. Twenty-two.

Smack! Smack!

Twenty-three...

"Twenty-four," Sally cried out.

SMACK! SMACK!

"Twenty-four!" Sally gasped as if it was some magic word that she could invoke to stop the paddling.

But the Headmistress carried on. For the first time, she spoke to Sally whilst spanking her.

"A final lesson, Sally. It's much easier for a girl to endure a spanking if she knows how many spanks are coming."

SMACK! SMACK!

"If she doesn't, then she can't focus on the end of the punishment, and she is much more aware of her current situation..."

SMACK! SMACK!

"...laid across her Headmistress's knee, with her gymslip raised and her little knickers down, just like a bad little girl, getting the spanking she deserves."

SMACK! SMACK!

And Sally lost it. Without the counting of the spanks to hold on to, the pain in her bottom and the humiliation of the punishment and Miss Grainger's scolding finally broke through.

Sally started to cry, great big little-girl sobs that came from deep down, pushing floods of tears down her face, dripping onto the carpet.

More than anything in the world, Sally wished the spanking would stop.

And, since this was exactly what Miss Grainger was waiting for, it did. The Headmistress put down the brush, released her tight grip on the schoolgirl. Sally could do nothing except weep like she hadn't done for years. She lay still, the full weight of her body resting on Miss Grainger's knees.

"I'm sorry I had to do that to you, Sally. It was necessary to show you that there is a point where a girl's resistance to a spanking breaks down. Once a girl is crying uncontrollably, the spanking has served its purpose, and you should go no further. You may not often feel that it is necessary to take a girl to this point, but you should recognise when it is reached. Beware crocodile tears, though, which are designed to bring a premature end to the proceedings. Crocodile tears should be dealt with harshly. Enough! it is over."

The Headmistress pulled up Sally's maroon knickers, lifting Sally's hips and easing them carefully over her buttocks where they sat snugly, if painfully. Sally winced at the touch of the thick cotton. Sally felt her skirt being replaced, and then she was gently lifted from Miss Grainger's knee onto her feet. Miss Grainger gave Sally a tissue, which she used to wipe her eyes and tearstained face, then blow her nose.

"Very well," Miss Grainger said. "You may rub."

Sally eagerly and energetically rubbed and kneaded her well-smacked bottom with both hands. She could feel the heat escaping through her knickers as if from a badly insulated room. The smarting eased a little.

Miss Grainger replaced the hairbrush in her desk drawer, at the same time removing two other items.

She addressed Sally.

"I'm proud of you, Sally. You made a choice to go through a severe punishment, and that shows your commitment to the post of Head Girl. You also, I might say, took the spanking very well, especially considering it was your first. You'll make a marvellous Head Girl. Congratulations."

Miss Grainger handed Sally a small enamel badge, shaped like a shield, which carried the words "Head Girl". Suddenly, Sally's bottom didn't seem quite so sore.

"I'd also like you to have this, to use where necessary," said the Headmistress. She gave Sally a brand new Mason Pearson hairbrush, its box unopened. The brush had metal bristles (which wouldn't get much use) and an enormous, wooden oval back (which, she was sure, would).

"Thank you, Miss."

Miss Grainger held out her hand, and Sally shook.

"There's...um...there's one last thing," said the Headmistress.

"Yes, Miss?"

"Please remove your tie, Sally."

"But..."

"No buts, Sally. You know the rules. Head Girl or not, I'll be keeping your school tie for a week."

Sally sighed. "Yes, Miss." She put down her new hairbrush, and removed her school tie. She first pulled the striped tie from the front of her gym-tunic, then undid the knot, then slipped the tie from beneath her shirt-collar. She gave the tie to the Headmistress, and, in a reflex action, unfastened the top button of her school shirt.

"Sally Heriot!" chided Miss Grainger. "Fasten that top button at once, unless you'd like another trip to lapland." She smiled conspiratorially.

Sally managed a rueful smile, then fastened the top shirt-button, feeling strangely naked with the buttons exposed and without the reassuring lump of the tie-knot under her chin.

"Fine. That will be all, Miss Heriot. Would you please send in Abigail Rice as you leave."

Gods! Sally had forgotten all about Abigail. She would have heard much of Sally's spanking, and must surely be thinking that her getting the Head Girl's position was only a formality.

Sally picked up her badge and brush, keeping them concealed behind her back. She opened the study door and stepped out, doing all she could to look devastated.

Abigail was up like a Jack-in-the-box, black plaits swinging. She grinned her smuggest grin at Sally.

"Gosh, Sally," said Abigail archly. "You don't seem to be wearing your tie. Could it be that Miss Grainger had to smack your naughty little BTM, and took away your tie so that everyone would see what a bad girl you are?"

Abigail was exultant. Not only would she be Head Girl, able to administer bottom-smackings to Sally whenever she pleased, but Sally would have the disgrace of spending the next week without her school tie. This was just perfect!

"Yes," replied Sally, plainly. "But she gave me this to wear instead." Sally revealed the Head Girl badge. She held it right up to Abigail's face. "And she gave me this, to smack the naughty little BTMs of bad girls with." She revealed the boxed Mason Pearson hairbrush, and smiled sweetly.

"You're lying!" shouted Abigail. "You're lying, you rotten bloody liar!" And she launched herself at Sally, slapping and punching and scratching. Knocked backwards, Sally cannoned into the wall, dislodging a framed photograph of an old class - who wore, incidentally, gym-tunics just like Sally's. The picture fell, and hit the floor with enough force for the frame to break and the glass to smash.

Miss Grainger stood in the doorway to her study, having seen everything. Abigail began to blurt out some feeble excuse, but fell silent under the Headmistress's sternest gaze.

"Come in here, both of you," Miss Grainger commanded. They entered the study, and the door was shut behind them.

Abigail stared at her shoes, the very picture in her schoolgirl plaits and immaculate uniform, of innocence found out.

"Abigail Rice!" scolded Miss Grainger in a low voice. "It is clear to me now that it would have been a terrible mistake to have made you Head Girl, and therefore doubly fortunate that Sally had the courage to endure what was necessary. Not only did you assault the Head Girl of the school, you then attempted to lie to me. You are a very naughty girl, Abigail Rice, and you deserve a serious, formal spanking."

"Yes, Miss," admitted Abigail, through welling tears.

"I think this may be just the opportunity for our new Head Girl to administer her first bottom-smacking," said Miss Grainger, looking at Sally, and gesturing to the wooden stool which still sat beside her desk.

"No, Miss! Please! I do deserve a spanking, but can't you spank me instead?" Everything had turned upside down for poor Abigail.

"Miss Rice," said the Headmistress. "Either you go across Sally's knee, or you go across my knee, and then across Sally's knee. Understand?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Excuse me, Headmistress," interrupted Sally. "But I do think a dose of the hairbrush would be excessive this time." She remembered what Miss Grainger had told her about the most childish punishment. "Abigail is not a bad girl, but I do think she is rather spoilt. I think a hand-spanking on the bare bottom would be just what the doctor ordered."

Miss Grainger smiled agreement. "Very well." She could see that Sally Heriot would be a formidable Head Girl.

Sally approached the stool, then hesitated.

"Headmistress," she asked. "You wouldn't happen to have a cushion handy, would you?" Sally thought about her sister, sitting on such a cushion after one of her daddy's spankings.

"Yes, of course." Miss Grainger fetched a soft cushion. Sally put the cushion on the stool, then gingerly lifted herself onto it. Her bottom was still throbbing and sore, but she'd live.

"Abigail Rice," Sally barked. "Please remove your blazer, and come here." Abigail took off her maroon and grey school blazer. Above the waist, she wore only her white school shirt and striped school tie. She shuffled reluctantly towards Sally, already humiliated.

Sally tried to remember how she'd been taken across the Headmistress's knee. She guided Abigail to her right hand side, instructed the naughty girl to lean across her lap, and then, grabbing Abigail's waist, lifted the girl clear of the ground and across her knee. Sally was quite strong, and achieved this with no difficulty.

Sally's feet rested on a low rung between the stool's legs, allowing her lap to extend parallel to the ground. Over this lap was now draped Abigail's seventeen-year-old body. Not as old as Sally, Abigail was nevertheless taller and heavier, but Sally grasped her firmly and kept her in place. In front, Abigail's school tie and her black plaits dangled towards the carpet. Her large breasts jiggled, unsupported by anything other than the crisp cotton of her shirt. Behind, Abigail's legs clad in grey and maroon knee-socks, and brown shoes, hung uselessly.

Sally took hold of the hem of Abigail's kilt, and turned it up to her waist, tidying up Abigail's shirttails in the same way that Miss Grainger had tidied up her own. Abigail groaned, her knicker-clad bottom now exposed.

With no fuss, Sally took down Abigail's maroon school uniform knickers, leaving them mid-thigh. Abigail squirmed with shame and embarrassment.

Sally regarded Abigail's bare bottom, white and quivering, for a moment, then began to spank it.

I wasn't a very hard spanking - certainly nothing like as hard as the one Abigail had planned for Sally - but it was thorough and, coupled with the indignity of being taken across the knee of a girl only a few months older, and having her knickers taken down, it was a good lesson.

Nothing like as stoic as Sally in the same position, Abigail kicked her legs and squealed with every palm-spank. Sally, focusing on the area of interest, watched the buttocks change colour from white to pink, pink to red, as she distributed the chastisement evenly.

Feeling it was unnecessary - this time - to take Abigail to the point of uncontrollable sobbing, Sally ended the hand-spanking after three-dozen smacks to each cheek. This was enough to leave Abigail's bottom red and blotchy, and her face flushed and tearstained.

She pulled up Abigail's knickers, let down her kilt, and placed the contrite girl back on her feet.

"Next time," warned Sally, "it will be with the back of the hairbrush. Do you understand?"

There was a pause, then: "Yes, Miss," said Abigail quietly.

"Please remove your tie, Miss Rice," instructed Sally.

And this, finally, caused Abigail to break into childish sobbing. This was the final indignity. Not only was she not the Head Girl, not only had she been spanked across Sally Heriot's knee. Now she'd spend the next week without her school tie, showing everyone she'd been very naughty.

Crying like a baby, Abigail unknotted and removed her school tie, handing to to Sally.

"And make sure I don't see you with your top button unfastened," warned Sally.

"No, Miss."

Above the waist, Abigail was now dressed in only her white cotton school shirt, which was buttoned at collar and cuffs. She put her school blazer on over this, and then rubbed her smacked-bottom.

"You know," said the Headmistress, looking at the two spanked sixth-formers. "I think I'm going to introduce a new school rule, effective immediately."

"Miss?"

"I'm going to introduce a rule that says the Head Girl can wear any school tie she has confiscated from a girl she's needed to spank, as if it were her own. Should she - for whatever reason - not be able to wear her own, that is."

This was too much for Abigail to take. She scurried from the study, tie-less, in floods of tears, in the direction of a cold flannel she could apply to the seat of learning.

Sally smiled at Miss Grainger.

"Thank you, Miss," she said.

"You've always been such a good girl, Sally," said the Headmistress.

Sally turned up her starched shirt-collar, looped Abigail's tie around her neck, deftly knotted it, and slid the knot up, so that it lay squarely over her top shirt-button. She tucked the tie neatly into the bodice of her gym-tunic, then turned down her shirt-collar, running her finger between it and her neck to make sure that the collar was neat and tidy. All was crisp and even.

With the reassuring bulge of the tie-knot under her chin, and with a sore bottom which bothered her not one little bit, Sally Heriot picked up her Head Girl badge and her new hairbrush, and left the Headmistress's study.

The first thing she was going to do was to phone her Daddy - to tell him everything.

To read all of Pablo's stories, visit him at: The Treehouse

If you'd like to email Pablo about Such a Good Girl, write: pablo.stubbs@newsguy.com

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