The corridors are quiet; through the windows the sky is dark. The grounds half-distinguishable through the trees, the lights from the downstairs refectory casting long columns of illumination out onto the withered grass, the blown leaves.
She sees the lights of the dining hall downstairs as she climbs the steep stairs to the top floor of the building; wishes she were there with the other girls, enjoying the dinner. Instead, she has been summoned from the kitchen just as she sat down to eat; the school nurse entering, her eyes sweeping the room, picking her out. “The headmaster wants you,” she says, flat-voiced and quiet. But the other girls hear her; they are on alert whenever she enters the room, sensing her presence the way a herd of gazelles sense the presence of a predator, a lion lurking in the tall grasses.
“The headmaster wants you,” the nurse says, repeating the phrase louder now. “And he asked me to prepare a tray for you, for you to take up with you when you go and see him for your little talk.” Nervous chatter from the other girls ceases suddenly; for the meaning of the tray is all too clear to most of them, a large silver tray, covered with a lid that seals down in such a way that the headmaster can tell if its been opened. A large silver tray, and no doubt in anyone’s mind what apparatus is under the lid, the only question revolving around the nature of the colored containers accompanying it.
She drags herself after the nurse, out of the dining room and into the corridor outside. She lifts up the heavy tray and follows the nurse to the base of the stairs, which she begins to mount as the nurse rings the buzzer to indicate her imminent arrival
She ascends, slowly, balancing the tray in her hands, aware the nurse can see up the back of her short skirt, can see her tight white underpants beneath, and the fear-clenched cheeks they contain.
She is all too aware of this view, knows the headmaster will see her like this when he has her mount the punishment platform in his office and bend to grip the rails before her. She is aware of the view, having seen it less than an hour earlier when, approaching the kitchen, she saw her best friend being led to the stairwell by the nurse. Saw her best friend being given her own tray to carry, watched her friend mount the stairs, begin the climb to the headmaster’s office, and to the certain chastisement that awaited her.
Now, climbing the stairs herself, she recalls her friend, and what she looked like. She things of her friend’s little cheeks clenched tight under the shamefully inadequate skirt, and wonders where she is now.
Over the headmaster’s lap with her skirt up and her bottom bared for the first part of the lecture? Or has he already progressed beyond that point and put her over the tall stool, positioned her feet on the markings on the floor, forcing them far apart, turning them inwards to force the cheeks apart still further?
Is she still waiting in that position, panties pulled down to her knees, listening to the headmaster’s voice droning on and on? Has she heard the SNAP of the rubber gloves now, felt the cold thick finger and the heavy coating of Vaseline on it as he puts it up between her cheeks and informs her of the need for the examination?
Her cheeks tighten at the thought, for she recalls the feeling of the finger going in, the slow slippery penetration, the headmaster’s right hand holding her firmly down over the stool while the middle finger of his left hand probes her girlish posterior, invades her little hole, allowing him to obtain the information he needs to diagnose the number she’ll need before she’s sufficiently cleaned.
She recalls it, nearing the top of the stairs, the sensations so vivid that she can feel the anal goosing even as she climbs. She wonders if that’s what her friend is experiencing, bent over the tall stool, or has he progressed past this point, shifted his right hand down between her legs as he probes her bared behind.
She reaches the top of the stairs and approaches the door to the headmaster’s office. It’s open, a clear indication to her to enter, despite the fact that what is happening to her friend inside is – or should be – a private matter. She slowly goes to the entrance, listens carefully, but fails to hear the telltale groans of arousal that would indicate the headmaster is in the “examination and manualization” phase of the proceedings she’s just recalled.
She draws a deep breath, enters the room. The shades have been drawn back, something she always notices, always wonders if the reason is to allow the occupants of the boy’s dormitories across the park a view of the proceedings, or if the distance is so great that its simply the possibility of that audience that the head wants to convey to the victim over his knee with her strapped posterior facing the window.
The shades are drawn back, the table lamp is turned on, the punishment platform has been moved into position, but is unoccupied. She’s relieved to see it empty, for that means her friend has been spared a session on it. Her relief, however, is short-lived, for as she scans the room she suddenly sees her friend, in the corner, with her panties down and her behind tomato-red.
But this is not what causes the involuntary tightening in her throat, and the butterflies in her tummy. Those sensations are produced by what she sees hanging down from the wall hook by her friend: a large enema bag, filled, the hose dangling down and ending in a large, ribbed nozzle, clearly covered with shiny Vaseline.
The headmaster clears his throat now, and she slowly shifts her gaze to him. To where he’s sitting, at the edge of his desk, the wooden paddle in his hands, the jar of Vaseline and the thermometer beside him.
He scans her face, observes her eyes shifting back and forth from him to her friend. He clears his throat again, and speaks.
“You’re correct, she hasn’t had it yet. Normally she would have, but tonight … I’ve decided to conduct a double punishment.” He tilts his head towards the punishment platform, nods.
“That’s right. Two naughty schoolgirls, and the platform is wide enough for both of you over it, side by side.”
“And there’s a hook thoughtfully provided for each of your bags,” he says, now looking at the tray she’s carrying. “Set that down next to your friend’s, over there.” She slowly crosses the room, sets her tray down on a side table, notes that the empty container on the tray is blue. Blue, some cramping, but bearable unless he decides a prolonged session is required before he’s ready to offer relief.
“Lift the lid,” his words breaking into her reverie. She does so, slowly. Underneath, her enema bag, threatening even when empty, a heavy latex bag, with a long hose and, she notes, a nozzle identical to the one her friend’s bottom is going to receive.
And then the moment she’s been dreading; her eyes fall on the container next to her bag, the filled container.
Red, and she stops breathing for a moment. The punishment will be hard then, and she knows the penalty for failing to retain. She’s never experienced it, but she’s heard it often enough.
They all have, first in the assembly room outside the punishment chamber where the day part of the discipline is administered, and then again that night when they hear the culprit being attended to a second time in the small room at the end of the dormitory corridor.
They are called into the assembly room, the culprit’s whole class. When they’re all there the girl is brought in, wearing the discipline gown, open in back, and the tight transparent underpants that only accentuate the reddened rump inside, and the thick plug firmly inserted into the anus inbetween the martyred cheeks.
She is led past them, her sore bottom on display. Into the room next door, the door closed behind her, the nurse preparing her.
They sit shifting on the chairs, waiting for the headmaster’s entrance, trying not to hear the girl in the other room crying as the nurse puts her over the stool, pulls the underpants down, removes the plug, applies a thick layer of Vaseline between the cheeks, and then inserts a suppository.
They shift in their chairs, and when the headmaster comes in and lectures them on their own behaviors, they shift still further, heads hung down.
Finally the headmaster finishes speaking, goes to the closed door, opens it, steps inside and locks it behind him. A hush falls on the girls.
They strain to hear. The scolding, the harsh male voice.
The instructions to the nurse, who they know is there to add to the humiliation by holding the culprit’s hands while it’s done.
And then that moment they feel as a strange combination of envy and dread, when the sound of the zipper is unmistakable.
Inside the room, the headmaster is taking off his trousers, folding them neatly on the chair, and then his boxers. The girl is bent so far over the stool that she can’t see him, of course, but she can hear the sounds; worse, she can watch the expressions on the nurse’s face, and from them divine everything going on behind her.
He takes his boxers off, reaches for the jar of Vaseline.
He prepares himself. Sometimes, if its been a long and stressful day, the sight of the bared bottom presented over the stool, cheeks spread, is not enough for him, and he draws his belt out through the loops of his pants. Applies it to the raised behind until it glows red. The girl’s hear the strapping, of course, which adds to the misery of their compatriot inside the punishment room.
Finally, the headmaster is aroused enough to attend to the culprit. He steps up behind her, puts one large hand on each hot cheek, spreads them.
As he reminds her that this will be repeated that night before bedtime in the small room at the end of the corridor upstairs, he slowly pushes forward, feeling the tight button between her cheeks resisting … resisting .. and then, finally, yielding.
He slides inside. From her vantage point, the nurse can watch the entry, the thick cylinder of flesh cleaving the red cheeks, the hard cylinder sliding further and further in between the raised and separated buttocks.
The girls outside imagine the scene too. For all of them the images are disquieting; but, for many, if not most, they will be played out all day and, at night, in the privacy of their beds, acted upon. Fingers slipping between puerile thighs as they recall the sounds, imagine the sights, think about their own behinds being put to the cock.
More than a few of the girls will fall asleep to these thoughts, the release bringing on slumber. Opinions vary, but most suspect that the same thoughts run through the mind of the nurse in her own bedroom in another part of the school …
The girl, standing in the headmaster’s study, staring at the red container, pulls herself away from these thoughts, looks at her friend’s bared bottom, at the filled enema bag waiting to go up her friend’s behind, and at the empty bag on her tray that will soon be emptying its contents into her own bowels.
“The penalty for failing to retain …”, she thinks to herself. But the thought is cut off as the headmaster gestures to her to come to him. To go over his knee for the first part of the discipline, before she and her friend go over the punishment platform to receive their enemas.
She shuffles forward.
The punishment is about to begin.
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