A very dirty girl

The girls at St. Mary's Catholic School were well accustomed to corporal punishment, receiving it regularly from their class teachers. The ruler or strap across their hands being the usual punishment.

It was very rare for a girl to be sent to the Headmaster, and when they were, punishment usually took place after supper in his study. The miserable girl would then be seen slipping into her dorm at bedtime, with tears of pain and shame on her face, refusing to talk of her punishment.

Other girls wondered what he used; the cane, a strap, a switch? What was so terribly unspeakable?

Maria's summons came as no surprise to anyone. Having been being caught outside with a boy at the annual local schools' social, it was inevitable. They had only been talking, not even holding hands, but the school curate Fr. Martin was enraged that a St. Mary's girl could be found unchaperoned with a boy.

She was almost glad the summons came so quickly, arriving the next day from her class teacher.

At the appointed hour she arrived at the Headmaster's door. She had taken extra care with her uniform, immaculately turned out in her grey shirt, modest green pinafore that fell well below her knees, long grey socks, green and yellow striped tie and grey jumper. A St. Mary's girl must look and act like a paragon of virtue at all times, how many times had she been told that?

On granting her permission to enter he stood her before him and lectured her on her disgraceful conduct. His disgust at her behaviour, her lack of respect for herself and her school. He spoke of Fr Martin's outrage and the need to reinforce the moral code. He spoke of her parents and their disappointment and anger at how she flaunted herself to that boy like a common tramp.

His words were harsh and at every utterance her self-belief and confidence wore away. Beginning to believe him, starting to agree she was a tramp, a disgrace to her family. Her cheeks burned in shame. She was too scared to argue back, to protest they were only talking, that she wasn't the dirty girl he was implying. She hung her head, succumbing to his lecture, starting to hate herself.

Finally his words ended and he signalled her punishment would start. She fearfully glanced around, was it a cane, a strap, a birch?

But no, he placed himself on a high backed chair and ordered her to come to his side. She stood where he indicated, completely confused. And before she could register what was happening, he pulled her over his knee.

Dropping her head in mortification her mind whirled: What was he doing? She'd never been put across anyone's knee in her life. Had never been so close to a man. Her face flushed deeper with shame, her feet barely touching the floor, feeling very small.

And he hadn't even started anything yet. Worse was to come. She couldn't help putting her hand back as he started to slowly lift her skirt, but he was having none of that, firmly ordering her to keep her hands on the floor and to stay in position.

Her humiliation intensified as he inched her skirt up, past the backs of her knees, past her thighs and up over her bottom. For the first time in her school life she was thankful for the thick cotton knickers that covered her bottom entirely.

The relief was short-lived however, and she whimpered as he hooked his fingers into the thick elastic at the waist and drew her knickers down. No man had every seen her bottom naked, it was too much, she tried to get up but he held her down, warning her it would be much worse if she didn't stay still and take her punishment. Threatening to bring Fr Martin in to witness it. This dreadful thought immobilised her.

With her knickers down to her knees, he rested his right hand on her bottom, his left holding her firmly by the waist. Seconds past like minutes as she waited for it to start, but he was in no hurry. The silence was unbearable and she was mortifying conscious of her position, imagining what she must look like, pinafore up, knickers down, bare bottom over this man's knee, any man's knee. It was too much for her and she began to cry softly.

As if in response to her crying he stroked her bottom slowly, rubbing each cheek in circles to the tops of her thighs. He seemed in no hurry to start the spanking. His rubbing embarrassed her more, his touch making her feel sick inside. What was he doing? Why was he touching her? And all the time not a word from him. Her tears continued to fall and she prayed it would be over soon.

Eventually he lifted his right hand, tightening his grip with his left hand pushing her down firmly onto his knees. She braced herself for the first smack, but the gentle pat that followed was unexpected. For several minutes he spanked her gently all over her bottom, moving in a circle, pat, pat, pat. It didn't hurt at all.

But still he held her firmly, stopping occasionally to rub her bottom. Then resuming his patting, all the time not saying a word. This continued for some time. Until finally the smacks got harder, and she was really starting to feel it, struggling to stay still. After making her bottom hot and sore all over, he moved to her thighs and the sharp smacks made her kick and squirm across his lap

In response he swung his right leg behind her knees, effectively pinning her in place. And resumed his gentle patting. She decided this was worse, at least when he was hurting her she could forget the humiliation of her position. And being trapped between his legs was even more mortifying. She was also becoming uncomfortably aware of a definite hardness pressing into her tummy.

As her confused brain tried to process the sensation, he once again increased the tempo of the spanking, harder now; much harder. It was impossible to stay still and she squirmed and wriggled against him. Her cries growing more frantic as the pain intensified. There was no respite, no more rubbing, no more gentle patting: no sound except his laboured breathing from his exertions.

As her cries turned to sobs she began to plead with him to stop, it hurt so much, she couldn't take it anymore. For the first time her spoke to her, telling her over and over that she was a 'very naughty girl', a 'very, very naughty girl', spanking her harder and harder, until he gave a strangled gasp and stopped suddenly.

She felt him shake beneath her and didn't know what to do. Was he ill? Had he taken a turn? In terror she lay there, afraid to move or talk.

'Get up and get out' he finally told her, pushing her off his knee. 'And don't ever let me see you in here again or you won't get off so lightly'. In total bewilderment she fixed her clothing, not daring to look at him, as she crept out of the office.

And returned to her dorm in tears, feeling sick at what just happened. Knowing that is was all her fault. She was a very, dirty girl.