overthedesk.com
Vengeance is Theirs

The big problem with attending a traditional all-girls private school is – they have traditions. Suppose, for example, you were playing inter-house hockey and you weren’t exactly on your A-game. Let’s say, you had a bad game and were responsible for the other side getting three goals they wouldn’t have scored if you’d been doing your job properly, which then led to your house losing the game. Probably in some other schools your team-mates would have patted you on the back and said something like, “Never mind, old girl. These things happen.” Not in my school.

That game was on a Saturday, and the following Monday morning it was ‘suggested’ to me I should attend the changing rooms next to the gymnasium after school. I knew it was coming. I wouldn’t be the first girl to suffer that fate. “Suffer?” I hear you ask. Any staff member would be told it was for a discussion on the problems we had during the game. In reality, it was a chance for the other team members, and sometimes a few others, to get even with the girl who they felt had let them down. I knew I wouldn’t come to any real harm, just a load of embarrassment. I’d be stripped, certainly, and probably be humiliated in whatever way the girls felt appropriate.

I’d prepared myself when I got up that morning. I had a good hot shower and dressed in plain white knickers that were brief enough, white bra that unclipped easily, an old white blouse that was still serviceable, black trousers that unzipped at the left side, white ankle socks and black shoes. A uniform red blazer completed my attire. I arrived at school in good time in case anyone wanted a private word with me, which they did when they told me to report after school. I was able to give 80% concentration on my lessons which got me by, although I couldn’t help being a little nervous about my after-school meeting, not knowing exactly what they’d do to me.

When school finally ended, most girls were only too eager to get off home. In our form room, there were just three members of the hockey team and me remaining.

Are you ready, Angie?” I was asked.

I looked at the other three. They all had expressions on their faces like cats licking their lips as their dinner was dished up.

“I’m ready,” I answered. I couldn’t help but smile, even though I was going to be the object of their revenge. “Let’s go.”

We walked slowly towards the changing rooms with no one saying very much. I knew better than to ask what they intended doing to me; they’d want to keep that as a surprise.

When we reached the changing rooms, there were already about a dozen girls there. They all seemed pleased to see me, or perhaps they were just glad I hadn’t chickened out. I thought about a bit of bravado, but decided it might be better to be more contrite.

“I’m so sorry for the way I played on Saturday, girls. I don’t know why, but I just couldn’t get my game together.”

“Apology accepted, Angie,” Samantha, the team captain and deputy head girl of house, replied.

“We’re still going to do you, though,” another girl, Becky, added.

“Of course,” I acknowledged. “Where do you want me?”

“For starters, lie down on the bench.”

Samantha waved me towards one of the benches provided for us to sit on while we strip for games or get dressed afterwards. There are about ten rows of benches in the changing rooms, and ten pairs of hooks above for clothes to be hung on. Each wooden bench is about thirty-five centimeters wide, so lying down on one was not a problem.

“Face up or face down?” I asked.

“Face up for now,” Samantha replied.

I lay down. The solid wood bench pressed into the back of my head and my shoulders in a most uncomfortable way, but I guessed I wouldn’t be there for very long. The girls gathered round me.

“Blazer off, girls,” Samantha ordered.

Immediately, I felt the button being undone and then several pairs of hands ‘helped’ my blazer being peeled off. I lifted myself up a small distance off the bench to help them.

“And her blouse.”

Even as my blazer was being hung up, other girls were already undoing the buttons on my blouse, and the cool air tickled as my bra was exposed. I again lifted myself up a few inches so they could get my blouse right off, then lay down again. The wooden bench now felt cold as well as hard on my shoulders and back.

“Shoes!”

My shoes were soon pulled off my feet and set aside.

“Trousers!”

“Where’s the zip?” A girl called Zoe asked after a brief fumble at the front.

“Probably at the side, stupid,” Another girl I didn’t recognize replied.

Zoe soon located the side fastenings and the zip of my trousers, and I felt them loosen around my waist. I managed to lift my hips so Zoe and another girl were able to pull my trousers down.

“Take them right off,” Samantha commanded.

Zoe and the other girl struggled to peel my trousers off over my feet. I think they were getting in the way of each other. Finally, I was lying there in just my white bra and panties.

“Lift her up, girls,” Samantha continued. “Cold shower first.”

I immediately panicked. I wasn’t surprised my fate was to be given a cold shower, that was something I’ve helped do to other girls and I didn’t greatly mind it being done to me, but I didn’t at all relish having to get dressed afterwards with soaking underwear.

“Shouldn’t we strip her completely first?” Someone looking on suggested, bless her!

“Oh, very well,” Samantha agreed begrudgingly.

I lifted myself up so they could undo the back fastening of my bra, and then they quickly whipped my knickers down and off. Now totally naked, I was lifted up by my arms and legs and we headed for the shower room. I doubt it was necessary, but two other girls also supported me with their hands on my bum.

The shower room consisted of six shower heads in what was called the wet area, a tiled area of floor that was on a very slight slope, but enough for the water to drain away. I was laid down on the floor and then the girls stood back while the showers were turned on, on the cold setting of course.

Yes, the water was freezing!

I played along with the girls by turning over and lying face down so my back would get soaked as well as my front, then on my back again to pretend to wash myself like I would normally do when showering. They soaked me for four or five minutes, by which time I was shivering with the cold, and then I felt the shower of water petering out. The girls then gathered around me once more.

“Stand her up and take her into the gym,” Samantha instructed.

Oh dear, there was more to come.

“Can I have a towel?” I asked.

“Very well, fetch her a towel someone.”

I was soon thrown a large bath towel and I quickly dried myself off as best I could, knowing they would be eager to move to the next item on their agenda. I was so sure I would not be allowed to cover my nakedness with the towel that I folded it and handed it to one of the girls.

“To the gym!” someone shouted excitedly, and I was grabbed by both arms and marched out of the shower room, through the changing room and into the gym.

As soon as we were through the door, I discovered what my next ordeal would involve. Ahead of us, in the centre of the gym was an old-fashioned leather vaulting horse, and on top of that was an old white plimsoll. It looked like the one kept in the gym mistress’s desk drawer in her office and which she was known to use when a girl was unwise enough to misbehave in a gym lesson.

I was taken over to the gym horse and immediately forced over it. While it was set fairly low, I still found my feet dangling in mid-air on one side and my arms unable to extend down to the floor on the other.

“It’s three whacks each, girls,” I heard Samantha say. “Who wants to go first?”

My brain quickly went to work. There were around fifteen girls standing behind me, presumably forming some kind of a queue, so if they each gave me three whacks then I was in for forty-five whacks, all on my bare bottom! It crossed my mind to protest, but that could have meant getting fewer whacks but applied with more vigour. Maybe it was best to keep my mouth shut and take my medicine?

Before I could come to a neatly calculated decision, I felt the slipper slam against my bum. It smarted, but not as much as I had imagined. It felt like maybe ten seconds passed before I got my second whack. After a similar delay, the third whack, rather harder, slapped across my bottom.

I heard some movement behind me and soon another whack, even harder, stung my backside. This girl, whoever she was, clearly wanted revenge for my poor performance in the hockey game because she really spanked me with her three whacks.

As the girls each took their turn, some were kinder to my bottom than others. Nonetheless, my bum was feeling quite sore after the tenth girl had wreaked her retribution. My only consolation was that I must be more than halfway through. Was this to be the end of my penance, or did they have something further in mind? I could only lay across the vaulting horse, take my whacks and see what happened.

By this time, I was sore, I was fed up lying over the vaulting horse, and I felt I’d really paid for my poor showing in the hockey match. I think the second from last girl somehow realised how I was feeling, because her three whacks were really soft. The last girl, though, was Samantha.

“Almost there, Angie. Just me to whack you and then we’re done.”

Did that mean no further reprisals after this? I sincerely hoped so, although I got the feeling Samantha was going to make her three whacks really count, and I was not wrong.

“Ouch!” I shouted as the slipper struck my bum really hard.

I ouched again when Samantha’s second whack landed.

“Samantha!” I almost screamed when her third effort was even harder. My bottom was really throbbing.

“All done,” she said indifferently.

I slid off the vaulting horse and set about rubbing the hurt from my poor bottom.

“Well done, Angie,” someone said, then others voiced their admiration at the whacking I’d taken.

Slowly, the girls started drifting away, after they’d had a good look at my sore bottom of course. Then it was just Samantha and me.

“They seemed satisfied,” I said.

“They should be, you took quite a spanking there. Are you okay?”

“I’ll live, probably,” I conceded.

“Come on, get dressed and I’ll take you for a drink.”

“You’re not setting me up for another whacking, are you?” I joked, sort of.

“I wouldn’t dream,” she replied.

The End

© Poppy Henderson 2024