A Spanking in Time (Bexhill School)

BOOK: A Spanking in Time (Bexhill School)
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A Spanking in Time

Bexhill School Book One

 

By

 

Tom Simple

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright © 2013 by Tom Simple

 

All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

 

Simple, Tom

A Spanking in Time

An Introduction to Bexhill School

 

eBook ISBN: 978-1-62750-1576

 

 

Cover Art by ABCD Graphics

 

 

 

This book is intended for
adults only
. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

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Preface

 

Right
, I know you’re all new here, so pay attention. No talking amongst yourselves.

T
oday we’re going to look at the primer for the series which we shall be studying later. This will introduce us to some of the characters who will appear in the later stories.

Debbie and Catharine are friends when they arrive at
Bexhill, at least they are to begin with. But Debbie is ambitious and ruthless, not to mention spoiled. You’ll learn in this book why her exasperated parents gave her a sore bottom and transferred her from a convent school to Bexhill.

Catharine is altogether nicer, but rather naive. Her parents don’t believe in corporal punishment for
her or her sister Jane. So when Jane, who has recently left Bexhill, starts telling Catharine about the discipline regime at the school, the prospect of having to behave well enough to avoid being subjected to ‘carpet study’ – bending over for a spanking – seems daunting.

Suffering
a tanning just before a dinner party doesn’t stop two former pupils from reminiscing about being on the receiving end of the cane at Bexhill. Mr. Masterson, the Headmaster, and the rest of the guests are surprised and amused to learn why his nickname was ‘Three Taps’.

Miss Holloway, the attractive school secretary, finds herself – to her embarrassment – becoming aroused by the
punishments which take place in the Headmaster’s study just opposite her office. How will she cope, then, when ‘Three Taps’ asks her to help restrain a young lady who won’t submit to the caning she deserves?

Nor, apparently, is Miss Holloway’s penchant unique. Anna, about to become a dormitory captain and therefore entitled to use a slipper on her charges, finds that she also rather enjoys a tingling rear.

And as tingling rears go, few girls suffer the experience as often as those two reprobates, Sally and Linda. They can’t even keep out of trouble during the holidays.

Finally, class,
we’ll meet two young French ladies who will be joining us here at Bexhill on exchange from their school in Corsica. Swapping the martinet for the cane, as it were. Ha! Ha!

Yes, you with your hand up. What’s a ‘martinet’
? A martinet’s a sort of whip they use in French schools. It’s got a wooden handle with a dozen or so leather lashes. No, I’ve got idea whether it hurts: you’d better ask Amélie and Nicole when they arrive. I’m sure they can tell you.

But since we’re on the subject, this is a good moment to show you how we maintain discipline here at Bexhill.

First of all, there’s a heavy, long-handled wooden hairbrush. This one belongs to the Headmaster and it’s called ‘Stinger’. Now, I wonder how it gets its name. Any ideas? Well, if you misbehave, you’ll very quickly find out.

If that doesn’t do the trick, there’s always this, also from the Headmaster’s collection. Know what it is? Never seen one before? It’
s a tawse. This one comes from Lochgellie in Scotland, where they make the very best. As you can see, it’s not new: it’s visited a lot of bottoms and outstretched hands in its time. Best avoided, if you take my advice.

And lastly, there are these. Yes, canes of course. But canes vary
, don’t they? This one’s a junior. As you can see when I swish it, it’s light and whippy. Stings nicely, and has a good ‘wrap’. Then there’s this one: a senior. A bit thicker, not quite as whippy. Lands with more of a thud. Leaves colourful blue bruises and little raised red ridges. I’m not surprised some of you are biting your lips. And if the junior and the senior can’t persuade you to behave properly, there’s always this: a Dragon. As its name implies, the Dragon is ‘king of the canes’. No-one who’s been on the receiving end of six of the best from a Dragon will ever forget it.

Now,
I should warn you that both the Headmaster and his Deputy, Mrs. Winchester, are very accomplished in the use of all these implements. They don’t spank lightly, in any sense of the word, but if you deserve it, you’ll find your attitude will be adjusted in a very painful manner.

Oh, I nearly forgot. The school has recently introduced these into all the classrooms so that any of the teachers can use them if
we need to. They’re called ‘paddles’. I think they originated in America. The Yanks probably brought them over during the war to tan Hitler’s hide if they could catch him. Anyway, it’s a jolly useful bit of kit. Fine oak blade. I’ve heard it said that a good whacking with this is worse than a caning. Anyone want to try? Ha! Ha!

Oh, very funny, you with your hand up.
Big mouth, small brain, eh? Well, your friends may be laughing, but I’ll show you how we deal with smart Alecs at Bexhill. Step up here, please. No, it’s too late to apologise now. You’ll be smiling on the other side of your face by the time this piece of wood and I have finished with you.

Now
, the rest of you settle down and start reading the book. Tomorrow we’ll move on to the main Bexhill series. Yes, what do
you
want? Where do you get the rest of the books? Where do you think? They don’t grow on trees, do they? Use your loaf: ever heard of Amazon or Blushing Books? Well, get on with it, then.

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

Debbie

 

Debbie sauntered down the oak staircase and into the elegant dining room. It was ten o’clock. The remains of breakfast still cluttered the polished mahogany table, although only one member of the family still sat there. Debbie’s mother, Pat, occupied a ‘carver’ – a chair with arms – at one end. She was a handsome woman whose looks belied the imminent arrival of the ‘Big Four O’. She greeted her daughter perfunctorily.

“Hello dear. I wish you wouldn’t go around the house dressed like that.” Debbie was wearing only a
short, ‘Baby Doll’-style nightie. “Couldn’t you put a dressing gown over the top?”

“Dressing gown? Oh Mum, that’s so uncool!”

“And I don’t like having your bare bottom sitting on the seats of the chairs.”

“I’m not having a period, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

“Well, what if someone comes in and you’re only wearing that nightdress?”

“Then they can feast their eyes, can’t they?” She wiggled her bottom provocatively.

“Debbie, I’m expecting a colleague. Please just go and make yourself decent!”

Debbie ignored her, went over the hotplate and opened one of the silver-topped dishes. It contained a few scraps of congealed scrambled egg. The other dish had evidently once held bacon.

“There’s nothing left!” grumbled Debbie.

“Well it
is
ten o’clock. Your father and brother finished breakfast almost two hours ago”.

“They might have left something for me!”

“And you might have got yourself out of bed a bit earlier and helped prepare breakfast!”

“Oh come on, Mum! You know Julian was taking me to Annabelle’s last night. I didn’t get back until well after dawn.”

“I thought we told you to be home by two?”

“Mum, for Christ’s sake! I’m not a kid anymore!”

“You’ll still do what you’re told while you’re living in our house.” Her tone hardened.

“You’re so old-fashioned! I’m not just a little schoolgirl any longer. I’m virtually an adult now.”

Her mother looked at her pouting daughter and then gently tapped an envelope that lay open on the table in front of her.

“What’s that?” asked Debbie, a note of uncertainty replacing the petulance.

“Last term’s exam results – the mock GCEs.”

Oh shit. Debbie paled and put down the piece of toast she had been raising to her mouth.

“Are they...OK?” The question was nervous.

“Not exactly.” Her mother held her with an icy gaze. “Perhaps you’d like me to read them to you?”

“If you want.”

Pat pulled a sheet of paper from the envelope. She carefully unfolded it and smoothed it out on the table. Debbie’s mouth had gone dry.

“I think I’m right in saying that grades one to six are passes, aren’t they? Anything more than six is a failure in that subject?”

“Yes, Mum, I think so.” She reached for her coffee cup, but she found her hand was shaking so badly she put it back on the saucer with a rattle.

“Very well. Physics, seven. Chemistry, seven. Biology, seven. History, eight. Geography, seven. English, six. Maths, five. Two passes – neither distinguished – and five failures.”

Debbie looked glumly down at her plate.

“Do you realise what this means? If you don’t pull your socks up, no university, no third level education of any sort at all. You’d be lucky to get a job as a waitress or a salesgirl.”

“But I want to go to uni. All my friends are doing so.”

“You should have thought about that a few years ago, when we sent you St Mary’s. This is where four years of fooling about and not studying gets you.”

Suddenly, a flash of the old defiance.
“Anyway, it’s all your fault for sending me to a stupid school like St Mary’s. The nuns are useless, they can’t teach anything!”

Pat coloured just slightly but maintained her calm. “I don’t think you’re right. I called Sister Joanna at the school and told her we were very disappointed with your results. I asked her how the other girls had done. You were the only one to fail so many subjects.
No-one else dropped more than one paper, and the average for your class was a grade 2. The Headmistress pointed out that your end-of-term reports regularly mention a lack of effort.”

“Sister Joanna’s a stupid bitch. All she does is blather on about religious gobbledygook. She’s just so square. She needs to get real. Anyway, you can pay for me to go to university! Offer them enough and I’m sure they’ll be glad to grab your money and take me. Problem solved – all you have to do is cough up!”

“We’re not throwing good money after bad, and anyway that’s not how universities work. You’ve been wasting your time at school and now you’re well on the way to blowing your future. We’re really disappointed in you!”

“’Did you say ‘we’? Does Dad know about this?”

“Yes, of course he does, and I imagine he’ll have a few things to say to you on the subject when he gets home.”

“Why do you always have to drag Dad into these things? Can’t you ever keep anything to yourself, for God’s sake?”

Enough is enough, even for an even-tempered person like Pat.

“That’s enough, Debbie. I’m sick and tired of your attitude. You’re behaving like a spoiled brat and I’m going to treat you like one. Go upstairs to your room!”

Debbie gulped. She knew she’d gone too far, that her temper and immaturity had got the better of her, and that she was going to have to pay for it. She’d been here before.

“Please, Mum. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean
that.”

“Get upstairs! Prepare yourself. I’ll be up in a minute.”

“Please, Mum, can we just talk about this?”

“We can talk afterwards. Now go to your room
immediately
!”

Debbie knew there was no point in further argument. Indeed, when she’d tried this line before it had resulted in an even worse outcome. She stood up and slowly climbed the stairs. In her room, she smoothed the sheets and blanket on her bed. Then she took her two pillows and placed them in the centre of it, one on top of the other. She kicked off her slippers and lay down with the pillows under her hips. She reached back and eased the thin material of her nightie up until she could feel the cool breeze from the window on her bare bottom. She reached forward and gripped the end of the mattress.

Back then, political correctness hadn’t been invented, but heavy, wooden-backed clothes brushes had. Pat fetched one from the closet and climbed the stairs. To Debbie, her steps sounded like the footfalls of doom. Pat came in and stood beside the bed. Debbie glanced up at her mother and the brush in her right hand.

“I’m sorry...
” she pleaded.

“So am I. So is your father. Your attitude leaves a very great deal to be desired, young lady. Now, keep still until I tell you to get up.”

With that, she laid the brush across the centre of Debbie’s pert, pink cheeks, raised it high, and brought it down with a loud whack. Debbie yelped. A rosy glow started to spread across her backside. Pat raised the brush again.

The advantage of being a doctor – a surgeon, actually, as Pat was – is that you can judge better than a lay person just how much pain you are causing and how much damage you are inflicting, unbiased by the yells and cries of the person whose backside you are tanning. Thus, Debbie’s mother gave the wriggling, squirming girl many more swats than a lesser expert might have done. When she finally finished, Debbie was sobbing and her entire bottom, from the top of the cheeks to the join with her thighs, was puce.

“Right. I’ve finished. Now stay in your room until lunchtime. And when your father comes home, I think he may have something to say to you.”

It wasn’t what he might
say
that worried Debbie. What concerned her was what he was likely to do with that awful, heavy leather strap.

Debbie stayed in her room, intermittently massaging her aching cheeks, until she heard her mother go out after lunch. Then she slipped downstairs and called Julian. They agreed to meet in the Café des Artistes, a popular hangout in Fulham road.  Julian, who was training to be something in the City, was glad to have an excuse to
get away and see Debbie, whom he hadn’t yet managed to bed, although he thought that event was imminent. He listened to Debbie’s account of her wretched morning.

“Your poor bottie must be awfully sore,” Julian said with keen insight.

“And there’s worse to come. I’m sure dad will strap me when he gets home. That hurts like anything!”

“Oh well, chin up old thing! Soon be over, I suppose. I say
, I’m going to Quags tonight with my parents. First night of the grouse season. Should be rather jolly!”

Debbie wasn’t sure that she was getting quite the sympathetic hearing she’d been hoping for. Julian had bags of money and there was a title floating about in his family somewhere, but she did wish that he could be a bit more, well,
concerned
about her.

“You going to Tessa’s coming-out do on Saturday?” asked Julian. These events were always loaded with vacuous debutantes fishing for the rich and titled. Julian usually fancied his chances when he offered one of them a lift home. It didn’t matter much to him whether Debbie would be there or not, but he might as well know for planning purposes. If he brought Debbie back to his flat, he reckoned a bottle of medium white would be enough to get her into the sack, whereas the debs usually
required champagne.

“Ooo yes! Will you take me? I’ve got a lovely dress: you’ll adore it!”

“OK, pick you up at seven?”

“See you then”, she got up to leave.

“See you.
Bonne chance
with your little bummie tonight!” Julian caught the waitress’ eye and ordered another Pimms.

 

***

 

Debbie waited listlessly for her father’s return. He was a partner in a firm of solicitors and sometimes worked late. Debbie hoped that this would be the case tonight: he might be too tired to get involved in discussing her dismal results. She decided, a trifle unwisely, that she needed something to fortify herself. Her mother was still out, so she crept down to the pantry and helped herself to a strong – in fact, very strong – vodka and tonic. She had almost finished it when she heard the sound of her father’s car on the gravel of the drive. She gulped down the rest and hurriedly rinsed and dried the glass. Then she shot up to her room and closed the door. Maybe her father would think she was asleep.

“Debbie!” her father’s voice boomed from the hallway, “Debbie, are you there?”

She opened her door. “Hello, Dad.”

“Debbie, come down here please. I want to talk to you.”

Oh Lord. This was it.

Debbie tripped on the last stair, but regained her balance before she fell. She was feeling
quite self-assured after the stiff drink.

“Yes, Dad, what can I do for you?”

“Come into the drawing room, please. Close the door. Sit there.” He indicated the sofa while he sat in his usual armchair.

“Now, I’m sure you know what this is about, don’t you?”

Debbie returned his gaze in a slightly unfocussed way.

“It’s about those wretched mock GCE results,” he continued. “They’re pathetic. I was ashamed today when people asked me how you’d done.”

“What’s it got to do with anyone else? Those old goats in your office should mind their own business!”

This wasn’t a smart start to the proceedings, but, as we have seen, Debbie was a bit of a slow learner.

“Do you mind not being rude about by work colleagues! They’re all highly qualified lawyers, which is something it seems that you’re unlikely ever to be!”

“They’re just a bunch of prats making money every time someone’s wife catches their husband shagging the nanny! They should get a life!”

“Debbie, how
dare
you!”

Debbie was on a run. “All you people are the same. Look at Mum. Spends her life slicing up people’s smelly feet. How much of a loser is that?”

“Debbie, shut up! Your mother is one of the most respected orthopaedic surgeons in London!”

“She still deals in smelly feet.
Anyway, so what about my results. I don’t want to go to university anyway!” This was a new line, invented on the spot. “I want to travel. I’ll go to Africa or somewhere with Julian. We’ll become big game hunters or keep lions or something like those Atkinsons or Adamsons or whatever they’re called on TV!”

Debbie’s immaturity was showing rather too clearly.

“What you’ll do,” said her father, controlling his composure with some difficulty, “is what I’m about to tell you.”

“Oh yes, and what’s that?” snapped Debbie.

“Keep quiet and listen. I’ve spent most of the day considering what to do about you. I’ve spoken to St Mary’s and they’ve been kind enough to give me some excellent advice...”

“I suppose I have to say twenty ‘Hail Marys’ and flagellate myself!”

BOOK: A Spanking in Time (Bexhill School)
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