School Gym(In the world outside of this tale, ‘Lucy Smyth’ is actually a karate-kicking and panty-wearing man who dreamt as an adolescent and as an adult of being one of the girls from the 6th form at the girls’ school opposite his boys’ school and being disciplined by the mistress who drove the racing-green sports car.)

Miss Taylor peered through the observation window of the detention room door. She expertly surveyed the schoolroom scene: the central column of five wooden desks at which sat the petulant detainees of morning break. The dour Miss Spinks sat hunched at the head-desk marking in a manner of distaste a pile of compositions. Miss Taylor’s keen eye penetrated the column of detainees and came to rest with interest upon the blonde-haired figure of Lucy Smyth. The tip of the pupil’s regulation fountain pen was caught between her teeth as she daydreamed longingly through the window. The upper fifth lacrosse team cavorted in the distance on the muddy playing field. Miss Taylor was familiar with this young charge, a most coquettish upper fifth former. Such a wanton demeanour should not go unpunished, she decided. A faint smile emerged from the Mistress’ full mouth.

As the Mistress contemplated the breaking of the girl’s improper bearing, the arm of the child punctured her thoughts. It raised itself and so began a desperate waving of its hand. A few young heads disengaged themselves from their chore but the silent commotion went unnoticed however by its intended audience, the Detention Mistress.

Finally, with an aching arm, a desperate voice pleaded, “Miss Spinks! Miss Spinks, please may I go to the toilet?”

“Permission denied,” came the dry response from the head-desk.

At this point Miss Taylor’s refined hand turned the door handle and her lithe form entered the room. The Mistresses exchanged curt nods. Stiletto heels on the parquet floor scratched the presence of the Head of House into the vacant minds of the young girls. The schoolgirls nervously shifted their pert bottoms on the harsh wooden seats. Miss Taylor, standing centre stage, hands on smooth hips, observed the chalked written punishment of the detention on the blackboard.

In Miss Spinks’ spiky script lines, punishment was listed as follows:

Emily Ford: I must not slouch at my desk. x50

Maria James: I must not ask ridiculous questions. x100

Annabel Cox: I must not copy from the books of other girls. x200

Charlotte Banks: I must not talk in assembly. x50

Lucy Smyth: I must not suck my fingers in class. x100

Miss Taylor raised her eyebrows and shook her head in a feigned act of exasperation. She started up the column inspecting the penmanship of the charges. They worked self-consciously, line after repetitive line, now with unaccustomed purpose. No schoolgirl dare meet the eye of the Mistress. As Miss Taylor’s sure fingers glanced in her passing their plaited and pony-tailed hair their breathing quickened and a blush of colour spread across their pale cheeks and chests.

Finally, Miss Taylor came to stand above the comely body of Smyth. The girl’s mane was falling loose from its silver clasp and strands of gold caressed the back of her bottle-green blazer.
‘I must not suck my fingers in class.’ Miss Taylor read, at scribbled line 47 of 100.
Lucy produced her ill-formed script with difficulty as the Mistress’ striking scent overcame her.

Miss Taylor bent to Lucy’s fair cheek, brushing the pupil’s ear lobe with her reddened lips. She whispered, “That’s all very silly, Smyth, but do continue.”

“Yes, Miss Taylor,” the errant pupil gulped.

Lucy’s hand trembled as she dipped the bronze nib into the inkpot. In her haste to return her pen to her punishment, a single drop of royal blue liquid fell from the nib onto the crisp white paper. Lucy gasped and the errant pen fell from her delicate hand and rolled into the poised hand of Miss Taylor. Lucy’s wide eyes remained fixated at the stain that sullied the page. Miss Taylor made neither comment nor movement to betray her thoughts. Just as Lucy felt she could bear the unknown no longer the Mistress placed her other exacting hand upon that of the child’s. She guided the soft, unsure hand to the blotting paper at the side of the inkpot. The Mistress’s sharp red nails cut lightly into the pliant white skin.

“Blot, and quickly,” stated Miss Taylor in a manner that was unsettling in its calm.

“Yes, Miss Taylor. Sorry Miss Taylor,” Lucy flustered.

She could feel the gentle, steady breath of the Mistress upon her neck. Nervous and flustering, Lucy grasped the blotting paper but this act was impeded by the pull of the hand that controlled hers and in a deliberate execution the pot of ink was overturned. The thick blue contents obliterated the lines and seeped across the desk. In disbelief and fear, Lucy bit her lip and drew a smudge of scarlet wetness.

“Oh dear, Smyth. What have you done now, you clumsy child?” asked the Mistress.

“Um, I, I…” Lucy mumbled, shocked and confused.

Miss Taylor’s crimson-stained mouth opened and her starched shirt caressed the flushed skin of Lucy’s cheek as she spoke. “You had better clean up this mess, hadn’t you Smyth?”

“Yes, Miss Taylor, sorry Miss Taylor,” the detainee stuttered.

“See me at lunch break. No refectory or toilet visit. I want you in the gymnasium wearing gymslip and plimsolls.”

Without waiting for response to her missive, Miss Taylor inserted the fountain pen into Lucy’s mouth, promptly turned her back on the young girl, and marched to the door, her hips rising and falling rhythmically. Lucy, holding tightly the pen between her teeth, stole a furtive glance at the Mistress, at the black hair tied neatly at the nape of her sweet neck, the pristine white cotton blouse concealing her firm breasts, the tight black calf-length skirt accentuating the curves of her bottom, and those sharp stiletto-heeled black patent-leather shoes.

Lucy’s moist palms travelled beneath the old desk and under her uniform dress. She inserted her right hand inside her white cotton knickers and stroked the tender pale skin between her legs. Her eyes shut tightly, Lucy held the vision of the cruel beauty of her Mistress and of a physical punishment exacted a term ago though eagerly revisited at each lights-out.

Miss Taylor directed her parting words to the Mistress in charge of today’s detainees.
“I do believe Smyth is need of your attention, Miss Spinks,” she stated.
As Miss Taylor exited the detention room Miss Spinks settled down her pen and closed her record of punishment book. She hobbled to Smyth’s desk and immediately a look of horror erupted on the teacher’s wrinkled face. She stood rigid in temper at the appalling sight of Smyth’s desk. The blue-black tar had corrupted the blessed lines of detention.

“Lucy Smyth, you are a filthy child!” Miss Spinks spluttered, “Just look at this abomination!”

The sticky pen dropped from Lucy’s mouth and her hands flew from beneath the ruffled slip and back upon her lap. Four heads spun round in unison to enjoy the spectacle of yet more punishment as Mrs Spinks exclaimed, “Banks, fetch the ruler!”

Heavy oak double doors guarded the school gymnasium. A musty air gripped the hall. The parquet floor was highly polished from the regular rubbing of wool gymslips and cotton socks of the girls’ tumbling. Gracing four wooden panelled walls was fixed climbing apparatus mounted on casters that could be pulled out from the walls to a right angle. Climbing rungs and ropes decorated the wooden frame. Netball hoops craned at opposite ends of the gym. A horsebox stood solidly off-centre.

Lucy Smyth stood fidgeting in the far corner of the gym, dressed in green gymslip, white socks and black plimsolls, just as Miss Taylor had ordered. She sulkily kicked the toe of her plimsoll at a wooden floor slat as she awaited the presence of the Mistress. It was a quarter past twelve and the school was now at lunch. She could hear girls swarming the corridors and the hum of their chatter invading the hall but all too soon this advanced to the refectory, leaving in its wake only Lucy feeling suddenly quite alone and quite afraid and with a desperate need to go to the toilet.

Lucy’s pricked ears were alert for the signal of the Mistress’ entrance. The need to visit the toilet was now most urgent. At break detention, Miss Spinks had denied Lucy’s request to relieve herself and Miss Taylor had forbidden detour for food or release at this lunch detention. That amounted to a whole morning bearing a full bladder. Lucy dare not move from her place of confinement and so she distracted herself from the urgency of the toilet requirement with counting from one to a hundred, repeatedly.

Whilst counting Lucy fiddled with the pleats of her gymslip, pulling them up and down and up and down, gaining comfort in the rubbing of the material at her thighs. Her constant clock-watching soon showed the time to be half past twelve. The refectory would be closing soon and Lucy would miss the spotted dick and custard that she craved and she did so need to go to the toilet.

“Lucy Smyth, stop that at once!” Miss Taylor demanded. “Have you permission to touch yourself in that manner?”

Lucy dropped her arms to her sides immediately. “Sorry, Miss Taylor,” the pupil responded, blushing at being caught in such an act of foreplay.

The Mistress’ long-admired stiletto-heeled shoes had been replaced with thigh length black leather riding boots, although only the pointed toe and spiked heel were visible beneath a traditional riding skirt. In complement, the riding skirt and a hacking jacket were also formed of this delectable second skin. In Miss Taylor’s leather gloved right hand, she gripped the bulbous silver tip of a robust yet elegant ostrich-leather riding crop. Her long black hair was caught in a black mesh snood that dropped to the shoulder blades. The heels of Miss Taylor’s boots marked a marching beat against the parquet tiles as she advanced to the spot where the downcast pupil awaited this most private lesson.

The tongue of the riding crop licked at Lucy’s chin as Miss Taylor raised the lowered head. The pupil’s soft blue eyes were overwhelmed by the equestrian beauty of her Mistress and fixated at the sight of the Lady’s blood-red mouth. The Mistress locked her dark eyes on the vulnerable gaze of her charge and the contact was so penetrating that Lucy had to avert her eyes. Simultaneously the girl experienced the dampening of the gusset of her knickers.

Miss Taylor announced, “I have just completed the task of teaching the lower fifth to rise to the trot with strength yet grace, and now, Lucy Smyth, it is your turn to be manipulated for the greater good.”

The Mistress teased open with the crop’s split tongue the trembling pink lips before her and toyed with Lucy’s mouth,. Penetrating the wet hole, she tantalised the moist inner flesh, gently driving the firm leather in and out, again and again. Lucy groaned at the uncontrollable pleasure. At that, the Mistress withdrew the saliva-soaked stiff leather member and wiped its wet tip in the thickness of the pupil’s hair.

In a far away part of the building, the giggling of schoolgirls at boisterous play could be discerned. Meanwhile, the voyeuristic clock face ticked on in the isolation of the gym, accompanied by the rapid heartbeat and self-conscious swallowing of the pupil who stood exposed in the corner with the powerful leather-clad body of Miss Taylor looming over her. Lucy Smyth was indeed in isolation from the familiar world outside of the gymnasium.

“Smyth,” Miss Taylor began, “Miss Kean, the Games Mistress, reports that you had on two occasions last week, a note from your Form Mistress to excuse you from PE, is that correct?”

“Yes, Miss Taylor.”

“And why was that?”

“I had my first period, Miss Taylor,” Lucy mumbled, crossing and uncrossing her legs.

“Oh, indeed, well we shall have to see about that, won’t we? Physical education is most important for the vitality of a young girl,” Miss Taylor impressed upon her charge. “However, we shall discuss your sanitary requirements in due course. We have more pressing matters to attend to now, don’t we?”

The Mistress raised her black leather riding crop and caught the strap of the schoolgirl’s gymslip. She eased it slowly from Lucy’s shoulder. Lucy felt her cunny lips tingle and the contraction of her newly discovered vaginal wall.

As if sensing her charge’s sexual stirring the Mistress taunted her, “It feels good, doesn’t it? But such pleasure must be earnt and at my whim, Lucy Smyth.”
Lucy was forced to bite her bottom lip to stop it quivering so but she could do little to control her shaking legs.

“On your hands and knees, charge!” Miss Taylor brusquely commanded.

Lucy fell to the floor, hurting her knees on the parquet bricks. The Mistress raised her leather-clad leg and weighted her spiked foot on the girl’s back, forcing by the weight of the boot the girl’s stomach to the ground. Lucy’s mouth scraped the dusty floor and the bitter taste clung to her lips.

“I cannot abide a wanton child. It does so affront my senses. Now, I shall gain my composure from the loss of yours.”

Miss Taylor spoke so softly it strained Lucy to receive these words but receive them she did. As she concentrated on listening to the Mistress’s beratement, Lucy experienced a strange and horrifying sensation between her legs. She realised too late that she was wetting herself. Denied permission to toilet herself, Lucy had now lost control of her painfully full bladder. A stream of warm water soaked through her knickers, seeped down her legs, through her socks and plimsolls and puddled about her.

The Mistress was fully aware of the pupil’s act of soiling and savoured its course. “You have missed two lessons of physical education this week but now, in my capable hands, you have just undergone a different type of corporal test, more punishing than the most savage lacrosse match.“

Miss Taylor released her boot-hold on the girl’s body and scrutinized the pathetic crime at the rear of the grovelling child. Lucy felt tears pricking at her eyes as the Mistress documented the evidence of a weak bladder. The feeble sight of the young charge pleased the Mistress as much as it distressed the pupil.

With the tip of her riding crop, she raised the gymslip to reveal a yellowing pair of knickers. “Oh dear! Smyth has suffered another little accident,” she mocked. “First it was spilt ink and now it is spilt urine. What a silly girl to spill all her fluids.” The Mistress crouched down at Lucy’s face and caressed her trembling lips with the leather tongue of the crop. “Now, what are we to do with such a filthy mess?”

The humiliation was too much to bear and Lucy gave in to her tears.

“This is no time for histrionics, child! There is the practical matter to attend to in cleaning up this foul mess. Now, stop snivelling and remove your gymslip.”

Lucy stood up with difficulty, sobbing and soaking wet, the energy had departed her body. In this sorry state, she could not feel any more humiliation at the act of removing her sullied clothing in front of the Mistress. Miss Taylor watched with evident amusement as Lucy removed the gymslip to reveal a white vest and soaked knickers.

Head hung in shame, the pupil held the garment loosely in her hand, her eyes affixed to the pool of disgrace on the floor.

“Clean up your mess with your gymslip,” the Mistress stated without emotion. “When you have done, sit on the floor, take off your shoes and socks, vest and, of course, those dirty knickers.”

Lucy crouched and soaked up the urine with the gymslip. The cloth absorbed much of the liquid but when it could take no more Lucy placed it over the remainder as a shroud to her disgrace. Immediately she pulled off her plimsolls and placed them by her side, into them she placed her damp socks. Her vest followed and finally she removed the soaked knickers and rolled the vest around them. The pile of laundry was now complete on the floor. Lucy sat, naked and exposed, her knees clasped to her breasts. Miss Taylor regarded the pupil’s body, young yet curvaceous and the breasts far too developed for any hope of modesty.

“Stand!” the Mistress ordered.

Lucy gingerly uncoiled her squatting form and rose to her feet.

“Turn around and bend over!”

The Mistress was now greeted to the delectable sight of the damp, red bottom of Lucy Smyth. With her leather-gloved hand she delivered a harsh slap across the cheeks. The punishment smarted and Lucy winced but she had no tears left to cry.

“You are a filthy slut, Smyth, and a filthy slut earns a just reward. Follow me,” she instructed.

With the now shivering naked form in her wake, the Mistress headed towards the sturdy wooden vaulting horse at the centre of the gymnasium. Miss Taylor cropped the leather top and signalled for Lucy to mount it. Summoning all her remaining strength, Lucy heaved herself astraddle its frame.