TABLE OF CONTENTS
Copyright & Disclaimers
All characters and events depicted in this work are completely fictitious, existing only in the mind of the author. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © Kristina Leigh, 1993, 1999, 2001, 2009, 2010, 2015, 2016. All rights reserved. Except where otherwise advised, all content in this collection is copyright © the authors. Additional material copyright © Kristina Leigh and Lakehurst Press.
Cover illustration copyright © Transfemme, 2008, 2015, 2016. Permission granted to upload image to Wikimedia Commons as an example of self-published fiction. No other use is permitted without the written consent of the author.
Ye Olde Hickory
Gymslips were still worn in some British schools right up until the late seventies, even longer in many private academies. I attended a traditional English girls’ school called St Veronica’s (which, despite the name, was Anglican rather than Catholic), located on the outskirts of London. Discipline and uniform requirements were unusually strict even for the times; our Headmistress was highly conservative and seemed to think we were still living in the 1950s.
We actually had two kinds of uniform; a shortened gymslip for juniors (first to fourth grade), and longer version for seniors (fifth & six grade). The junior uniform was a classic navy pinafore that hung to about mid-thigh; it included box pleats and a sash at the waist. The outfit was worn with a white cotton blouse – short-sleeved in summer; long-armed in winter – along with a dark blue tie matching the sash. It looked almost identical to the costumes worn in the old St Trinians movies.
During our junior years, we were only allowed to wear vests and knickers underneath – mostly plain white full briefs, although navy and black were also permitted. Floral prints and fashion colours were strictly forbidden (especially the bright red variety, for some reason), which naturally inspired us to break the rules as often as possible. Many of my friends would “smuggle” coloured pants into the dorms and show them off in private. Is you can imagine, this was considered incredibly naughty, especially since you could get into really big trouble if you got caught.
Of course, being rebellious youngsters, we were always trying to flaunt the rules while the teachers weren’t looking. My classmates and I would often do handstands and cartwheels in the playground; sometimes we’d hang upside-down from the monkey bars with our skirts over our heads just to show off our undies. The trick was to avoid the Powers That Spank, so we’d always have a couple of girls watching out for stray teachers and prefects. The penalty for wearing “fancy pants” was six of the best across the bottom but the satisfaction of flaunting the rules was almost worth the risk.
The senior gymslip was much the same as the junior pinafore, except for a longer hemline which reached down past the knees. We also graduated from long white socks to black stockings on entering the fifth grade – it was more or less a rite of passage we all underwent under the watchful eyes of our dorm mothers. Most of us looked forward to adopting the senior uniform as a symbol of maturity; supposedly, it meant we would be afforded more respect and responsibility. Needless to say, we were extremely wrong about that last part – our teachers still treated us like little girls and “handed” out severe penalties whenever we answered back. As our Senior Mistress once told us at assembly, “respect is a privilege, not a right” at St Veronicas.
Beneath the uniform, we were permitted training bras and pants appropriate to our age, though we were discouraged from wearing anything too “flashy”. At first, we used to rave about this new found “freedom”, but the novelty soon wore off. It was actually a lot more exciting when we were sneaking around behind our teachers’ backs, if you know what I mean.
The oddest part was that we were expected to wear a garter belt with the stockings. This was the later sixties, pantyhose had been on the market for years. Not even our teachers wore suspender stockings as far as we knew, yet the school manual stated that a plain black garter belt was an essential part of the uniform. I guess it was part of the St Veronica’s tradition, but almost all of us just viewed it as a major inconvenience.
There were exceptions, though. My friends and I quickly discovered that a glimpse of stocking-top could stop traffic at a hundred yards. Garter belts were considered incredibly sexy by the average British male (probably because they were so rare at the time), so you can imagine how much attention we generated whenever we took a walk down the high street.
The only problem was that the senior gymslip finished several inches below the knee, so we had to go to “special lengths” to flash our garters in public. The solution was surprisingly simple: the moment we stepped foot off the school grounds, we’d hike our hemlines up to mid-thigh, revealing a hint of tight, black suspender (for the uninitiated, this involved drawing the gymslip up about eight inches then securing it in place with the waist-sash). I can still hear the whistles and cat-calls from passing motorists, not to mention slack jawed glances from wandering pedestrians. No man was immune, regardless of age – from callow school boys to straight laced businessmen, they all stared in astonishment. Such was the power of the omnipotent stocking-top!
To this very day, I have vivid recollections of my first public spanking in the fourth grade. It took place one chill winters morning after I’d left my homework in the dorm. Miss Halloway was utterly furious: this was the third time that month, and according to custom, I was due for a good, hard slippering before the entire class. Forced to stand in the front of the blackboard, touching my toes with my pantied bottom on display to all and sundry, I could feel my derriere jostling back and forth in anticipation. Looming to one side with a thick, weathered slipper in hand, Miss Halloway stood prepared to thrash my knickers in the finest English tradition.
Following the customary lecture, that black leather sole whipped down across my tightly clenched cheeks; six, seven, eight times until I was shrieking with agony. Searing, white hot pain cascaded down my thighs like liquid metal. Needless to say, my flimsy cotton underpants offered no protection whatsoever: if anything they seemed to accentuate each scalding bolt. It seemed to go on forever. Barely keeping my feet under that endless barrage, I had to press my palms flat on the floor to maintain my balance.
Once swift justice had been dispensed, I was sent back to my desk, choking back my tears and rubbing my swollen bottom under my skirt. The pain was so intense I could barely take my seat, you can well imagine how long the afternoon seemed to drag on after that vigorous pat-down. I cried softly on and off for an hour afterwards, trying to retain my composure in front of my classmates, knowing my face was practically glowing with bright, crimson shame.
Even after the burning finally subsided, I still had to run the gauntlet of friend and foe alike, as my comrades examined my hot, throbbing bottom after school. Custom demanded we meet behind the bicycle shed, where the victim’s skirt was folded back and the knickers stretched high to reveal the rosy red buttocks (often the recipient was escorted against her will, though I submitted to this particular ordeal in lip-gnawing silence).
Gasps of admiration circled the group as I bent double from the waist and flipped my skirt back for inspection. This had been one of the hardest spankings any of us had ever endured; apparently the scarlet blush was pulsing clear through my panties like a storm beacon. Fingertips slid over my pert young bottom, exploring every tender inch with cries of shock and approval. I had to bite my tongue against the groans welling up in my throat; my sheer, snowy knickers felt impossibly taunt against my outraged flesh, and I was almost fainting with embarrassment.
Looking back on this watershed event, a strange thought occurred suddenly to me. Despite the pain and humiliation I suffered that day, I can’t for the life of me recall what I was punished for. All I really remember was the thunderous clap of leather on tense, trembling girl-cheek; that, and the high, keening screams that were wrenched from my tummy as the slipper bit into my sensitive thigh-tops.
Fortunately, every cloud had a silver lining. I’d joined a rather exclusive club, having survived a whipping that would have reduced a lesser girl to a quivering mass of tears. Duly elevated in status, my honor guard accompanied me back to the dorm, reliving every torturous stroke along the way. The stories spread across the entire school over the next few days, and for a short time at least, I was treated with a kind of disbelieving awe.
All the same, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my closest friends were holding out for a repeat performance. As a matter of fact, a few of them seemed determined to orchestrate an encore of my finest moment…regardless of whether I was willing to accept the role of honor.
The average reader has no true idea how savage the discipline was in British schools of the early seventies. Teachers received extensive training in how to deal with recalcitrant students and had a wide variety of implements at their disposal. Paddles, rulers, Miss Halloway’s slipper – I’m sure we managed to taste all of them at one point or another. The worst of the lot was the dreaded hickory, wielded by our Senior Mistress, Mrs Marshall. Six of the best across the panties would have you dancing the “sunnybottom jig“in no time, I can promise you that much.
(I should hasten to add that no girl was safe from the “Gentle Persuader”, not even after the final bell ushered us back to our dorms. There was always our House Mother to contend with. White cotton briefs offered no protection whatsoever, you could feel the welts pulsing on your thighs and bottom for days at a stretch)
The oddest thing, looking back now with the benefit of maturity, was that while we never actually went looking for trouble, we rarely – if ever – managed to avoid it. Our teachers used to watch us like hawks, and the slightest misdemeanor would have you called to the front of the class for a dose of instant justice!
“Hannah Delvaux! Front and center – NOW!!!”
Those words used to chill my spine, every time I was caught passing notes or sneaking a glance in my toy makeup mirror. Next thing I knew, I was bent over in the most undignified manner, touching my toes with my skirt flipped back in front of the entire room. I had to stand stock still with my regulation white knickers on show while Mrs Marshall flexed her cane and lectured the class on the consequences of errant misconduct.
Once she’d finished her obligatory monologue, old hickory would swish down over my tightly clenched cheeks; six, seven, eight-nine times (you could never be sure how many you’d get) until my bottom was literally bulging with pain. As there was at least a five second pause between each stroke, I never knew when the next whack was coming. The stick always whipped down just as I was starting to relax my bottom, and you can bet a penny for a pound I was hopping like a jackrabbit by the time we reached the grand finale!
After the sentence had been carried out, I was required to stand with my nose pressed to the blackboard for a good twenty minutes, thighs blazing like a signal lamp. If my skirt was still in disarray (more often the case than I care to admit) my knickers would be on exhibition the whole time. I’d would usually pray that our Headmistress wouldn’t happen to walk by at this stage, as it might easily result in a trip to the Office, where the “object lesson” would be reinforced at no extra charge.
Having survived the rigors of traditional British education, I’m afraid I have very little sympathy for the young people of today – they need to walk a mile in our shoes (or panties) before they decide to lodge their complaints with the Ministry.
Perhaps worst of all were the random knicker inspections we were forced to endure. Barely a day went by without some poor girl being forced to reveal her unmentionables before an overcrowded classroom. Our dress code was quite specific on that particular subject: white cotton briefs or regulation black knickers with the gym kit. The slightest deviation could result in the most painful consequences, particularly those who sought to circumvent establish policies.
Being one of the more “progressive” co-educational academies of the period, uniform checks were frequently carried out in mixed classrooms, allowing the boys to see a great deal more than they should have at that age. To quote the Good Book, our Senior Mistress was no respecter of persons, and woe betide the girl who was caught wearing the infamous “fashion colors” long since banned by She Who Must Be Obeyed.
We used to tremble with fright whenever Mrs Marshall stalked into the room wielding the dreaded hickory. Consulting the attendance book, she would call out half a dozen names at random, at which point the chosen few were required to proceed to the front of the room. Somehow, I almost always found myself amongst the honored guests (though by accident or design I can only speculate).
Lining up in a row before the teacher’s desk, we were ordered to bend double, touching our toes while Miss Marshall walked by flipping our skirts back one by one. The thought of displaying my spotless white underpants to the world froze the blood in my veins, but outright refusal was naturally out of the question. Pleats were raised, panties were bared, and rosy young cheeks blushed with embarrassment.
Knicker inspections could last anywhere up to five minutes, depending on how many were caught wearing floral patterns or paisley prints. In my case, the regulation white panties had to remain on show, providing an example of “proper” attire (in the unlikely event that any doubt remained by that point). In the meantime, I could feel my plump, ripe cheeks literally bulging through the tightly-stretched fabric, providing an unparalleled spectacle for the male population of the classroom
Once our beloved Senior Mistress had humiliated the innocent and the guilty alike, I was summarily dismissed to my desk, one of only two girls to have narrowly avoided “punitive damages” that day. The remaining four offenders were required to offer up their clenching posteriors for just retribution: six of the best laid across errant thighs and bottoms. The cane was perhaps the most formidable weapon in the disciplinary arsenal; shrieks of agony reverberated through the hallowed halls and the miscreants wept in silence long after the sentence had been executed. Their tender young bottoms were marked with shame for days afterward, a rather stern reminder that rules were made to be obeyed.
This was, of course, a completely different world to the one we occupy today. Knicker inspections were a simple fact of life for student and teacher alike, very few of us even thought to question their legitimacy at the time). Fortunately enough, I had evaded scalding judgment for the moment – though this was more the exception than the rule. Truth be told, I rarely managed to escape the hickory’s burning kiss for more than a month at a time. Yes; I was forced to bare my panties more often than I care to recall – but that, dear friends, is a “tail” for another day.
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Naughty Knicker Flashers: four short, sharp stories of rebellious schoolgirls growing up in the (not so) swinging sixties. Join Hannah, Cindy, Trina and Tracy as they struggle against vengeful parents, vicious teachers and venomous rivals, all the while doing their best to avoid the traditional British punishment of the plimsoll, the cane and the switch! 12,000 word young readers edition, recommended for ages thirteen and up. Contributing authors: Kristina Leigh, Hannah Delvaux, Tracy Lane and Cindy Taggart. Cover illustration by Transfemme.