Mischief and the Minx

02Nov11

Mischief and the Minx awaiting a spankingDespite their very different backgrounds, the two 18-year-olds had become firm friends over the previous two years. They had met behind the tyre shed at the back of the motor repair garage where Sandy worked as an apprentice, which on account of its position near the school gates, was the perfect place for an illicit smoke.

Today however, it was raining and the girls had retreated to the repair shop for their morning fag.

Sandy sat on the tool bench with her legs extended looking at her canvas kick-boots. They had seen better days and she was considering buy new ones; some Converse perhaps. Her current pair were ripped a little and tended to chafe around her ankles unless she wore socks. Socks were not a good look with her overalls, which were rolled up to mid-calf to hint at her rather shapely legs, an attribute that was further emphasised by the fact that her blue boiler suit was at least one size too small for her.

Panda knew what she was thinking and said nothing, lest it spark another row revolving around their differing taste. The working class was always so touchy about taking sartorial advice from public school types like her. Anyway, considering she was still wearing a school uniform, it was a bit rich on her part, she realised.

Pandora, Panda to her friends, was dark-haired to Sandy’s blonde and the taller of the two. However, despite being a privileged inmate of the illustrious Chadsworth School, she rather envied the motor apprentice’s freedom; a fact that she had once confided.

“You are freaking joking,” Sandy had said during one of their early meetings. “You’ll marry some rich sort with a Bentley, why on earth would you want to work in garage?”

“But at least you can smoke when you like,” Panda had complained.

“So can you,” Sandy had retorted, expanding her arms to indicate their hideout.

“Yes but you don’t get swished when you are caught,” Panda had blushed.

“Swished? What’s that?”

“You know,” Panda blushed a little more and made a sweeping motion with her arm only to be met with Sandy’s blank stare forcing Panda to mouth ruefully, “the cane.”

“You’re kidding,” Sandy gasped, thinking of Mr Barnes, her boss and his attitude to smoking, “That stuff is illegal and shit isn’t it?”

Panda winced at her friend’s use of the S-word and replied, “not in private schools it’s not.”

“But it’s just for boys right, I mean even at my school in the old days they hardly ever caned girls?” Sandy was agog. She couldn’t help but feel a certain frisson around the subject.

“It most definitely is not just for boys,” Panda replied stiffly.

Over the weeks and months that followed Panda had explained that even girls were caned by male teachers, prefects, housemasters and sometimes even the headmaster.

Sandy thought of Mr Barnes and his heavy belt. No one knew about what he did and no one was going to. Not that she minded so much when she deserved it, but it was so embarrassing.

Then Panda had dropped a bombshell. “Worst of all are the prefects. I mean they can’t wait to get you knickers down for a bit of stick.”

“You are shitting me.” Sandy had positively gaped at this news.

The subject of physical punishment, she could never quite manage to say the S-word, was something that had fascinated Sandy for as long as she could remember. So when Mr Barnes had given her a good hiding for smoking on the forecourt, it had been the start of a journey for her. The fact that Panda was caned at school as well, made it seem as if she was not on that journey alone. However, try as she might, she was rarely ever able to get more than the smallest amount of information from Panda about her punishments.

“Where is Mr Barnes today anyway?” Panda asked.

“Out on a job,” Sandy said with an exaggerated pout that kissed the air, a habit she resorted to when she was bored. She forced her lips out until she could just touch her nose.

“Why do you do that?” Panda said as she watched in fascination.

Sandy stopped and shrugged. How could she tell Panda that she envied her permanently and natural bee-stung lips? Was she sub-consciously emulating her friend? If she was, she wasn’t a girl for introspection, so she changed the subject. “You know what Mr Barnes calls you?”

“Pandora Weston?” Panda threw out, but she was curious nonetheless.

“The Minx,” Sandy grinned.

“What?” Panda frowned, her forehead wrinkling up in consternation in lieu of frown lines on the bridge of her nose, which hadn’t developed yet.

“He calls me Mischief,” Sandy said proudly.

“Now that I can believe,” Panda giggled as Sandy swatted at her.

*

A few days later, Sandy was sorting out tools in the repair shop when Panda crept up to her and tapped her on the shoulder.

“Yikes,” Sandy jumped up scattering a tray of spanners on the floor. “Oh jeez, you gave me a start.”

“Sorry,” Panda giggled, not sounding it.

“Look at this… oh you…” Sandy clutched her head so that hair sprayed between her fingers as if she were set to pull it out at the roots.

“Got a ciggie?”

“It’s raining again,” Sandy said, still looking at the pile of stainless steel tools on the floor.

“We can have one here,” Panda wheedled.

“Mr Barnes will be back in a minute,” Sandy said chewing her lip and eyeing the open garage doors and the road beyond.

“So be quick then,” Panda urged. Then she saw the car. “Hey, I know that jaguar.”

“One of your lot, a teacher I mean. Dropped it off this morning for a service,” Sandy said absently as she stooped to see if any spanners had bounced under the bench.

“It’s old Boney’s car,” Panda said in something like wonder.

“Who’s Boney?”

“You know, the head,” Panda said peering through the window on the driver’s side. “Where’s that fag?”

“A quick one then, but you know we shouldn’t smoke in here.”

“We can’t smoke behind the tyre shed either, but we do,” Panda replied.

“Yes but… well we really can’t smoke in here,” Sandy said nervously, but she retrieved her cigarette packet from her pocket nonetheless.

“Oh give it here,” Panda said snatching the pack and fumbling for a cigarette.

After a moment’s hesitation Sandy joined her and they both stood by the car inhaling deeply and blowing great clouds of blue smoke across the repair shop.

The truck stopped with a heavy squeak as it ground to a halt in the yard.

“Oh lore,” Sandy squealed snatching the cigarette from Panda, “you’d better scram.”

“Hey,” Panda growled, trying to snatch it back. It rolled over her finger and after hanging in the air in slow motion, tumbled to the floor.

“Panda, you here again,” Mr Barnes said with a voice like gravel as he entered the repair shop. “What the… what’s this mess?”

But the girls weren’t listening. Their eyes were fixed on the cigarette which landed silently in a pool of oil.

The flame was so small, no bigger than a man’s hand as it flickered into life. Sandy could have stepped on it and it would have died, but she hesitated for a beat. Then the blue halo spread faster than milk spilt from a dropped bottle and a small Hiroshima like mushroom of orange leapt at the roof with a loud soft pop.

“Oh bollocks,” Mr Barnes yelled as he lunged at the fire extinguisher, “Get out!”

Panda stood transfixed as the red bottle in Mr Barnes’ hand roared into life blasting the fire with white clouds. Sandy grabbed her arm and dragged her out into the yard as Mr Barnes battled the flames.

*

The scorch marks on the black side panels and doors of the jaguar weren’t too bad. There was no actual damage to the metalwork but where the paint had been burnt away, the grey bodywork was stained a dozen different colours.

Mr Barnes grabbed a handful of red-grey curly hair with his hands and let out a heavy sigh.

To make matters worse Mr Bond, old Boney to his students, strode into the yard. His right leg paused in mid-step as he saw his car, then gingerly came to a rest so that his heels came together; a stance he always took when assessing a new situation or confronting a school rebellion.

Panda grimaced as she stepped backwards and tried to melt into the wall.

Sandy had her chin on her chest as she tried to squeeze the cigarette pack out of existence with her hand.

“Pandora Weston,” Mr Bond said through his teeth, crooking his finger in Panda’s direction.

“Mr Bond, Sir,” Panda said in a strangled voice, “I… well you see…”

*

Her housemaster had informed her that he had managed to persuade Mr Bond not to contact her parents, but Panda’s relief had been mitigated by the fact the housemaster’s cane was on his desk as he spoke. However, even this small sense of triumph was dashed with the news that Mr Bond would ‘deal’ with her himself.

That had been this afternoon when she had still been feeling brave. Now that she had to actually make that long walk to the head’s house on the edge of the school grounds, she was actually trembling.

Old Boney’s house was one of the perks of the job; not exactly large, but not too shabby either as it stood aloof much as the headmaster did much of the time. “A typical example of rural Queen Anne,” she remembered from her induction tour some years before. The door to the house looked as if it might have been original. It was a dry grey-tan colour and appeared to be weather-worn and cracked in several places. Not exactly the gates to hell, but perhaps purgatory lay not far beyond.

Panda’s tummy did a flip and she felt a little light-headed as she knocked.

Night was falling and somewhere an owl hooted, but that was the only sound and the quiet hush of the trees was oppressive. She knocked again only louder.

Somewhere inside a light went on and she heard an internal door open. Still no one came. Panda tried the bell-push, but it was a Victorian addition and had probably not worked since the Abdication; not that she could tell anyway.

When the door finally opened it took her by surprise.

“Are you Miss Weston?” Mrs Bond asked. She was a tall elegant woman of about 40. Her wrist was upturned with natural poise and she affected a bored expression as if faintly disgusted that her husband had brought work home with him. “Well speak up girl.” Mrs Bond said impatiently.

“Eh… yes Ma’am, I’m Panda Weston.”

Mrs Bond looked her up and down in disdain and then said, “you had better come in.”

The house was tastefully decorated in period furniture with eggshell blue in the hall and cream and polished wood further in. But that was the last she saw as Mrs Bond ushered her into her husband’s study.

Boney was standing at a large cabinet and studying its unseen contents. “Ah Miss Weston,” he said, turning to peer at her as he donned his tortoiseshell glasses. “On time I see; good.”

“Yes Sir,” Panda gulped.

“You’ll be pleased to know that my jaguar is expected to live.” Boney’s eyes crinkled up at the corners as he imparted this news. Panda returned a nervous laugh.

“I understand the cigarettes belonged to your grease-monkey friend,” Boney continued.

“Eh yes… but… well she warned me about smoking there… I mean it was my idea…” Panda’s voice trailed off, what was she saying? Boney couldn’t touch Sandy; she had her own backside to protect. “I’m very sorry about the car.”

“Let’s forget the car for now, shall we? Cars can be replaced. I accept that it was an accident and that you were not embarking on a career in arson.”

“No Sir.” Panda stifled a giggle.

“I’m glad you see the funny side.” Boney glared at her over the top of his specs and Panda blanched. “Let me see, and correct me if I am wrong at any point, you were out of bounds, smoking and reckless in the extreme. Good God girl, you might have been killed.”

“Yes Sir.” Panda looked down at her feet.

Boney walked over to the cabinet he was examining when she came in and reached in to retrieve a beastly looking cane. “Three separate grave offences in one go; quite a record my girl. Let us make it eight for each. Making?”

Panda’s jaw dropped open her eyes transfixed by the wicked looking stick braced between Boney’s thumbs.

“Surely you know three times eight.” Boney swished the cane cutting with a loud shush. Panda jumped.

“Twenty… 24 Sir.” Panda’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

“Twenty-four Sir.” Boney examined the tip of the cane and seemed to wipe a speck of dust off it. “If I were to take the car into account, it could so easily have been a baker’s for each, but then you wouldn’t sit down until Christmas. I trust you will bear that in mind when you next contemplate your filthy habit.”

Panda felt suddenly very light-headed. A baker’s dozen was 13. Cripes 39 strokes and she would never sit down again. It would be a cold day in hell before she was caught sneaking out for a cigarette again.

“Now Miss Weston, you know the drill. I want you to remove your skirt and bend over the back of… that chair. Don’t worry, I will do the honours.”

‘That Chair,’ was an overstuffed padded-leather monstrosity with heavy arms, her housemaster had one very similar. However, it was the ‘honours’ that worried her as it involved taking down her knickers.

Panda took slow deliberate steps across the room until she had her back to the headmaster. Then she reached for the button and zip of her skirt and carefully removed it. Her underwear, the ones she often wore for games, had been adopted for this confrontation in the forlorn hope that they might have stayed up. She folded the skirt clumsily and placed it on the seat of the chair and then cast her meekest look in Boney’s direction.

He glanced at her and then nodded. So she turned and bent herself carefully over the back of the chair so that her bottom was pushed uppermost and her hair and arms dangled in to the seat of the chair.

Bond looked up at the firm straight legs of this, by any benchmark, woman and the firm round prominent bottom that crowned them. ‘You would think that these girls would grow out of high jinks by now,’ he thought. And then steeling himself he brandished his cane like the sword of justice and moved in behind his ample target. As clinically as he could manage, he hooked his thumb into the waistband of her underwear and whisked them down without drawing it out. Panda made a little moan as if she had suddenly been pricked with a needle.

Panda’s bottom was white and tight, the muscle definition standing out a little despite the bent posture. A sporty girl, he thought, he was right to be harsh. She was the kind of girl who would take a single baker’s and then brag about it.

Bond tapped the cane across her bottom midway between the crown and the place where the fold met the thigh, then whipping back his arm he sliced down with a biting hiss that hit its mark.

Panda had never been caned by old Boney before and the impact took her by surprise. Her yelp was strangled in her throat and even as he lined up for the next stroke she struggled for breath. Then Panda discovered something. The stroke had been the worst ever, but she would cope. Then the single line of aching-sting began to hurt even more. A damp groan escaped her throat. I never cry, she thought, never.

The next stroke was worse, even though the first stroke had not yet finished with her. She began panting through her nose. This was going to be bad, her mind raced, very bad.

The third stroke extracted a very wet wail.

“I have never caned a girl more than once,” Boney said, a solemn promise on his lips. “Don’t be the exception, or you will be very, very… sorry.”

On the word ‘sorry’ he bit in hard with the forth and Panda yelled.

*

The last customer had gone and Sandy waited in the repair shop for Mr Barnes. She had thought she might get the sack, but once he had made sure she was alright he had only looked at her with disappointment hanging from his face.

“Soz,” was all she could say.

“You will be,” he had growled.

Now she was waiting. He didn’t take long to come and Sandy saw that he had already rolled down the top part of his overall and tied the arms about his waist under his thick, wide leather belt. Usually his grey-flecked red curly hair made him look jolly, an appearance that was complimented by his nascent paunch that was little more than a hint under his Brideswell Beer T-Shirt. When he laughed, Sandy thought of him as Father Christmas-in-training, not quite fat and not quite white-haired. Today his salt-and-pepper hair just made him look stern and his bulk seemed intimidating.

“You know how I want you,” he said sadly, his voice a far off rumble.

She nodded and began to unbutton her overalls, shucking them down much as he had, only a little lower. Her demin shorts followed until she stood in T-shirt and tiny pants with her shorts and overalls around her knees.

There was a small clink as he unbuckled his belt and then she heard the zip-shush of it pulling through the loops of his trousers. Her heart did a little skip and she licked her lips.

He made twirl motion with one finger and stared significantly at the bench. She blushed, but then out of bravado or mischief she pushed her knickers down and let him see her trimmed dark blonde triangle.

He snorted, but didn’t conceal his appreciative look and that made her blush all the more. Then he doubled his belt and nodded at the bench. “Come on.”

She turned and offered him a view of her small pert bottom which jutted out a little in profile and then rolling it she bent over the bench and gripped the far side.

“You know you could just dock my pay,” she said hopefully.

“Oh I will,” he growled. “It was a thousand pounds worth of damage.”

“Soz,” she winced. “I guess I deserve it then.”

The belt blasted across her bottom with a tang that took her breath away.

“Yah,” she yelped. “Oh, oh, oh…”

He waited until the pink-on-white bar had fully developed and then swiped her again hard.

“Sheesh,” she hissed and danced a little so that her up thrust bottom bobbed a little.

He leathered her hard for 10 minutes until she was gently crying and her bottom was a chafed-red and beset with heavy welts. Then he placed a hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

“Sorry Mr Barnes,” she wept.

“I know. Now you can go and stand in the corner while I do my books for an hour or two,” he said easily. Then added, “and yes I will be enjoying the view.”

She managed a smile through her tears. “It’s the least I can do, I suppose.”

*

Panda was a ragged mess. She had been howling like a sprog through the last dozen strokes, perhaps unsurprisingly as her bottom felt like every prefect in the school had at her for an afternoon. Old Boney, Mr Bond she corrected, was standing back to give her a respite as she heaved great sobs of sorry. Six more, just six, she prayed; biting at the leather in a vain hope of distracting herself from the vigorous sawing in her bottom.

Bond listened to Panda’s hacking sobs and studied her welted bottom carefully. He wished now he had opted for three sixers, but there was nothing for it now, he could not afford to show weakness. The purple welts on her ravaged bottom were hard and high, what would have been called a pencil rack back in his school days. He remembered that his sister had called it being double-gated.

At her school, gating, the practice of being put on restriction, had always been accompanied with a caning that left vivid welts like Panda’s on her bottom; a six being a five bar gate, which was five across and one diagonal; hence the term gated. Her old mistress was a tartar and according to his sister, seven, eleven or even 15 bar gates were handed out with alarming frequency. He remembered his visceral pleasure at blackmailing her into showing him her double-crossed 11 one year when she was in the sixth. An evil practice, he grinned without humour at the memory. If he decided to crosshatch Panda she would know it.

Best for the girl if he got this over with; he steeled himself. “Panda, buck up,” he soothed, “Just six more.”

“’Ess-ir,” she sniffed.

There was just room for three or four high on her hams he thought and then he would finish her off where she sat, although she was just about cooked down there.

The cane cut the air, the sound seizing Panda with dread and she cringed a little. Although she managed four more before another howl escaped her throat. The final two were purgatory. However, she felt cleansed and truly sorry and for once she broke into clear clean sobbing without shame.

“Good girl,” Bond whispered. “I’ll have Mrs Bond make some hot chocolate when you’re ready.”

It was 10 minutes before Panda could ease herself upright and get dressed. She would have happily forgone the hot chocolate, as standing at the mantelpiece while Mrs Bond scowled at her was embarrassing, but Mr Bond insisted and she did feel much better afterwards.

“Don’t dawdle now,” Mr Bond said as she limped to the door. “It’s nearly lights out and you don’t want another six on top of those do you?”

*

It was a week before Panda could brave a visit to Sandy. And then she refused all offers of a cigarette.

“Catch it did you?” Sandy grinned.

Panda nodded. “I’ll risk an eight for being out of bounds, but no more ciggies for me, or recklessness. My backside still aches and I don’t think the marks will ever go.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I caught it as well,” Sandy said ruefully tugging down her overalls and showing Panda her bottom.

“I had no idea,” Panda giggled, although in truth there was very little marking left on her friend’s pert little tail.

After Panda had reciprocated, they both agreed that Panda had come off worse. “Jeez Panda, can you even sit down?”

“Only just,” Panda grimaced, “only just.”

“Are you sure you don’t want a fag?” Sandy asked mischievously.

Panda swatted her and they both descended into play fighting and giggles.

Ends



19 Responses to “Mischief and the Minx”

  1. 1 George

    For smoking no indulgence is possible.

  2. Thank you for yet another fine spanking story, Damien. I always read your blog and your marvellous stories – among the very best on the internet, I must add – but too often forget to say ‘Thank you’ for all your hard work in bringing them to us.

    I hope this goes a little of the way in rectifying that oversight; I shall try to be more demonstrative about my appreciation in the future.

    Thanks again!

    • 3 DJ

      No worries Opsimath – thanks for that.

      Since I only get one comment for every thousand by compriosn you are a regular here. 😉

      If everyone delurked – we would drown (possibly in praise – but who knows) 🙂

      George – for once I totally agree. 😀

      DJ

  3. Mmmm! A wonderful caning!

  4. DJ,
    great story, thoroughly enjoyed it. 😀
    For me it was behind the bike shed, the penalty was similar.
    It was nearly forty tears before I actually stopped smoking, that was twenty-five years ago, better late than never. 😉
    Paul.

  5. 6 paul little

    if i had got a hard bare bottom caning when a teenager for smoking at school/or home I probally would not be smoking now
    I wonder if i got the cane now for smoking would i stop?

  6. Arson is far worse than smoking- that is the moral I get from this story. And nice girls cry when they get the cane or the belt. And always use an ashtray. And hot chocolate is to be served after a spanking.
    Thank you for all those morals. I feel most edified.

    • 8 DJ

      I think you spotted it – smoking was not the core problem – but reckless and selfish youth 😉

      DJ

      • Good point. You are heaping wisdom upon wisdom.
        Those reckless and selfish youths should be stopped and sorted out. If I see any I shall send them your way.
        (I knew there would have to be some advantages to being a grown up.)

  7. 10 Kaki

    Hot chocolate is to be served after a spanking is what I got out of this story. I have lots of hot chocolate owed to me. 😉

    Great story, DJ.

  8. 11 Scarlet

    I rather liked the color scheme in the Bond’s home–eggshell blue and cream. I think there might have been some spanking in between the entry hall and hot chocolate being served, too. If there were any canes I have blocked them from my memory.

    Enjoyed the story, DJ. 🙂

  9. 12 John

    The cane and belt would do less damage to their arses than the cigarettes would do to their lungs.

  10. 13 Emilio

    John, I agree 100%.
    Without forgetting hairbrushes and paddles.

  11. You know that thing where you forget all about doing something until someone lectures you about how awful it is?
    That.

    • 15 DJ

      eh… No?

      what do you mean?

      DJ 😉

      • I mean you know that thing where you forget all about doing something until someone lectures you about how awful it is?
        That.
        Girls know what I mean.
        I think we should consider the matter closed.
        🙂

      • 17 Mindy

        Ha ha, I know what Poppy means. 😉

  12. Mindy! LOL
    I know you would. 🙂


  1. 1 chross.blogt.ch - Chross Guide To The Spanking Internet

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