The regulation school issue leotards were delectable when filled out by the mature figures of the young women placed in his charge, young women old enough to know their own minds under different circumstances, even marry – albeit with parental consent in certain cases – yes, quite divine! But this was no school. The cane was banned in British schools – but not here. Here corporal punishment could be legitimised by a special dispensation if need be. But there was no need for special dispensation, no need to invite the interference of those busy-body social services types… And then there were all those ethics committees and such, endless protocols and checks to navigate. No, it was best kept this way, discrete, quite, well away from scrutiny, public or otherwise, no need to legitimise it further.
These idiots had actually VOLUNTEERED for this, after all, although he doubted any of them had expected to be detained as long as they had been thus far - nor as long as they were going to be. He’d heard that fresh papers had been drawn up, that the extension they would be agreeing to this time was going to be for a full year, and that the wording was set out in such a way as to pave the way to eventually obliviate the need to put pen to paper altogether, if so desired; basically invoking the mental health act. VERY clever, it explained why ever greater emphasis was being placed on psychological appraisal and record keeping. He hoped that when the time came he would be the one overseeing their signatures. Most probably the sheer force of Miss Swanley’s indomitable personality and will was going to win out – it had done before – but there was always the chance that one or two of them might require ‘encouragement’.
And then there was that fifth girl; she’d been here longest of all, two years already, and he was pretty sure ‘choice’ had played no part at all in HER coming here, however misguided. They had something special lined up for HER to sign – now, she WAS going to require some encouragement once she’d read through it!
But for now he had the cane in his hand – and the unassailable, unquestionable authority to use it. And all that temptation spread out before him, the glossy stretch nylon fabric of those school leotards adhering to every contour, outlining every dimple, every tempting nook and cranny somehow with greater clarity than if they were actually naked, the cut, fit and styling leaving the majority of the bottom uncovered to bounce and wobble and gyrate in front of his blazing eyes as he had them repeatedly touch their toes or perform those wide-stance deep squats that were such a favourite of his, almost as if DESIGNED to inflame his senses, his lust. Of course he wasn’t allowed to ‘interfere’ with them, touch them in any way – he could only ever watch with mounting frustration the sheer fabric becoming slick with girl-sweat and ‘feminine staining’ as the backseam slipped deeper where he’d like to slip something else, the shiny dampening gusset worked ever more intimately in contact with... But no, he wouldn’t use THAT, he’d slip it between those luscious bottom cheeks that tortured him so effectively, taunted him; the girl’s had frustration of their own to endure; and he wouldn’t want to deny them THAT by elevating their passion with his own.
At an age when their hormones were raging, it took the closest supervision to ensure no unauthorised ‘tampering’ took place, that they were spared the temptations of their own bodies. He could go home and take it out on his wife, bend her over any which way he wanted and take his pleasure – and HE was an old man in comparison. He could only guess how it must feel at that age for a girl to have no outlet for her sexuality whatsoever, to not even be allowed to go to the toilet alone, to have her most basic bodily functions closely scrutinised, to not even be allowed to wipe her own bottom lest she use it as an excuse to ‘touch’ herself.
Yes he was frustrated, frankly BURNING with lust, the obvious result of which was clearly bulging out from his slacks, despite his years. But he had that cane they had given him in his hand. He had absolute authority over them, these fat-bottomed temptresses, these little…. harlots! He couldn’t touch them, but he could slake his thirst in other ways, take out his frustration beating a tattoo across their bottoms, he could thrash and thrash and thrash them mercilessly until his arm went numb, his breath came in agonised gasps – and that infernal throbbing had died down in his loins. Why not? Why shouldn’t he, just because he’d held back in the past, just because they’d rarely given him an excuse, just because they hadn’t given him an excuse today? In fact their obedience had been exemplary, a tribute to Miss Swanley’s discipline and strength of purpose. But something about that very meekness, that head-bowed submissiveness, for some reason inflamed him more than ever. And he HAD the cane, right here in his hand, the cane Miss Swanley herself had provided him with. And SHE obviously intended for him to use it! He didn’t NEED an excuse. Why NOT use it? Why not… yes… enjoy himself…. Yes, he would enjoy it, enjoy watching them squirm, hearing them cry out, perhaps beg! Yes… yes he would… he WOULD thrash them, all four of them… girl’s like that had to learn… girls like that had to learn not to be so provocative, to have modesty…
“Ok, I was not happy with your performance today – I think six each across your fat little bums… to begin with! Then we’ll have those leotards peeled right down, and we’ll see which of you needs to go to matron to be shaved again… yes, and right between those bottom cheeks too – matron has asked me to check there as well. We don’t want any bottom fluff, now do we?”